What I Thought Was True. Huntley Fitzpatrick

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      “It’s my job,” I say. He’s got his hands on the tray, and mine are there too in a kind of flashback to our near-wrestle over the lobsters. And my peacoat, last spring. I drop my hands, wipe off my palms, shove the soggy napkins into my apron pocket.

      He stands there balancing the tray in one hand, looking out at the cow pasture that’s directly behind Castle’s, jaw clenched. “You heard all that, right?”

      I shrug. “It’s okay. I mean, nothing to do with me.”

      He examines my face, then grins. “I call bullshit. You want to know.”

      “Ha. Don’t kid yourself. I couldn’t care less what you did then.” My turn to look off at the cows, try to absorb their barnyard zen. “Or now.”

      He sets down the tray, slants a hip against the table. His brother’s gotten up and is heading for the service window, no doubt to complain about the ditz who ruined their fries.

      “Ever been inside Hodges – aside from the pool area?”

      “Other than the girls’ locker room, no.”

      “Pretentious as hell for small-town Connecticut.” He shrugs. “Not to mention that you had to call the teachers ‘master’ and ‘mistress’ whatever. Should be called ‘Stodges’ instead of ‘Hodges.’” He tugs at his collar as though the mere memory is choking him.

      I’m smiling despite my determination to project complete indifference.

      Cass cocks his head at me, folding his arms. “Oh, never mind. Why am I telling you this? You don’t care.”

      “Do not do that. Now you have to tell me.”

      He rocks back on his heels, smiles. “Careful, Guinevere. You might forget you hate me.”

      “I – ”

      I look over to see if Dad has noticed my dawdling, but he’s apparently in some sort of near altercation with a vendor, who is holding a huge cardboard barrel of ice cream. Automatically, I check the table where Emory was drawing, but he’s not there. Oh God.

       The parking lot.

       The road.

      I whirl around.

      Then I feel a soft brush past me, and my little brother steps in front of Cass, head titled. He’s so small, even though he’s eight, that reaching up to Cass’s chest is a big deal. He touches it lightly, moves his finger across it in a slow, snake-like motion. I have no idea what he’s doing.

      “Superman,” he says proudly, like he’s seen through Cass’s disguise. He traces the shape again – it’s an S, I realize – and beams at both of us.

      Cass looks down, game face on, but not freaked out. I hope.

      “Hi, Superman,” Emory repeats, invisibly drawing the shield thing around the S.

      I don’t know why he’s doing this. Cass has neither dark hair nor a cape waving in the wind. Maybe the blue of his shirt or the way he stands with his shoulders back, chin lifted.

      Now Dad looks over. “Sorry,” he calls to Cass and his brother, who’s returning with a fresh order of fries, then to me: “Gwen, don’t let your little brother pester the customers, for God’s sake.”

      “It’s fine,” Cass calls. His brother sets the fries down on the table and immediately Em’s reaching for them.

      “Superman,” he repeats, popping one in his mouth and chewing cheekily.

      “Em, no!” I struggle as I usually do when people meet him for the first time, whether to explain or just let them take Em as Em.

      “My brother is – ”

      Cass cuts me off. “We bumped into each other on the beach yesterday. He was with your grandfather. I gave them a lift up the hill. They seemed tired.”

      I blink. “Before or after your rescue attempt with the lobsters?”

      “Before.” Cass winks at Emory, who is eating another fry. “The Man of Steel never rests. Or maybe that’s Jose the yard boy. I get my alter egos confused.”

      “Hi there,” his brother says to me, with a short wave. “Bill Somers.”

      “This is Gwen Castle, Billy. She’s the one I was saying should tutor me for that English makeup.”

      Wait. This was his idea? Not Coach’s?

      “Good to meet you. And – don’t pull your punches with squirt here. He deserves it.”

      Cass’s ears turn red. He shoots Bill a swift death-glare.

      “Gwen!” Dad calls. “Get your little brother back over here. You don’t have time for screwing around.”

      Bill tells me it was a pleasure, Cass has retreated into his bland, neutral look, and Emory’s made a major dent in their fries. I stammer out an apology, take Em’s greasy hand, and turn to go, only to run into the solid wall of Dad. He’s got yet another new plate of French fries, not having missed a thing.

      “Sorry about this. These’re on the house too,” he says. Then, stern, to me: “Get back where I can keep an eye on you, kid. Emory’s the one who is supposed to need a babysitter.”

      God, Dad. I feel my face burning. But Cass is looking down at the ground, not at me, nudging at the pebbles with the toe of his sneaker, all neutral face. Dad’s bristly and defensive, Bill faintly amused. Only Emory is completely at ease. He sidles up to Cass, traces the shield design once again, sweeps his finger in an S. “Superman,” he says.

      “I wish,” Cass mutters.

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