marijuana. They get the munchies. They
come here—they see the specials. We sell out.”
“Dad . . . if kids get the munchies, they want cheese fries or
brownies. Not maple-basted bluefish.” No one wants maple-
basted bluefish. Blech.
His gaze sharpens on me. “How do you know this, Guine-
vere Angelina Castle?”
Um, I’m a teenager? I go to high school? “Health class.”
Dad shakes his head. “Don’t you dare go down that dead-
end road, mess with your brain.”
“Don’t worry, Dad. I stick to cocaine.”
He scowls. “Well, knock it off. That stuff’s wicked expen-
sive. And pull up your shirt—there.” He jerks his head at my
neckline. It’s not even low. I tug it up anyway. Dad tosses me
my purple apron, even better coverage, and tells me to man the
side booth. “And put on your hat.”
Within ten minutes, we’re totally overwhelmed. Nedda,
who must have the patience of all the saints, because she’s
worked here for three years, is slaving over the grill. A busload
of tourists headed to Foxwoods is taking up two-thirds of our
parking lot and three-quarters of our burger supply. A skinny
new guy named Harold is languidly manning the fry basket.
I’ve got Emory parked at a back table now, with a grilled cheese.
“Gwen, table six, fast. We’re running behind,” Dad barks.
“I’ll handle the orders, you hustle ’em out there. We get more
tips if a pretty girl does the running.”
Dad rarely dishes out compliments, so they always hit hard
when he does. I’m blushing a little as I gather up the tray of
85
BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 85
9/4/13 8:02 AM
burgers and birch beers and head out to six. Which . . . natu-
rally . . . is Cass. And someone who looks a lot like him. Not
his dad. Dark-haired, but with the same lean-muscled look and
piercing blue eyes.
Cass has his back to me, hands braced on the table. “We’ve
been through this a million times, Billy. What more do you
want from me?”
“Some sign that you’ll listen to your own brain instead of
Channing’s. We all know how well that worked out at Hodges,
squirt.”
I suppress a smile at the nickname.
“That was a year ago, Bill—and it was just a joke. That place
takes itself way too seriously.”
“A joke that got you out on your ass. Still pretty damn
embarrassing for Jake too, since he works there . Spence’s dad might have finessed it so expulsion didn’t show up on his
record, but it’s on yours, little brother. For keeps.”
Cass is now digging a thumbnail into the wood of the picnic
table. The backs of his ears are flushed. I’m standing there with
their food, blatantly eavesdropping. I always kind of wondered
why he and Spence came to SBH last fall as juniors. Prepped-
out Hodges is where Stony Bay kids go when price is no object.
“Look, you’re smarter than this, squirt. I’d hang it up if I felt
like you’d learned your lesson, but you haven’t. This garbage
with your grades looks like more of the same screwing up
to me. To everyone. I love Spence, but he’ll always come out
smelling like a rose. You won’t.”
“You’re my brother, Bill, not—”
“Dad and Mom would tell you the same thing.”
86
BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 86
9/4/13 8:02 AM
“They have. Constantly. You know Mom, she loves to
over-explore. Look, I’m paying my dues—working on the
island, mowing freaking football fields’ worth of lawns. I did
a dumbass thing, got a few lousy grades. Let’s move on, for
Chrissake,” Cass says, standing abruptly. “Shouldn’t the food be
here by now?”
He whirls around and almost directly into me. One of the
drinks splashes tsunami-style into the plate of fries and onto
my apron.
“I—was just bringing you this.” I start mopping at the fries,
but they’re hopeless. Then I brush at my shirt, totally frazzled.
“I’ll get you some more. No problem. It’ll only take a minute.”
“Is that
come here—they see the specials. We sell out.”
“Dad . . . if kids get the munchies, they want cheese fries or
brownies. Not maple-basted bluefish.” No one wants maple-
basted bluefish. Blech.
His gaze sharpens on me. “How do you know this, Guine-
vere Angelina Castle?”
Um, I’m a teenager? I go to high school? “Health class.”
Dad shakes his head. “Don’t you dare go down that dead-
end road, mess with your brain.”
“Don’t worry, Dad. I stick to cocaine.”
He scowls. “Well, knock it off. That stuff’s wicked expen-
sive. And pull up your shirt—there.” He jerks his head at my
neckline. It’s not even low. I tug it up anyway. Dad tosses me
my purple apron, even better coverage, and tells me to man the
side booth. “And put on your hat.”
Within ten minutes, we’re totally overwhelmed. Nedda,
who must have the patience of all the saints, because she’s
worked here for three years, is slaving over the grill. A busload
of tourists headed to Foxwoods is taking up two-thirds of our
parking lot and three-quarters of our burger supply. A skinny
new guy named Harold is languidly manning the fry basket.
I’ve got Emory parked at a back table now, with a grilled cheese.
“Gwen, table six, fast. We’re running behind,” Dad barks.
“I’ll handle the orders, you hustle ’em out there. We get more
tips if a pretty girl does the running.”
Dad rarely dishes out compliments, so they always hit hard
when he does. I’m blushing a little as I gather up the tray of
85
BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 85
9/4/13 8:02 AM
burgers and birch beers and head out to six. Which . . . natu-
rally . . . is Cass. And someone who looks a lot like him. Not
his dad. Dark-haired, but with the same lean-muscled look and
piercing blue eyes.
Cass has his back to me, hands braced on the table. “We’ve
been through this a million times, Billy. What more do you
want from me?”
“Some sign that you’ll listen to your own brain instead of
Channing’s. We all know how well that worked out at Hodges,
squirt.”
I suppress a smile at the nickname.
“That was a year ago, Bill—and it was just a joke. That place
takes itself way too seriously.”
“A joke that got you out on your ass. Still pretty damn
embarrassing for Jake too, since he works there . Spence’s dad might have finessed it so expulsion didn’t show up on his
record, but it’s on yours, little brother. For keeps.”
Cass is now digging a thumbnail into the wood of the picnic
table. The backs of his ears are flushed. I’m standing there with
their food, blatantly eavesdropping. I always kind of wondered
why he and Spence came to SBH last fall as juniors. Prepped-
out Hodges is where Stony Bay kids go when price is no object.
“Look, you’re smarter than this, squirt. I’d hang it up if I felt
like you’d learned your lesson, but you haven’t. This garbage
with your grades looks like more of the same screwing up
to me. To everyone. I love Spence, but he’ll always come out
smelling like a rose. You won’t.”
“You’re my brother, Bill, not—”
“Dad and Mom would tell you the same thing.”
86
BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 86
9/4/13 8:02 AM
“They have. Constantly. You know Mom, she loves to
over-explore. Look, I’m paying my dues—working on the
island, mowing freaking football fields’ worth of lawns. I did
a dumbass thing, got a few lousy grades. Let’s move on, for
Chrissake,” Cass says, standing abruptly. “Shouldn’t the food be
here by now?”
He whirls around and almost directly into me. One of the
drinks splashes tsunami-style into the plate of fries and onto
my apron.
“I—was just bringing you this.” I start mopping at the fries,
but they’re hopeless. Then I brush at my shirt, totally frazzled.
“I’ll get you some more. No problem. It’ll only take a minute.”
“Is that
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