Cass is now digging a thumbnail into the wood of the picnic table. The backs of his ears are flushed. I’m standing there with their food, blatantly eavesdropping. I always kind of wondered why he and Spence came to SBH last fall as juniors. Prepped-out Hodges is where Stony Bay kids go when price is no object.

“Look, you’re smarter than this, squirt. I’d hang it up if I felt like you’d learned your lesson, but you haven’t. This garbage with your grades looks like more of the same screwing up to me. To everyone. I love Spence, but he’ll always come out smelling like a rose. You won’t.”

“You’re my brother, Bill, not—”

“Dad and Mom would tell you the same thing.”

“They have. Constantly. You know Mom, she loves to over-explore. Look, I’m paying my dues—working on the island, mowing freaking football fields’ worth of lawns. I did a dumbass thing, got a few lousy grades. Let’s move on, for Chrissake,” Cass says, standing abruptly. “Shouldn’t the food be here by now?”

He whirls around and almost directly into me. One of the drinks splashes tsunami-style into the plate of fries and onto my apron.

“I—was just bringing you this.” I start mopping at the fries, but they’re hopeless. Then I brush at my shirt, totally frazzled.

“I’ll get you some more. No problem. It’ll only take a minute.”

“Is that 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 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 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 lobsters?”

“Before.” Cass winks at Emory, who is eating another fry.

“The Man of Steel never rests. Or maybe that’s Jose the yard boy. I get my alter egos confused.”

“Hi there,” his brother says to me, with a short wave. “Bill Somers.”

“This is Gwen Castle, Billy. She’s the one I was saying should tutor me for that English makeup.”

Wait. This was his idea? Not Coach’s?

“Good to meet you. And—don’t pull your punches with squirt here. He deserves it.”

Cass’s ears turn red. He shoots Bill a swift death-glare.

“Gwen!” Dad calls. “Get your little brother back over here.

You don’t have time for screwing around.”

Bill tells me it was a pleasure, Cass has retreated into his bland, neutral look, and Emory’s made a major dent in their fries. I stammer out an apology, take Em’s greasy hand, and turn to go, only to run into the solid wall of Dad. He’s got yet another new plate of French fries, not having missed a thing.