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Which brings me to the non-clichéd part of all this.
“Guinevere! Your brother has lost his patience with this store and I am losing it with him. Have you gotten what you need?”
Yes, my grandfather is right outside the changing rooms. Also . . . my little brother.
“Not yet!” I call.
I can hear Grandpa move away, trying to dicker down the price of a cast-iron frying pan. “You ca
Then I hear him calling, alarmed, for Emory, who I know must be doing his I’m-bored-in-this-store routine, hiding in the center of those circular racks of clothes until Grandpa spots his feet.
I’ve tried on four tankinis. I think I read once in one of Vivien’s magazines that, like, ninety percent of the guys on the planet hate tankinis. Which can’t be right. I mean, I’m certain men herding goats in Shimanovsk don’t care one way or another. And if they include the men who want every part of a woman except her eyes covered, that’s unfairly skewing the percentages and—
I reexamine the pile. No, and no, and Jesus God, let me forget how that one looked.
“Almost done,” I call feebly.
Forget it. I’ll just wear the black one-piece. It’s not like it’s a date. I mean, he told me about it through my grandfather.
I wonder how long it took him to stop blushing. When I left, throwing some excuse about Fabio over my shoulder, I heard him come out from his bedroom and Spence ask, “What happened to your face?”
Outside there’s a commotion and a “You can’t come in here!” and Grandpa Ben saying “Acalme-se,” and thrusting this bikini in through the side of the curtain.
A bikini.
Vivien wears bikinis. Viv even wears string bikinis. She looks great in them because she has exactly that sort of body . . . all lanky and coltish and boyish-but-not. She says she doesn’t look good because she hasn’t got enough on top, but she has to know she pretty much does, or she would stick to What the Well-Dressed Senior Citizen Will Wear, like me.
“Apenas experimente, querida,” Grandpa calls. “Just try it.”
I don’t know if it’s because of the color, which is this mossy green, which sounds nasty, but spring moss, brighter than olive, but still deep and rich. Or because I can hear the saleswoman outside getting more and more agitated and I’m afraid she’s about to call security. Or because . . . well, I don’t know why, but I try it on.
It’s not a string bikini. It’s not an itsy-bitsy bikini. It’s sort of retro, but not in a really obvious way.
In it, I don’t look like Vivien in her bikinis. I don’t look like one of those swimsuit models posing knee deep in the Caribbean with this shocked expression like, “Hey, who put all this water here?” I don’t look “nice.” I look, in fact, like The Other Woman in one of Grandpa Ben’s movies. The one who saunters into the room to the low wail of an alto saxophone. I look like a Bad Girl.
For the first time, that seems like a Good Thing.
Of course, that was hours ago and I left my courage in the dressing room of T.J.Maxx.
I bought the bikini.
But here I am on the beach wearing a long T-shirt of Mom’s (Mom’s! At least I’ve bumped down a generation or two, but still!) while Cass gives Emory his first lesson.
And basically ignores me completely.
Which is fine. He’s here for Em.
He gave me this nod when we first got to the beach and I slid Emory off my back.
A nod.
A nod is sort of like acknowledging that there’s someone present with a pulse. It’s the next best thing to nothing at all. Boys do not nod at girls they have any feelings for.
Wait—
Do I even want Cass to have feelings for me? Please, come on. How can I possibly . . . after everything?
He’s here for Em.
I nod back. So there, Cass. I see your impersonal greeting and return it. Just don’t check my pulse.
Because . . . because even though I should be used to Cass on the island and Cass in the water, and his sooty eyelashes and curling smile and his dimples and his body . . .
Jesus God.
I close my eyes for a second. Take a deep breath.
Cass squats down next to my brother. “So, Emory. You like cars?”
Never good with direct questions, Em simply seems confused. He looks up at me for clarification. Cass bends and reaches into the backpack by his foot, pulls out a handful of Matchbox cars and extends his palm.
“Cars,” Em says happily, stroking the hood of one with a careful finger
Cass hands him one. “The rest are going to be diving into the water, since it’s such a warm day. So what I’m going to need you to do is come on in and find them.”
My brother’s forehead crinkles and his eyes flick to mine. I nod. Cass reaches for his hand. “Here, I’ll show you.” Em cheerfully lets go of my fingers and glides his hand into Cass’s.
“What are you doing?” I ask nervously. I have this vision of Cass throwing the cars off the pier and directing Emory to dive in after them.
“Just getting him used to me, and the water,” he says over his shoulder. “It’s okay. This is what I did at camp. I know this.” Em looks ski
I follow him, unsure. Am I supposed to hang back and let Cass do his thing, or look out for Emory? In the end, habit triumphs and I stick close.
There are only a few people on the beach, some of the Hoblitzell family, people I don’t know who must be renters. As usual, I can see a few eyes flick to Emory and then skip away with that something’s not right with him expression. It doesn’t happen often . . . he’s a little boy and people are mostly kind. But the saleslady at T.J.’s yesterday kept talking to me or Grandpa when Emory was touching stuff. “Get him to understand that he’s not allowed to do that.” I wanted to slap her.
At the tideline, Cass halts and Em echoes him, digging his toes into the wet sand. For about five minutes, Cass does nothing, just lets the waves wash over their feet. Then he reaches forward, placing one of the cars a little way out in the water. “Can you get down now on all fours and reach this?” All his attention is on the little boy, as though he’s forgotten I’m there. It reminds me of the way he is at swim meets, turned inward, concentrating completely on the task at hand.
Maybe that’s it. It’s not weird between us. He’s concentrating.
Which is what I want. It’s not as though I’d like Cass focused on me while Em sinks below the waves. Exactly the way I did with him.
For forty-five minutes the game continues. Each car is a little farther out in the water. Cass lies on his stomach. “Can you do like me?”
Emory obeys without question or hesitation. I’m worrying because the slight waves are slapping closer to his face and Em hates that—always yells when we scrub his face in the bathtub.
“Okay now. Last rescue. You do it one-handed. You hold your nose like this to keep the water out and reach far. If you get a little wet, just squeeze your nose tighter and keep reaching. But you have to close your eyes while I put out the last thing.”
Em’s eyelashes flutter shut, his fingers pinching his nose. Cass drops something into the water about ten inches out and smack, a wave slaps right across my brother’s lowered face. I jump up from where I’d been sitting, wait for the howl of outrage and terror. But all I see is a flash of red and blue clutched tightly in Emory’s hand, held aloft triumphantly, and the smile on his face.
“Way to go, buddy. You saved Superman.” Cass straightens up, then raises his hand for a high five. Em knows those from Nic, so he presses his hand against Cass’s, then scrambles over to me, waving his treasure.