And it probably wasn’t smart.
No, it definitely wasn’t.
Not when I don’t even know which Cass is true.
My first mistake after the Polar Bear Plunge was coming in Mom’s Bronco. The Bronco is old—like only a year younger than me. The rear hatch is battered from where we got stuck in the deep sand once and had to be pushed out by a bulldozer.
There’s something wonky about the underbody, so when you drive there’s this rattling sound as though major car parts are about to drop off. When I pulled into the Somerses’ driveway that night, it was filled with pretty little sporty cars—the Bronco loomed over them the way I tower over most of the girls at SBH.
Some of them were still getting out of the cute cars and sauntering delicately across the gravel of the driveway. Bring-ing me to my second mistake.
Clothes.
I didn’t think, I didn’t “plan my outfit.” I knew I should. Viv kept pulling clothes out of my closet and holding them up to me, frowning, saying things like, “Did you even try this one on before you bought it? Mall run!” But doing that seemed so deliberate, like we were preparing . . . staging for . . . I’m not sure what, but I couldn’t face it. So I was just in jeans and a black V-neck (okay, low V).
I also opened the door of the Bronco without shutting off the music, so, since I was distracted while driving over and didn’t turn off Emory’s CD, it blared “Baby Beluga in the deep blue seeeeeeea.” I hastily flipped the key in the ignition and shoved it in my pocket. From farther up the path, I heard muf-210
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fled laughter, which probably had nothing to do with me, but I still wanted to turn and run.
I held my wrist up, looked at the neat blocky boy handwrit-ing, the carefully drawn map. “Saturday. 8:00. Plover Point.”
And I headed in.
Unlike most parties I’d gone to, the music was not at top volume. There was some sort of hidden sound system, but it was muted, background music.
Everything was so clean, though. And white. Cream-colored couches, ivory walls, pale straw rugs . . . pristine. For Cass’s sake I hoped this wouldn’t turn into some drunken bacchanal, because those rugs would be almost impossible to get vomit out of, not to mention red wine if there was any and— And I was thinking like the daughter of a cleaning woman.
Just for tonight I wanted to put that aside. I wished I’d shopped for an outfit. I wished Viv and Nic had come, instead of laughing mysteriously and saying they had “other plans.”
Then I saw Cass, who was standing at the kitchen island, taking people’s car keys and putting them in a wicker basket.
He was wearing a buttery yellow oxford shirt untucked over his jeans. When he saw me, his face split into his most open, unpracticed smile, the one that grooved his dimples deep and crinkled the corners of those blue eyes. He leaned forward, elbows on the counter.
“You came. I didn’t think you would.”
I fan out my hands, presenting myself, game show-hostess style, suddenly more at ease.
He took me in, head to toe, then said in a mild tone at odds with the intensity of his glance:
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“You’re trustworthy, right? I don’t need to snag your keys?”
“Totally reliable,” I said, looking around. I knew most of the kids at the party—from the hallways and the cafeteria anyway. But in this elegant atmosphere they seemed alien creatures transported from some A-list universe. Boys I’d never seen in anything but jeans and T-shirts were wearing black or dark blue button-down shirts, and the girls were in all that was tight and clingy—and yet classy. A line I’d never managed to walk successfully.
I shivered, twisting my hair into a coil at the back of my neck.
“You okay, Gwen? Not still cold from your historic rescue, are you?”
“No. Completely recovered.” I tossed my hair over my shoulder, succeeding in whacking Tristan Ellis in the face with it.
“Hey, watch it,” he said, palms raised as though I’d chased him with a machete.
I gave myself a mental shake. “This is so . . . glamorous,” I murmured to Cass.
“Give it about twenty minutes to fall apart. Let me take your coat.”
I didn’t want to hand over my tired navy peacoat, which, I now noticed, had bristly golden fur all over it from Fabio. So I stepped away from his outstretched hand, clearing my throat.
“To be honest, I didn’t know this was going to be so dressy.
Maybe I should go.”
His voice, already deep, went huskier. “Gwen. Stay. You’re not intimidated by—” He glanced around the room, then pointed to some kid who was squirting shaving cream on the
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face of someone who had apparently already passed out. “That, are you?”
The shaving cream guy shouted “Boo!” and the other kid woke up with a jolt, his hands flying to his face. There was the quick zzzzt of a camera phone as someone took a picture.
“No. Of course not!” But I took another cautious step away.
He moved forward again, reaching for my sleeve, gesturing for me to unbutton the coat. I shook my head. He pulled again on the sleeve so that we were sort of playing peacoat tug-of-war.
“This coat seems very important to you. Is there something I should know? You are wearing a shirt under it, right?”
“I am,” I said, unbuttoning.
“Damn.”
I hated it when guys talked about me with my top off. Even guys like Dad’s age did it. Once one of Grandpa’s friends, who didn’t know I knew some Portuguese. Then Grandpa said some words to him I didn’t know and he apologized for about half an hour. But the thing is . . . I didn’t hate it when Cass joked about it. There was no ick factor. Just this buzz of warmth and cold skating over me. Then, something more recognizable. Panic.
“I’m not the one who’s always shirtless!”
Cass looked pointedly down at his shirt.
“I seem to be fine now. I don’t remember ever coming to SBH topless either. Is my memory going? Or are you talking about while swimming? Because, last time I looked, all the other guys on the team weren’t wearing shirts either. Why am I the one breaking the Gwen Castle dress code?”
Oh God. I might as well have borrowed his Sharpie and written “You’re the one I look at!” on my forehead. I needed a 213
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muzzle. Or a drink. No, that would have an anti-muzzle effect.
Plus, I’m not good with that and I’d wake up with shaving cream all over my face.
I didn’t know why I’d felt so comfortable with him in the car and was such a basket case now. Because we weren’t alone?
Shouldn’t I be more nervous about being alone? Shouldn’t I be wishing more people would crowd into the kitchen so that I wouldn’t grab him and push him up against the Sub-Zero and— I spotted Pam D’Ofrio across the room, waved as though I hadn’t seen her in five hundred years rather than five hours, thrust my coat at Cass, and headed off.
He let me go, but every time I turned around, I met his eyes, as if he’d been waiting for me to look. After about twenty minutes, he came over, took my hand. “I’m going to show Gwen the house, Pam.”
He led me through, pointing out rooms, a long curving staircase, down a paneled hallway. “Jake’s old room. This was Bill’s, but he’s married now with a daughter, so he doesn’t come to stay very often. Mine’s down this way.”
I expected him to take me to his room. Of course I did. So I wasn’t surprised when he opened the door, flipped on the lights. The first thing I was struck by was how relatively clean it was. Bed unmade, maybe a half-dry towel or two tossed around, but no piles of smelly abandoned clothes. The next by how perfect it was—pale blue walls, darker blue sheets, a dark blue coverlet with dark green stripes, curtains to match. There was a big, well-stocked aquarium, blue lights flickering.
On the wall was a mirror that looked like the portal of a
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ship. The bed was big, made of oak, with old-fashioned dol-phins carved into the sides, and the walls were covered with maps. Some were framed, and looked like something a little kid would draw, on construction paper, with x leading to pirate treasure. Some were just on big sheets of white thick paper.
Almost all of them were hand-drawn.
Cass, who’d been silent while I studied my surroundings, finally spoke up. “Just so you know, I had almost nothing to do with this room. My mother hired some decorator while I was away at camp two years ago and he went all ‘carrying the nau-tical theme through the house’ . . . There was also a wooden marlin on the wall and a statue of some guy in a yellow rain-coat with a pipe. I ditched those because it was like sleeping at Red Lobster. I kept expecting to wake up and have some-body ask me whether I wanted tartar sauce with that.” Cass was talking a little fast. He took a deep breath and glanced at me.
“So no crusty old Sailor Man watching over you in your sleep?”
“Buxom mermaid, maybe. Old sea salt, no way.”
I’d come up close to one of the maps now, close enough to see that it was the coastline nearby, the mouth of the river, the bridge to Seashell. In the corner, tiny, were the initials CRS.
“This is all your work? You drew this?’
“Most of them. I like maps.” Cass shrugged. He’d sat down on the bed now, elbows on knees, hands dropped between them. Casual pose, but he kept flexing and unflexing one hand.
I was waiting, at this moment, for The Pass. I wasn’t as expe-rienced as everyone believed, but let’s face it. I was in his room.
He was on the bed. But he was just sitting there, staring at his
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