What I Thought Was True

They debate back and forth about it. Whether it should be one of those island rituals that sticks, the Labor Day party. Or whether its time has come and gone.

“We could do it again,” Mrs. Cole says. “We’re the entertainment committee on the board now. No rules to say we can’t. Well, none like the rules we used to have, anyway.”

From a distance, from the movies, I know these rules too—white bucks and blazers, don’t wear white after Labor Day, wear this with that, go with that good girl, not this one. Strictly controlled social calendars, when all of that seemed as though it mattered . . .

We still have those, though. Not so much what we wear, but how we act and what we do.

Other customs, rituals, rules. New important things unspoken.

Will Henry say anything to his mother? More importantly . . . will I?

Chapter Thirty-five

Beach bonfire tonight.

As Cass drives us down the hill, I can see sparks crackling upward, flicking and fading into the darkening summer sky. Dom D’Ofrio is always overenthusiastic with the lighter fluid. The tower of flames shoots nearly ten feet high.

“That looks like something you’d use to sacrifice to the Druids, not toast marshmallows,” Cass says as we near the beach, the sun sliding purple-orange against the deep green sea.

To my surprise, when Cass picked me up, Spence was slumped in the backseat of the old BMW, scowling.

“He had a bad day. Thought this might cheer him up. You mind?” Cass whispered.

“Yo Castle,” Spence says now, a listless version of his usual cocky self. “Sundance stormed you yet?”

“Don’t be a dick,” Cass returns evenly.

“S’what I do best,” Spence returns, then sticks his head out the window, taking in the scene.

This bonfire is a lot more crowded than the first of the summer. The summer people’s kids have discovered it and are milling around, mostly in clumps, but sometimes venturing over to other clots of people, sitting down, feeling out the possibilities. Pam and Shaunee have parked themselves next to Audrey Partridge, Old Mrs. P.’s great-granddaughter. Ma

Cass backs the car into a spot with relatively low sand. We all get out.

Viv is standing near the water, arms hugging her chest, ponytail flipping in the wind, looking out at the distant islands. The sky’s clear enough tonight that it seems as though you could reach out and touch them. Viv doesn’t turn and see me. Ma

It’s one of Cass’s oxfords, loose and knotted at my waist, a flash of stomach over my rolled-up jeans. Not a look I would have tried before.

If I remember right, Ma

I head over to the cooler, pick up a beer I don’t care about. No sign of Nic or Hoop.

“Who’s the short fat dude, Sundance?”

“Ma

“You two are sweet together,” Spence offers unexpectedly, sounding oddly sincere. “Nauseating as that is.”

I mouth, “Is he drunk?”

Cass shakes his head. “It’s not that.”

“Feelin’ sorry for myself, Castle. Just do it, Sundance. Cut me loose. Go back to Hodges.”

“I’m not that guy,” Cass says so firmly—convincing Spence? Or himself? “Forget it for tonight. Let’s just relax.”

For a while, relaxing works pretty well. Pam has the music cranking, good mix of old and new. It’s a warm night and the sky is filled with a gold that rims the corners of the clouds, and shafts of pinkish light that slant down to the water. The charcoal heats up, the sweet burnt smell singeing our noses.

Cass and I are adding ketchup and mustard to our hot dogs when I see Nic, standing on the pathway that runs from the parking lot to the beach, staring at us, hands balled in his pockets. Hoop stands behind him, a small, badly dressed, angry shadow.

Nic’s white-faced and stormy-looking, all his features frozen, angry, as though he’s watching a nightmare come true.

“Yo, trouble at high noon,” Spence tells Cass, scrolling mustard over his own hot dog so vigorously that the Gulden’s squirts all over the sand.

“Don’t make it worse,” Cass says, shoving a napkin at Spence.

But immediately, it’s worse.

It starts with Nic doing that slow clap-clap thing, guaranteed to a

Cass doesn’t say anything, focused on his hot dog. Spence is quiet too.

Nic walks over, chin raised. “Nice coup,” he says again.

“You don’t get it, man,” is all Cass says.

“No?” Nic asks.

“No. This is no preferential thing,” Cass starts. Vivie walks up then. Cass glances at her, back at Nic. “These last months . . . this whole last year . . . swim drills were all about you, Nicolas Cruz. Nothing about teamwork. You don’t seem to know what that means. If you deserved to be captain or cocaptain, you’d be lining up behind us. Not acting like this.”

“That’s bullshit,” Nic says. “We all know there’s a fucking I in team. You’re not swimming to make me look good. We’re all after I. So I’m just go

“You want us to feel sorry for you now? I do. Sundance does,” Spence offers. “Because this West Side Story, us-against-them crap and your shitty attitude is what keeps you stuck, Cruz. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“You’re lecturing me?” Nic shouts. “You’re telling me to be fucking satisfied with what I’ve got? That’s rich. You’re the one who has to take everything.”

Viv has her hand over her mouth. Spence steps forward, shoulders square. Cass grabs his arm.

Dom, Pam, Shaunee, Ma

“Be honest with yourself. At least. I haven’t taken a thing from you that you deserved to have,” Spence says calmly. Cass yanks him back a little, jerking him to the side.

“Stop talking, Spence,” he says.

Instead, Spence takes another step forward, pulling out of Cass’s grip. “You don’t deserve any of it,” he repeats to Nic. “None of it. And for sure, not her.”

Nic’s fist shoots out so fast it’s a blur and Spence’s head snaps to the left. He staggers back for a second. We watch him stumble—a surreal, slow-mo movie. Nic charges forward, eyes blazing. Ready to hit him again. Cass moves in between them, fending Nic off with a forearm to his chest and grabbing Spence’s arm tightly, yanking it back.

Vivien brushes past me. I try to clutch at her—don’t want her to get in the way of Nic. He doesn’t seem to be seeing straight. But instead of hurrying to him, she’s wiping at the blood gushing from Spence’s nose with one hand, the other cupped around the back of his head.

Nic stares at them, blinking as though he’s just woken up, then shakes off Cass’s arm, backing toward the parking lot.

“I’m good, don’t worry about me,” Spence assures Vivien.

Spence is assuring Vivien?

“You’re hurt,” she says, her voice cracking.