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 – 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 but t 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 familiarity 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?”
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 locomotive. 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. I figured since he’s right here on the island this summer, it would be easy for you guys to find the time.”
Of course I knew instantly it was Cass. Not because I think of him as a bad student, but somehow the minute I heard Coach say “swim team,” I knew. Cass is getting to be like that one rock on the beach that you stub your toe on every time.
“I don’t think I’m the best person to help him,” I say. “Pam D’Ofrio tutors. And she’s on island too.”
I hear a sound like a cat choking up a hairball. It’s Nic, clearing his throat.
“You okay, Brick?” Coach asks.
Nic coughs again in that same incredibly fake way, then wheezes out. “Need a cough drop. (Hack, hack.) Gwen – can you show me where you keep yours?”
He jerks his head toward Mom’s and my bedroom with these big pleading eyes. Mystified, somewhat irritated, I follow him.
The minute we’re inside, he grabs my forearm. “Do it. Man up and do it.”
I lean back against the door. “Why? If Cass gets booted, your shot at captain is in the bag.”
Nic grimaces. “No way do I want to win like that. Get it handed to me. Besides, Somers ups my game. I do my best when I’m trying to outdo someone. I need that edge.” He’s been looking at me intently. Now his eyes fall to Mom’s ruffled pink-and-brown bedspread.
“Look, I know things are maybe a little” – he rubs his perspiring jawline without looking at me – “whatever. With you and Somers. I mean, pretty damn clear last night, whatever the hell that was. But do this. For us. I need Coach to write me a rec for the academy. He went there. That’s huge. I need it.”
“You honestly think he wouldn’t rec you if I don’t tutor Cassidy? You’ve been on his team since freshman year. Cass and Spence just got on last year.”
“Probably. But I don’t know for sure. I need sure. The CGA is one of the hardest damn institutions in the country to get into. Every boost counts,” Nic says, stretching his arms over his head, revealing armpit hair that may actually be piling several minutes onto his swim time. “C’mon, cuz.”
I fix him with my own intimidating stare. “You will owe me forever for this. I own your soul.”
“My ass, maybe. Not my soul. God, this is just tutoring, Gwen. I’m not asking you to screw the guy.”
My face must change color, because Nic starts stammering. “I didn’t mean . . . I meant . . . I wasn’t . . . That didn’t come out like . . .”
I point a finger at him. “Your soul,” I repeat. “Vivien can have your sorry ass.”
“Deal,”
