Blue Moon (17 page)

“If you feel that way, why did you bother mentioning it at all?”

Billy shrugged. He didn’t want to tell her about the storm, about his vision of Cass being consoled by John Barnard.

“Did you tell my father about the survival suits? Before, I mean.”

“I don’t remember. Forget it, Cass.”

“He never told me, if you did. I would have ordered them right away.”

“I know.”

“They’ll be here tomorrow. I’ll order them as soon as we get in, for overnight delivery.”

They took care of the last mooring, then swished their filthy gloves in the salt water.

Billy was about to say, “Let’s take a ride,” when Cass turned the boat around, heading out toward Minturn Ledge. The boat bucked across the waves, past the other fish piers, the condo piers: the old Blue Moon section.

When Billy and Cass were kids, only sailors and drunks came to
this part of town. Driving past with car windows down, you could hear music blaring from the dance halls, women laughing, people fighting, sometimes even gunshots. Parents warned their kids to stay away from there. It was a place where people shot heroin, sold their bodies, and murdered for love.

The Blue Moon faded from sight as they passed the row of mansions, the yacht club, the playground. Billy rode in the bow, the sun in his eyes, facing backward, enjoying a boat ride with someone else driving. Watching Cass.

At Minturn Ledge, she gunned the engine and headed into open water. They turned southeast, and Billy could tell she was steering for the Trench, a stretch of extremely deep water. After twenty minutes, she pulled back on the throttle. Billy looked overboard and saw an army of sleek shapes, tapered as missiles, passing under the boat. Bluefish were running.

“Are you going to make me catch our dinner?” Billy asked when Cass handed him a rod.

“Let’s try,” she said, excited.

Cass reached for another rod. She rigged it with a big Kastmaster, striped silver and metallic blue to trick the fish. She threw the line—a perfect over-the-head cast—into the school.

“I haven’t caught a blue all summer,” she said. “T.J. brought home a beauty last week.”

Billy pretended to fish, but he was actually studying his wife. Some hair had slipped out from under her hat, and it glinted in the sun. He felt like taking off her hat, seeing the rest of her hair tumble to her shoulders, tangling it in his fingers. But he held back.

She reeled in her line, then cast again. Her shoulders seemed to relax before his eyes, and it made Billy sad to think fishing for blues could soothe Cass when he could not.

“Any bites?” he asked.

She seemed not to hear him for a moment, then said, “What?”

“Have you had any bites?”

She shook her head. Something was going on behind her eyes. Cass and Billy were in the same boat, but Billy could swear Cass wasn’t there at all. Hadn’t she told him she wanted to get far, far away? Was she dreaming of Europe, California, Borneo, the North
Atlantic? Suddenly she reeled in her line, stuck the rod in its holder.

“We haven’t caught anything,” Billy said.

She flashed her watch at him. “No time. I have to get Josie in forty minutes.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be going to Borneo?” Billy asked.

She chuckled lightly, her eyes softening.

Billy crossed the boat to stand behind her. He placed one hand over hers on the throttle, the other over hers on the wheel. She leaned back, into his body. His chin rested on the top of her head, the button on her Red Sox cap digging in.

“What do you really think about John?” she asked.

“He deserves it. He’ll make Jimmy a good captain.”

“You’ll miss fishing with him,” Cass said.

“Nah, he’s a bum,” Billy joked. But he couldn’t make himself laugh. He saw his life flying by. He and John had been competing forever, but Billy had always stayed a little ahead. He had Cass; Jimmy had made him captain first. Now here was John catching up. Maybe that was fair, Billy thought, but he felt his throat tighten. He wondered how Cass really saw him.

“What do
you
really think about John?” Billy asked.

“He’s a good fisherman,” Cass said. “My father wants to keep him in the fleet.”

“He’s one of the best,” Billy agreed. “One of the best.”

“But not
the
best,” Cass said, teasing.

“Maybe not,” Billy said, holding her from behind. Being the best, staying on top: it didn’t just happen. It took some proving. You had to work your ass off to get there, and you had to fight like hell to stay. Billy squeezed Cass’s hand on the throttle, and the boat kicked forward. They opened the engine, and together they drove home.

B
elinda and Emma sat side by side in fourth-period study hall. Kids from all different sections took study hall together. You could be in the 8-A group and wind up next to someone in 8-D. Which is how Belinda wound up next to Emma. Todd sat two benches away. Now Belinda
was
going out with him, but they never talked in school. He’d get embarrassed if she even said hi. But he didn’t mind when she called him after school.

“Your brother is really strange,” Emma said.

“No kidding,” Belinda said. She had the conjugations of twenty irregular verbs to memorize for French, and she wished Emma would stop talking so she could concentrate.

“I’m serious,” Emma said. She had her math book open, but under the table she was putting apricot polish on her nails. As if the teacher wouldn’t smell it! “He’s been telling people he has a gun.”

“He’s lying,” Belinda said, but she was shocked all the same. Why would T.J. lie about having a gun?

“He ought to wash his hair more often, like once a day. He could probably have anyone he wants, if he took better care of himself. The clothes he wears! Doesn’t your mom ever do laundry?”

“He likes the messy look. He thinks it makes him look like a rebel.”

“Yeah, him and Sean. Rebels without a clue. Someone forgot to tell Sean there are no fat rebels. Don’t you get sick of girls trying to get close to you just so you’ll put in a good word with T.J.? It’s so hypocritical.”

“They don’t even bother,” Belinda said. “They go straight to him. Our phone is ringing all the time.”

“Did you really make fun of Alison when she called?”

“No! That was Josie,” Belinda said.

“Alison is telling everyone it was you.”

Belinda loved Josie; she tried to be patient with her. But sometimes it seemed Josie was ruining her life without even trying. Stupid slutface Alison McCabe called T.J. last week and got Josie. Josie had picked up Belinda’s extension to play phone call, and naturally she couldn’t hear Alison on the other end. Alison, who didn’t know Josie, had thought it was Belinda making fun of her. And now Alison was spreading it all over school that Belinda was an immature jerk.

“Bel, you should see the incredible magazine I found in my parents’ room,” Emma said. “Like, superhot.”

“Really?” Belinda asked, blushing. Since she and Emma had spent the afternoon in Emma’s room, she’d played with herself a few times. But the funny thing was, the more she did it, the more embarrassed she felt when Emma talked about it.

Belinda tried to block out Emma’s voice. She had all honors courses this year, and the work was killing her. If she didn’t get at least some of her homework done in study hall, she’d be up past midnight again. Emma just wanted to waste time till the bell rang, then get through the next period, then the next, until the end of the day.

Emma tried a different tack. “I think it’s really funny, Sean wanting people to think he has a dark side. Talking about Satan—give me a break! He’s nothing but a nerd. He’s saving up to buy a black leather jacket.”

“I think T.J. should get one.”

“T.J. could get away with it. But Sean? Forget it. He’s too fat and blond. You’d look great in a black leather skirt.”

“I would?”

“Yeah. A real tight French one. You could wear it to Aunt Nora’s wedding.”

Belinda hunched over her paper.
Offrir, maigrir …

“Didn’t you hear me? Black leather at Aunt Nora’s wedding. I’m
looking forward to meeting the dude this weekend. Any excuse for a family bash. Once he meets all of us, he’ll probably take the next plane back to Florida, or wherever he comes from.”

“Georgia, I think.”

“Forget about Alison,” Emma said. “Is that what’s bothering you? You’re so quiet.”

Mr. Sheehan, the study-hall teacher, walked down the aisle and stood right in front of Belinda and Emma. He spread his feet and folded his arms across his chest, to let them know this was serious. Mr. Sheehan was the type of teacher who wanted everyone to think he was cool and tough.

To prove he was cool, he wore gaudy ties and saddle shoes with argyle socks. He taught history, and he’d talk about historical figures as if they were his personal friends. Like “Tombo” for Thomas Jefferson, “Big Al” for Alexander Hamilton, and “Benny and the boys” for Benjamin Franklin and the delegates to the 1787 Constitutional Convention. He’d drop a few “damns” and “hells” into his lectures, then say, “Excuse my French,” as if he’d just said the worst profanity ever invented.

To seem tough, he’d act just like he was acting now. He’d give you this very long, head-shaking, disappointed look, say nothing until you started to squirm, and then give you detention. Belinda didn’t plan to give him the satisfaction of looking up. Finally it was quiet enough to concentrate. Mr. Sheehan cleared his throat. She just kept working. His shadow fell across her paper.

“He’s looking down our shirts,” Emma whispered.

“What was that, Ms. Kenneally?” Mr. Sheehan asked.

“I said, ‘My finger hurts.’”

“I’m glad you’re so far ahead in your classwork that you feel you can spend study hall painting your nails.”

Belinda hadn’t looked up, but she could just picture him shaking his head, a big droopy frown on his face.

“Ms. Medieros, what is so fascinating?”

“My homework,” Belinda said, still not looking up.

“Are you and Ms. Kenneally collaborating on it? Is that why you’ve spent the whole study hall talking?”

“She’s teaching me French,” Emma said.

“I thought you took Spanish.”

“I do, but I’d rather speak French. I’m going to live in Paris.”

“If you ever make it out of eighth grade,” Mr. Sheehan said coldly. Emma acted as if she didn’t care about school or grades, but Belinda knew she felt ashamed when she failed subjects. “Detention for both of you. After school, today,” he said.

Belinda still hadn’t looked up. She heard Emma sniffle twice, very quietly. Belinda slid her hand onto Emma’s chair. She linked Emma’s little finger with her own. The cousins sat that way for just a few moments, until Belinda needed her hand to write again.

All four Keating cousins were on the detention bus. T.J., Sean, Emma, even Perfecto. T.J. knew their mothers would be pissed. Of course, half the school had detention. The teachers liked to start the school year off extra nasty, so you’d think twice before you acted up the next time. They believed in setting an example right off the bat. T.J. had gotten his for skipping science, when actually he’d just mixed up his schedule and gone to the music room instead. It wasn’t his fault that Mr. Amato and the jazz band were jamming, but it was his fault that he’d stayed to listen.

The bus made six stops in Alewives Park. Emma got off a stop before her normal one, probably so she wouldn’t have to walk home with Sean. She and Belinda had to have one of their major farewells; the bus driver, a new one this year, told them to move it. Little did she realize what she was in for. Knowing his sister and cousin, they’d be on the phone together in twenty minutes, so why bother with a big, dramatic bus goodbye?

“Let her go, Belinda,” T.J. called. “She’s going home, not to the morgue. You’ll see her again.”

Belinda shot him a very gratifying furious look. Good. Didn’t she think everyone else wanted to get home?

“See ya, bro,” Sean said when they got to his stop. “The morgue—that was good. How’d you think of that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. Later.” Sean made a circle with his fingers that had something to do with the devil. He’d explained the signs to T.J., but T.J. hadn’t been paying attention.

“Yeah,” T.J. said. He wondered whether there’d been a teenage trend invented anywhere that Sean hadn’t picked up on. The Satan stuff, calling people “bro,” wanting a leather jacket. T.J. hated himself for thinking this way. He felt like something must be wrong with him to be so critical of everyone, even people he liked, all the time.

“Hey T.J., do you have our history assignment?” Alison asked him from across the aisle.

“Uh, yeah. In here somewhere,” he said, riffling through his notebook. She was wearing a T-shirt stretched really tight across her chest. Not that she had much to show, but just the thought of it was giving T.J. a boner.

“Here’s your stop,” Alison said. “Maybe you could call me later? To give it to me? I mean, I’d call you, but I might get your monster sister. Didn’t she tell you I called last Friday?”

“I don’t think so,” he said, thinking he’d nail Belinda later. He wondered what Alison meant by “monster sister.” Belinda and Alison would never be best friends, that was for sure, but Belinda was too perfect to be a monster.

“Give me forty-five minutes to get home,” Alison said. “I live out Marcellus.”

That figured; the rich neighborhood. Alison looked expensive, with her gold bracelets, model-style hair, that certain kind of handbag that Belinda was always begging for. Passing by, he smelled her perfume. He didn’t know what it was called, but it was the kind Aunt Nora wore. Expensive-sexy.

When he got off the bus, Belinda was waiting for him. She acted like she wasn’t. She was pretending she had a pebble in her shoe, leaning on the mailbox. But when T.J. walked past, she caught right up with him.

“Thanks for giving me my phone messages,” T.J. said. “Alison called last Friday?”

“I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. I was too mad. Was she talking about me?”

“Long enough to call you a monster. What’d you do to her, anyway?”