ours?” his brother calls out.
“I’ll take it,” Cass says, reaching for the tray. “You don’t have
to wait on me.”
“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 barn-
yard zen. “Or now.”
He sets down the tray, slants a hip against the table. His
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9/4/13 8:02 AM
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
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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 lob-
sters?”
“Before.” Cass winks at Emory, who is eating another fry.
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9/4/13 8:02 AM
“The Man of Steel never rests. Or maybe
“I’ll take it,” Cass says, reaching for the tray. “You don’t have
to wait on me.”
“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 barn-
yard zen. “Or now.”
He sets down the tray, slants a hip against the table. His
87
BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 87
9/4/13 8:02 AM
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
88
BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 88
9/4/13 8:02 AM
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 lob-
sters?”
“Before.” Cass winks at Emory, who is eating another fry.
89
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9/4/13 8:02 AM
“The Man of Steel never rests. Or maybe
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