He ate his soggy bologna sandwiches and swallowed the last of the warm OJ and vodka in the shade of a black walnut tree, his sweaty back against the furrowed bark. The caterpillars didn’t like the walnut—he spotted only a few scooting through the bark’s narrow grooves.
He flipped through the pages of D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths. It had been Maddie’s favorite first, and she’d warned him not to bring it to the beach because water would ruin the awesome illustrations depicting gods and goddesses in all their immortal glory. But he carried it in his backpack every day and felt safer when it was close, so when the crummy thoughts came, he could lose himself in stories of death and birth, war and love. Love so potent it set the Furies, those wild-haired she-devils, on mortals’ heels. Drove them to suicide—by drowning, self-immolation, hemlock. Only the Fates could save them, or a generous god or goddess take pity, turning the mortal into a swan, a flower, a porpoise. A spider, like vain Arachne. In the world of the gods, Dom learned, mortals shifted into animals every darn day. Transformation could be a lifesaver or a punch line. A reward or a punishment.
He had memorized the myths. Filled his mind with fearless warriors, goddesses scheming for revenge, and wailing nymphs. Last summer, he and Maddie had created the raddest game ever: Gods versus Mortals.
They took turns retelling the myths, each making a case for why their pick should be reenacted, dramatized with a chase. Their own private Manhunt redux in the thick forest between White Eagle and the then abandoned Castle.
“Look,” he’d whisper to Maddie, pointing to the smoke from the four factory towers smudging the sky like a bruise. “It’s Icarus’s wax wings burning.”
Maddie one-upped him, “Or the sparks of Hephaestus’s mighty anvil. Forging Achilles’s armor!”
His soft, girly voice, which only egged on the ogres at school, sounded deeper bouncing off the tree canopy. “It’s Prometheus’s stolen fire!”
He transformed into the mischievous Titan thief, a stick held above his head like a torch as he leapt through the fern that rose from the forest floor like the whiskers of a giant green beast. Maddie played an enraged Zeus, puffing out her chest, forgetting about the new boobs that, Dom knew, had humiliated her all spring, racing after Dom/Prometheus, bellowing, “Stop! Or I’ll behead you with one of my lightning bolts!”
His stomach still flip-flopped when he remembered the look of awe on his big sister’s face, and he wished she were there with him now on this perfect summer day to look at him like that. Make him feel invincible.
But Maddie had decided she was too grown-up for storytime. Now she slept in every morning after staying out all night with those girls. Now she cared more about her hair and makeup and watched the kitchen phone like she could make it ring with some supernatural ESP ability. Dom was always waiting for her to emerge from the bathroom, where she was holed up like her own prisoner—squeezing stuff from her pores, shaving the few blond hairs from her legs, staring at herself as if she believed the more she looked, the prettier she’d become. Didn’t she know she was pretty enough? He’d give anything to be as beautiful as his sister. Maddalena. Had there ever been a name more goddesslike? That spring, when she’d decided she wanted everyone to call her Maddie, he’d pleaded with her to make him the one exception. She’d refused. Boring, he’d said, rolling his eyes just as she’d taught him.
He and Sean Waldinger had played Gods versus Mortals a few times but Dom doubted Sean would play with him again. Or talk to him the next time they passed in the school hallways. Not since that day in the woods with Victor and MJ.
He hated himself for hoping there was someone else out there who could appreciate the fantastic world inside his head. If he could find a way to show them, maybe they’d respect him. Admire him. Or, at the very least, like him.
The sun dropped, and the canopy of leaves above his head turned amber. The clay mask was cracking, tickling the corners of his mouth. He peered through the feathery fern circling the Castle gardens and watched the man. Listened to his animal grunts, each followed by the thwack of an ax-head biting into wood.
The man was beautiful, Dom thought, understanding this was the first time he knew what that word meant. The man’s sweat-slick black skin glowed in the afternoon light. His muscles rippled with each heave of the ax. Like the flanks of the horses Dom had seen gallop across the green in the Fourth of July polo games at the club last summer. He had wanted to leave his seat, climb over the rope that sectioned off the spectators, walk out onto the field, and stroke the horses’ quivering sides, velvet smooth but for the thick cords of veins that wriggled like eels underwater.
He moved closer, pushing aside the low bush blueberries, crouching until his knees ached, camouflaged by the waist-high fern. He held his breath and watched the man’s thick back muscles hump up and down as he hacked at the pitch pine. Dom grew hard, his penis straining against his snug swim shorts.
His face was burning. His cheeks stung and itched, like they had when he’d gotten chickenpox last year. He raked his fingernails across his skin. That made it itch more, and now his neck too. He spit on his hands and tried to wipe away the red clay.
“You okay, buddy?” the man asked.
Dom stumbled over a raw stump, catching his balance before he fell onto his dad’s machete.
The man was smiling and Dom could see he was trying not to laugh, and this made Dom’s face burn hotter.
“Do you have a hose I can use?” he stuttered.
He knew he looked like some weirdo with the branches sticking out of his ratty shorts and his body coated in sea sludge. And what if the man had seen him watching? The secret mission Veronica had entrusted to Dom—the Colonel’s protection—would be aborted before it had begun.
“Right over here.” The man pointed to a long green hose that ran up the slate walkway. “You get that clay down by the beach?”
Dom splashed the frigid water on his face, not caring if it went up his nose. Still, a thousand needles pricked his cheeks and forehead and chin.
“Here.” The man pulled a red bandana from his back pocket, and he was close all of a sudden, Dom could smell his sweat and the scent of soil, and he was touching Dom, wiping at his face. Dom knew his dad would have been rough, scouring his cheeks, telling him how stupid he was. Use your brain! The man was gentle.
He could’ve stood there forever, the cool water pooling at their feet, the man’s large hand swabbing his skin. What if he got hard again? He sucked in his stomach and leaned over, his hands on his knees, hiding his crotch.
“I’m good,” he said, grabbing the cloth.
The man shrugged, lifting his hands, as if surrendering.
“You can take that,” the man said. “Soak it in cold water. Might help some.”
“I don’t want to take your stuff.”
“Keep it.” The man waved Dom’s protests away. “We got plenty of rags around here.”
“I’ll bring it back, like, tomorrow.”