What I Thought Was True by Huntley Fitzpatrick

soul,” I repeat. “Vivien can
    have your sorry ass.”
    “Deal,” Nick says swiftly. “My sorry soul is all yours.”
    When we get back, Coach has sat down next to Emory, and
    is looking at the pictures in the Superman comic book Em is
    leafing through, his arm around Em’s shoulders. I skid to a
    halt, swallowing, and realize I’m not sure when I last saw Dad
    do that.
    Making one last attempt to extract myself from this situa-
    tion, I ask casually, “Have you mentioned this idea to Cassidy?
    Because he might not be up for it.” I hear Nic hoist one of his
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    weights again and wonder if he’s going to bop me on the head
    with it.
    Coach spreads his hands. “He’ll be up for what he needs to
    be up for. This is important as hell. We have a shot at state com-
    ing up but only with Somers. On your end, adding tutoring
    during the summer looks damn good to colleges. You know
    Somers can afford to pay top dollar.”
    Family, money, looking good to colleges. My Achilles’ heels.
    Assuming you can have three of those.
    “Help me out here, Gwen. Take one for the team.”
    Even without the Nic pressure, it would be nearly impossible
    to say no to Coach. He’s a good guy. Everyone knows he was
    crazy about his wife, who cheered at every meeting, brought hot
    chocolate for the boys on the bus, and who died last fall.
    I take a deep breath. How bad can this be? Obviously, based
    on yesterday, I already knew I was going to be seeing more of
    Cass this summer than I’d planned. This is purely professional.
    I didn’t quit timing the swim team after what happened in
    March, after all. I just managed to avoid any personal conversa-
    tion. I can do the same with this. “I’m in.”
    Coach claps me on the back hard enough to knock the wind
    out of me and says he’ll speak to Cass about it. “You two can
    work it out next time you run into each other.” He punches his
    hand into the pocket of his jacket, jingling what sounds like
    loose change. “Gwen? Keep it on the down low. No need to let
    the world know he’s had any struggle. Once or twice a week
    should cut it. He’s a smart kid. He’ll do whatever he needs to
    do to get where he wants to go.”
    Yeah. I know.
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    <
    Even though I thought I’d escaped, here I am at Castle’s once
    again, trying to get out of wearing my little hat with the crown
    around it.
    “Whatcha think of this week’s specials?” Dad asks, nodding
    at the blackboard.
    I’ve parked Emory at a picnic table in the shade and set out
    finger paints, a situation that could turn critical at any moment.
    “Stuffed peppers,” I read out loud from the top of the black-
    board. “Maple-basted bluefish?”
    “Well?” Dad asks, tipping back on his heels, squinting at the
    board. “I figure two new specials a day—or every coupla days,
    just to keep ‘em guessing.”
    “Dad . . . People come to Castle’s for . . . beach food . . . sum-
    mer food. Burgers. Hot dogs. Lobster rolls. They’re not going to
    want to stop off after spending the day at the beach and have
    maple-basted bluefish. Ever. Where’d you get that, anyway?”
    “Food Network,” he says absently, rubbing his chin with
    his thumb. “We gotta do something. Last time I drove by that
    damn Doane’s, there was a line all the way down the pier.”
    “They sell ice cream and penny candy. There’s always a line.
    I’m not sure maple-basted bluefish is playing to the same
    crowd.”
    Emory tugs at me with one hand, holding up the other,
    coated in red paint, like Lady Macbeth. I pull him over to the
    little outdoor sink at the back and rinse him—and me—while
    Dad follows, continuing. “Nah, think about it, kid. The sea-
    son’s here, we get the college kids, the renters. The renters’
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    kids. They’re doing the