Chapter Nine
Back home, I push open the screen door to the familiar sound of Nic running through his Coastie fitness routine—the little grunt he always makes when he picks up a weight, the clatter and puffed exhale when he sets one down. I hardly wanted to get out of bed to meet Dad, but here’s Nico—who I happen to know was out until three in the morning with Vivien—ensur-ing his physical fitness.
“You are not a normal teenage boy,” I say as I enter the liv-ing room, which is like climbing into a gigantic wet sneaker.
Em’s curled on the couch, nestled in a blanket with Hideout the hermit crab in his arms and Fabio drooling on his leg, dividing his attention between watching Nic sweat and some Elmo video.
“No.” Panting, Nic rolls to his side, lets the weights he’s been bench-pressing crash to the ground. “I’m better, stronger, faster.”
“Smellier,” I say. “Where’s Mom?”
“Robinsons’,” he grunts, picking up the weight again, his damp, sandy brown hair sticking to his forehead.
Oh, right. Making their house sparkle. On a Saturday. God, Mom. Doctors are on call, not you.
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I sit down next to Emory, ruffling his hair. He smells sticky and sweet, no doubt from the bowl of Cap’n Crunch he’s got resting on his lap. He snuggles his head against my shoulder, shoving Hideout under my nose.
“Say good morning to Hideout.”
“Morning, Hideout.” I catch a whiff of spaghetti sauce— Emory sneaks him bites during meals.
For a few minutes, Em and I both watch Nic like he’s the-ater, while I turn over in my head various casual, subtle ways to bring up the ring. I inhale, bite my lip, blow out a breath a few times. Nic’s too focused on his weight curls to notice that I look like one of the bluefish Dad caught as it flopped around on the rocks.
How would this even work? Would it be a long engagement?
Like—they’d marry when he got out of the Coast Guard Academy? Or are they planning to do it now? I’m picturing Viv moving into the bedroom Nic shares with Grandpa Ben and Emory.
Or Mom and me having to move out of the room we share and sleep together on Myrtle to give them privacy (though that’s never seemed too high on their list of requirements). Or Nic and Vivien resurrecting the battered old tent we used to pitch in the yard all summer as their love nest. I can’t see them moving in with Viv’s mom and stepdad. Al usually glares at Nic like someone from the Old Testament, and Mrs. Almeida pitches a fit when she even catches them holding hands.
It’s so ridiculously implausible in the light of day. Because it’s all the same—Nic’s focused scowl on the uplift, relaxing into pained relief as he sets the weight down, his faded, torn, “lucky” camouflage green workout shirt, sleeves torn off— 78
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everything. Manny must have been talking through his beer brain.
“Do I look like I’ve gained weight to you?” Nic asks abruptly, my staring at him with a crinkled forehead finally getting through.
“Yup, those shorts make your butt look huge.”
He frowns at me. “I’m serious. I’ve been eating over at Viv’s all the time since school got out and her mom’s desserts . . . If I bulk up too much, my swim timing will suck, and those guys will take their edge and—”
“Nico, you’re fine.”
He blows out a breath, lowering the weight and panting.
“Can you hold my ankles while I do crunches?”
I drop to the floor, loop my fingers around his sweaty, hairy ankles. I’ve been doing this for him for years, and the familiar-ity of it makes me brave again.
“Nico, Manny said— Are you and Vivien—”
“D’you think I should shave my legs?” he interrupts, panting.
“For prom?”
“For speed.”
“I don’t think your pelt slows you down too much, cuz.
Nobody else on the team does it.”
There’s a sharp, military-sounding rap on the door. I get up and open it to find Coach Reilly awkwardly holding a plastic bag. He’s so out of context that I blink. I’ve never seen him on the island. Cass, now Coach. It’s a Stony Bay invasion. He thrusts the bag at me as though it’s a bomb with a ticking time clock, then glances around the room, his brows pulling toward each other. “Your ma here?”
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I glance into the bag to find it full of romance novels with titles like The Desirable Duke and The Sheik Who Shagged Me. I so don’t want to think Coach reads these.
“My neighbor was gonna chuck ’em. I know Lucia goes for this kind of thing. So . . . she’s not home?”
I shake my head, try not to squint at him. Dad calls Mom “Luce,” only “Lucia” when they’re arguing. But the way Coach says the word, it sounds . . . different. I didn’t think he thought of her as “Lucia”—as anything but my mom, Nic’s aunt. I’m beginning to think I know absolutely nothing about what’s going on with anyone.
“Come on in.” I open the door wider.
He shoulders his way into the room. “Hey, Nic the Brick.”
Nic, who’s at the top of a weight curl, grunts a hello.
Emory gives Coach Reilly a distracted wave. Coach ruffles his hair, asks, “When you going to run track for me, Big Blue?”
Em holds out his arms, says, “Whoosh, faster than a loco-motive. Speeding.”
“Just what SB High needs, buddy,” Coach says, sitting down heavily on one of the kitchen stools and unzipping his SBH
jacket. He looks even more flushed than usual.
“Can I get you some water?” Or a defibrillator?
“Naah. Gwen, gonna cut to the chase. Got a kid on the swim team who’s in a jam. Screwed up in English and flunked that big final. Two-thirds of his grade shot to hell. The teacher will let him retake at the end of the summer. But he needs a tutor. I know you saved Pieretti’s butt with Lit 1 last fall. If Cass doesn’t maintain a good average, he’s off the team. We need him.
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