Free What I Thought Was True by Huntley Fitzpatrick

passenger seat. He ducks
    forward, flipping it so I can climb in the back. “C’mon, cuz.”
    I sigh and tell them to hold up while I change my soggy clothes.
    When I get inside, Mom’s got the phone to her ear, frowning. She
    holds a finger to her lips, jerking her head at the couch. Grandpa’s fast asleep, head tipped back, mouth open. Emory is curled like a
    cashew nut, his head in his lap, snoring softly.
    “Yes, I understand. Yuh-huh. Extensive cleaning. Yes. Top to
    bottom. Of course. By four o’clock tomorrow? Oh, well, that is a Saturday and—uh-huh. Okay.” Mom sighs, rustling the pages
    of the book on her lap. “Allrighty then.”
    When I come back out in a baggy shirt and an even older
    pair of shorts, Mom’s off the phone and buried in her lat-
    est bodice buster. She carefully marks her spot with a finger.
    “You’re going out?”
    I shrug. “Beach with the guys. What was that? Someone
    already giving you hell?”
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    Mom sighs again. “It’s those Robinsons.”
    I’d already turned toward the door, but stop in my tracks.
    “They’re back?”
    “Renting the Tucker house again for the next two weeks.
    Some wedding in town—cousins of theirs. Want the house to
    sparkle . By tomorrow.” She rubs her thumbs over her temples.
    “Here for only a few weeks every few summers, and I swear,
    they’re more trouble than half the regulars put together.”
    “Can you pull that off? By tomorrow?”
    She shrugs. “No choice, really. I’ll manage.” Mom’s theme
    song. Her glance drops to her book once again and she smiles
    at me wickedly. “I’ll think about it later. I’m pretty sure this
    Navy Seal is about to find out that the terrorist he’s been sent to capture is his ex-wife—and she’s pregnant with his triplets . . .
    and married to his brother.”
    When I slide into the backseat of the car, there is the neces-
    sary interval of waiting while Nic and Vivien make out. I hum
    under my breath, trying to ignore the kissing noises and rustle
    of clothes. After a couple of minutes, I lean forward, tap each
    of their shoulders. “I’m right here,” I whisper.
    Nic looks back, wiping Vivien’s shiny peach lip gloss off,
    winks at me. Vivien just smiles in the rearview mirror, eyes
    bright. Then she reads my face. “What’s wrong?”
    “The Robinsons are coming back,” I say flatly, digging in
    my pocket for the mascara I grabbed from the bathroom.
    She blows out a breath, ruffling the little strands of hair
    stealing out of her pigtails. “When?”
    “Tomorrow.”
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    “Shit,” Vivie says, turning the key in the ignition, squeal-
    ing backward with a jolt. Nic and I brace ourselves, his hand
    against the dashboard, me with my feet flattened against the
    back of the driver’s seat. Viv jerks the car forward and revs
    the motor like she’s in the Indy 500. She flunked her driving
    test three times.
    “Yeah,” I mutter.
    Nic’s leaned back now, his elbow resting on the sill of the
    open window. “Don’t worry about it,” he says.
    I swallow, shrug, scratching at a mosquito bite on my thigh.
    Vivien roars into the driveway of Hooper’s house, narrowly
    missing the mailbox, and leans heavily on the horn, blasting so
    loudly I expect it to blow leaves off the nearby trees. Without
    looking, Nic reaches over, lifts her hand, and kisses it. “I think you’ve made your point.”
    Hoop bounds down the steps, his hair sticking up in all
    directions. As usual he looks like he dressed in the dark—plaid
    shirt, ratty striped shorts. He whacks Nic on the back, then
    slides in next to me, too close. “Yo Gwenners!” he says, nudg-
    ing me with a pointy shoulder.
    “Hey, Hoop, whoa, can I have some space?”
    “Sure, sure.” He slides a fraction of an inch farther away,
    then smiles at me goofily. We peel down the hill, headed for
    the less ritzy of