In the universal language of parents, “disappointed” is nearly always worse than “mad.”

“After a year?” I ask. I should change the subject. The knuck-les of Cass’s fist are white. Clench. Unclench.

“After yesterday. My grandmother and my mom went and talked to the headmaster a few days ago. He said he regretted kicking me out, since he knew I would never have done that stuff myself, that it was all Spence’s bad influence. Which it wasn’t. But he said if I apologized and admitted I wasn’t the one who came up with it, I could get back in. Which would be great for my transcript and probably get me into a better college and . . . you know the drill.”

His voice has deepened, mockingly, on the last sentence.

Clearly a lecture he’s heard often.

And I do—I know the drill. I know it exactly. Realizing I do, that I get it, is like cold, hard ocean spray in the face—a shock, but then sort of soothing. Sure, no one’s imagining me winding up at some Ivy—but it’s that same sense of what’s next. I look at Cass now, at his hair blowing all those shades of blond, at his eyes, focused, determined, the stubborn set of his mouth. And this is the hardest, weirdest part of not being that barefoot girl and that towheaded boy running down the sand to the water, all legs and elbows and unself-conscious.

Suddenly, you edge your way to the end of your second ten years and BOOM. Your choices matter. Not chocolate or vanilla, bridge or pier, Sandy Claw or Abenaki. It’s your whole life.

We’re suddenly this close, like Nic said, to the wrong move. Or the right one. It matters now.

His blue eyes are grim. I slip my hand over his now fisted one again. He turns his head sharply, closer to mine.

Then the Boston Whaler full of bikini-clad girls sweeps a wide horseshoe, zooms past us one more time. One of the girls is waving the top of a bright orange bikini in the air, sun gleaming on her wet skin. No sweatshirt for her. Or life jacket.

The waves slosh into the boat, surf slapping us in the face and we rock back and forth crazily.

“Friends of yours, Cass?”

I have this sudden awful fear that they are. Former class-mates, fellow Bath and Tennis Club buddies, whatever. The peo-ple he really belongs with. To.

“Nope. Yours?”

“Despite the island girl rep, no. We usually save our topless antics for land.”

“We’d better head in, then,” Cass deadpans. I whack him on the shoulder as though he’s Nic, and he grins back at me with an expression that is . . . definitely not my cousin’s way of looking at me. And a slow smile that builds. I feel that race of electricity slip-slide over my skin again, and meet his eyes full on, the way we did in Mrs. Ellington’s kitchen. And that March night.

He tightens the line on the mainsail without looking away from me, waiting for my eyes to fall. But I keep watching him, noticing, in the small confines of the sailboat and the strange stillness of this moment, things I hadn’t seen before. A tiny white scar that cuts through the left corner of his dark left eyebrow. Faint flecks of green in the deep blue of his eyes. The little pulse beating at the base of his throat. I don’t know how long it is that we just look. When I finally turn away, everything on the water seems just the same. Except my sense that something has shifted.

Shutting my eyes, I tip my face up to the sun and the wind, then open it to find that we’ve lost the gust and the boat is still, except for rocking a bit in the wake of some huge powerboat that just sped by, full of guys wearing aviator sunglasses.

“So, this island girl thing. What’s that?”

“C’mon, Cass. Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m the one needing remedial English help, Gwen, I am dumb.”

I turn to him incredulously. He stares back at me. His eyes seem to see all the way into me, and pull something else out.

“The last thing you are is dumb, Cass. I mean . . . here on island . . . we’re the . . . well, you know how there are townies and non-townies in Stony Bay?”

“I guess,” he says vaguely, as if he really doesn’t know.

“Well, island kids are the townies and then some. Especially if we’re girls. We’re like summer amenities.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cass jerks up on one elbow, eyebrows lowered.

“That we’re picnic baskets. Useful, even kind of nice to have when it’s hot and you’re hungry. But who wants a picnic when summer’s over?”

Cass clearly doesn’t know what to say to that. Or there’s actually some sort of wind and water crisis that involves intense concentration and not looking at me at all. Lots of rope hauling and a few orders barked at me in some sort of sailor lingo I don’t understand, which he translates after a beat or two of my silent incomprehension.

“So you are a Boat Bully after all,” I say.

“Huh? Can you take the tiller for a sec—yeah, like that.” His warm hand steadies mine, heat settling in, then lets go.

“You’re one of those guys who gets all nautical and bossy on the water.”

“I am not. I just know what I’m doing here. Just keep hold-ing that steady. I’ll get the wind back soon.”

Since I don’t know sailing, I have no idea whether he actually needs to pull and loosen and adjust all these things or if it’s just a way to tune out. But then he looks at me, smiles, and the sparkle of the water is reflected from his eyes. “Don’t worry.”

I find myself answering, “I’m not worried.”

And I’m not. I’m not worried. I’m not awkward. I’m not self-conscious. I’m not anything except here. It feels like forever since I’ve been “here” without being “there” and “there too” and “what about there.” But none of those exist. Just me, Cass, and the blue ocean.

He starts to say something, but whatever it is gets drowned out by the roar of an enormous Chris-Craft surging by, leaving a tidal wave of foaming wake behind it.

We toss back and forth against the sides for a second before Cass decides it’s probably a life-saving decision to get out of the line of oddly thick traffic on the high seas. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many sails and spinnakers and wakes. Is there a race? Or is everyone as reluctant to have their time on the water end as I am?

We sail in silence until the sunset turns the sky streaky Ital-ian ice colors: raspberry, lemon, tangerine—all against blue cotton candy. Then we head home and dock the boat. I climb out, hand him my life jacket.