Fishbones Book I – Chapter 10: Summer
Illustration by Eyugho
By the time Ferris had chosen a new violin, Seamus had fully recovered. He was resilient, if anything.
Demos had gone quiet at the sight of the mark across Ferris’ throat, and had remained quiet through the entire retelling of that night. But whatever revenge the Ghost had planned, it would have to wait. Rudy was in juvenile hall. His accomplices had been slapped with community service and all three of them had been expelled from St. Basil’s. Though Seamus had started the fight, it had only taken one phone call for his charges to be dropped. Resilient and lucky.
With April came spring break, and with spring break came the desperate scramble to get out of the city, which was how Ferris found himself leaning against the window of Gino’s Quattroporte, looking out at the expressway as the radio played Ennio Morricone.
Their destination was the Giorgettis’ summer home in Long Island. Victor and Gino were up front. Talking casually with Demos wasn’t as easy with two adults present and they had both settled on staring at the scenery with mild interest. Demos was next to Ferris, bored out of his mind. Ferris was equally bored, pining for the novel in his backpack. Chronic motion sickness, however, ensured he would be unable to read during the long trip.
At the opposite window sat Victor’s daughter, Emily. Ferris had seen her plenty of times over the years. Though she and Demos acted like siblings, the boys stayed out of her way. She was two years younger, after all—practically a child. This year, however, she had started high school. There was something different about her now. Her brown hair was short and boyish in a way Ferris wasn’t sure was intentional or not. She was looking out the window, her attention taken by a pair of black headphones and the Walkman in her lap.
Somewhere along the expressway, Ferris must’ve fallen asleep, because he woke from a mundane dream as Victor pulled into a gas station. He removed his glasses, rubbing a palm over his eye.
Demos was already tugging a cigarette from a pack. “Pit stop.”
“No,” Victor said from the front seat.
“What? But you said—”
“I need a smoke. Not you,” Victor said. “If your aunt sees you smoking, she’ll kill me.”
“What if I go around back and—”
“I said ‘no.’ Here,” he said, plucking some bills from a gold clip. “Go buy yourself some candy or something.”
“I’m not five.” Demos had gone into a full pout, crossing his skinny arms across his chest. This wasn’t helping his case.
“I’ll take it,” Ferris said. “I need a drink.”
Emily leaned in. “Me too.”
“I hate you guys,” Demos said. He passed the money over and clambered over Ferris to exit the car. Ferris watched him walk around the edge of the building, disobeying his uncle in plain sight.
Ferris handed Emily the folded bills and followed.
As expected, Demos was just around the corner of the convenience store, cupping a hand to light a cigarette. Ferris leaned against the wall at his side.
“This is so stupid,” Demos said. “They let me shoot a fucking handgun, but I can’t even smoke with them.”
Ferris looked up at the sun over the trees. It was low in the western sky. “I think it’s more a fear of your aunt than anything else.”
“I guess.” Demos exhaled a plume. His pride was clearly shot. “At least you’re here. You know—it’s weird.”
“What’s weird?”
“You’re the first person outside of the family that’s come to this house with us.”
Ferris looked over. “Seriously?”
“You see Nicky or Sal?” Demos said.
“Couldn’t you have brought Seamus?”
Demos shook his head. “They didn’t ask me to invite a friend—they asked me to invite you.”
“Oh.”
Demos glanced over. There was something vulnerable about that look, the slight pull of his brow, the soft edge of his eyes. “I think they really trust you.”
Ferris felt a bizarre heat in his throat, spreading across his features all the way to his ears. He cleared his throat. “What’s so special about this house, anyway?”
“It’s our safe house—somewhere to wait if there’s trouble,” Demos said. “And no one knows where it is. Just family.” He took a drag. “And you.”
Ferris winced. “I’m about to be murdered, aren’t I?”
Demos’ laugh was soft. “No. But there’s one more thing—Nonno keeps a lockbox there. Blakely’s tape, the original—everyone else’s dirt. It’s all in there.”
“Oh.”
“You can’t tell anyone,” Demos said. “Swear to me, Ferris.” There was trust in his eyes, in that tight gaze beneath the darkening sky. In that moment Ferris felt he would do whatever it took for his friend—keep any secret, carry any lie. He was weak under that gaze, yet somehow felt the strength to take on anyone. Anything.
“I swear,” Ferris said.
The moment was swept away by a voice around the corner. “Hey guys,” Emily said. “We’re going.”
“Okay.” Demos flicked his cigarette, letting it bounce sparks off the sun-bleached wall.
“Here, I got you a drink,” Emily said, handing Ferris a cold can as they walked. He looked down at it, then back at her. She’d remembered.
“Thanks.”
Emily smiled as they got back into the car. “Wasn’t my money.”
#
It was evening by the time the cars pulled up in front of the oceanside house. It was larger than Ferris had expected. The gated colonial home held at least eight bedrooms, its exterior set with gray cedar shingles and white trim. The foundation had been raised above sea level, with a long set of stairs leading to a glass-paned door.
Past short walls of beachgrass, Ferris could see the ocean—a great, dark expanse beneath the night sky. As far as hideouts went, it wasn’t bad.
“This everyone?” Ferris asked as the second car pulled up along the crushed-stone driveway. Sergio was driving.
“No,” Demos said. “My uncle Roberto’s family flew in today. They should be here by dinner.”
Ferris didn’t even want to think about what a disaster it would be if his entire family had an annual get-together. Every Levinstein wedding, anniversary, and Bar or Bat Mitzvah was an ordeal. Yet somehow, the Giorgettis did this every year.
“We’re sharing a room,” Demos said. “Come on, it’s upstairs.”
The bedroom had two full beds and a view of the water. Ferris had barely set down his suitcase before Demos dragged him back outside so he could smoke again. They went around back on the sand, out of his watchful aunt’s view. The wind came in over the water, waves rushing beneath the rising moon. Ferris caught himself staring.
There was something about the sea.
Demos’ cigarette was almost out when Emily’s voice came up from behind them. “Grandpa’s starting dinner,” she said. “He wants you to make some bruschetta.”
Demos groaned. “It’s Bru-SKE-ta. God, you’re so American.”
“I was born here, asshole. Go help him.”
“Fine. Don’t bore Ferris to tears with girl talk.” Demos tossed his cigarette stub into a bucket on the deck, then headed up the wooden stairs into the house.
Emily gave Ferris a look. “He’s the one who never shuts up about fashion and J-rock.”
Ferris laughed—it was painfully true. He then realized he was standing alone on the beach with Emily. He couldn’t remember the last time the two had had a one-on-one conversation, if ever.
“So—” Ferris stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Did you cut your hair?”
Yes, an excellent conversation starter. Thought-provoking.
“Yeah,” she said, running a hand over the back of her head.
“It looks good.”
Emily looked over. “You think so? I’m kind of afraid to have super short hair.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know, I guess it’s from when I was little. I was the ugliest baby. Everyone thought I was a boy, so Mom had to put a bow in my hair. Then they just asked why her son had a bow on.”
Ferris, unable to help it, started laughing.
“Hey, shut up.”
“I-I’m sorry.” Ferris was still holding back the tail end of his laugh. “I guess I don’t remember much of you from back then.”
“You don’t even remember when we first met, do you?” Emily asked.
“Uh—” This was a fair accusation. Ferris couldn’t remember in the slightest. “I—? When was that?”
Emily smiled. “You made me cry.”
“Oh.” Ferris cringed. “I did?”
“Yeah, I was five and you were seven. Dad had your family over for dinner. They let us play in the study while the adults talked, but you ignored me the entire time. You just kept reading some book.”
“Oh,” Ferris said. That absolutely sounded like something that seven-year-old Ferris would have done. He rubbed the back of his neck.
“When I kept trying to get your attention, you called me annoying and told me to go away.”
Ferris managed a light laugh. “Can I apologize ten years late?”
“It’s okay,” Emily said. “It’s kind of funny if you think about it. I mean, you turned out to be pretty nice.”
“I—what?”
“Well, to me.” Emily looked back out over the ocean. The wind picked up strands of her hair. It was cut at an angle, shorter in the back. It looked good disheveled.
“Maybe.” Ferris rubbed his chin. “It could just be an act.”
“I’ll let it slide if you help with my homework next semester.”
“Oh, right,” Ferris said. “What do you suck at? Math?”
“How did you guess?”
“You’re a Giorgetti.”
“And an artist,” she said. “Well, I’m trying to be. I want to go to art school. If I were a boy Dad would lose his shit, but he probably thinks I’ll just marry some rich guy and be a happy painting housewife.”
“That’s stupid,” Ferris said. “But—as long as he supports you, I guess?”
“Yeah. He’s my biggest patron—he hangs my paintings up all over the house like they’re Rembrandts.”
“Hey, that’s saying something. He’s picky about art.”
“I made one of them when I was six.” Emily made a dismissive hand gesture. “It’s a bunch of baby ducks.”
“In the hall upstairs? Instant classic.”
She snickered, then stopped herself. “I heard your dad say you want to go to Yale.”
“Well, I’m applying to a bunch of schools, but—yeah. I’d like to,” Ferris said. “That’s where he went.”
“I hope you get in,” she said. “It’ll be weird not having you around the house all the time, though. You and Demos might as well be one person.”
Ferris felt a heat rush to his face. Was it that bad? He hadn’t thought much about it before, but she was right. He wasn’t applying to any universities in Southport. This would probably be his last year with Demos before school.
He closed his eyes, just for a moment. He wouldn’t think about that—not right now.
Eventually, Ferris glanced back at the house. “I wonder what they’re cooking.”
“Probably a dozen different things. It’s a wonder I’m not some kind of land manatee.”
“Cow.”
Emily peered at him. “Did you just call me a cow?”
“No! I mean—a manatee is a sea cow, so a land manatee would be a land—a cow. I—” Ferris ran a hand over his forehead. “Uh, never mind.”
To his surprise, Emily started laughing. It was a nice laugh—strong, and bright. “You know—we should hang out sometime,” she said. “This was nice.”
“Sure,” Ferris said. “I’d like that.”
“Hey!” came a voice from the stairs. It was Demos. “Antipasto is ready. Get your asses in here.”
#
Dinner had knocked Ferris flat—seven courses followed by espresso and limoncello. He had spent an hour becoming one with a chair, wishing in a carbohydrate-induced stupor that Gino and Demos weren’t so damn good at cooking. One course, the secondo, had been Ferris’ alone. While the family ate porchetta, a fatty pork belly roast with wild fennel, Demos had prepared a plate of mustard-crusted trout for Ferris. An extra half hour of labor for a single serving, and Ferris could taste every second of it.
There had been new faces at the table. Demos’ cousins from Vicenza—a tall, affable man and small, scowling woman—their father, Roberto—Gino’s first son. It had been a sensory overload of flavors and aromas, animated hands and laughter that had probably reached the closest town.
Four hours later, the entire household was asleep. Demos and Ferris were seated on the same bed, reading under the light of a single lamp. “This summer home,” Ferris said, “is nicer than most regular homes.”
Demos flipped a page in his issue of Vogue Italia. “Well, this line of work has its perks.”
“Yeah, not just money, either.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ferris said. “Maybe how when we both had sophomore English, I did ten hours of homework a week and you didn’t do any. Yet, somehow, we both got A’s.”
“Oh.” Demos lowered his magazine. “That didn’t really have anything to do with—”
He swallowed whatever the rest of that sentence was supposed to be.
Ferris narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Demos.” Ferris closed the book in his lap. “How the hell did you get an A?”
Demos broke eye contact, shifting his attention to the floor. “I don’t know.” His voice was low—hesitant.
“Come on,” Ferris said. “I thought we were past keeping secrets.”
The moment dragged on and neither of them spoke. Ferris could see his friend thinking, his eyes still locked on the wooden floorboards. Ferris knew that expression—he’d know it for years. There was fear on Demos’ face.
Finally, Demos spoke. “I kind of—I flirted with the teacher.”
Oh.
Ferris was about to return to his book when another memory hit him.
Their sophomore English teacher had been a man.
Ferris didn’t know what to say, or if it would be right to mention it. Another silence fell between them, this one heavier. Suffocating.
Demos cleared his throat. “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he said. Each word was fragile—ready to break. “I—I don’t like to keep things from you. Because we’re friends.”
“What did you want to tell me?” Ferris asked. He wasn’t stupid; it was pretty clear what Demos was trying to get across. He could only hope his friend would have the courage to say it.
“I think—I think that sometimes, I don’t know. I guess I’m—” Demos stalled before continuing. “I’m attracted to guys.”
Ferris set his book on the nightstand. He had wondered when this would come up. It wasn’t his place to start this conversation—he had left it to Demos. And Demos had chosen this moment.
Demos swallowed, then looked back over. “Does it bother you?”
“No,” Ferris said. “Of course not. I’m glad you told me.”
“Oh.” Demos let out a breath, one he’d seemed to have been holding in for a while. “I was worried you’d be, I don’t know, grossed out.”
“What am I, five?”
Demos made a quick laugh that was much too forced. He coughed. “Don’t worry,” he said. His face had reddened. “I’m not going to jump you or anything.”
Ferris leaned forward onto his knees. “Yeah. I’m not really your type.”
“Oh? And what exactly is my type?”
“Uh, handsome, patient—” Ferris was counting off on his fingers. “And I guess—old?”
Demos scoffed. “Mr. Bell wasn’t my type. I did it for the grade.”
“You didn’t, uh—”
“No. It was just flirting. I didn’t—” Demos shook his head. “No. Just—don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“What, about the teacher, or—?”
“Any of it. Uncle Vic would fucking kill me. This is not—” Demos’ features had hardened. “In this kind of work—this is not okay. It’s never been okay.”
“I’m sorry,” was the first thing Ferris could think to say. Now, Demos had come out to him—twice. This shouldn’t have been the one that took this long. This shouldn’t have been seen as worse. “I won’t tell,” Ferris said. “I promise.”
Demos watched him for a while. The tension seemed to have left his gaze—some of it, at least. He looked back to his magazine. “Thanks.”
“Hey.” Ferris waited until their eyes met, until he was certain he had his friend’s full attention. “I care about you,” Ferris said. “That will never change.”
Demos stared back for a moment. He seemed to be fighting something. He took a breath, then caved. Ferris could feel those skinny arms wrapping over his back, that small frame tucked against his as he was pulled into the tightest hug he could ever remember participating in.
“Yeah,” Demos said into his shoulder, muffled. “Me too.”
#
It had taken a while for Demos to fall asleep. Ferris hadn’t succeeded at all. He was afraid to look at the clock and see just how late he’d stayed up. They were supposed to be up early tomorrow and cruise on one of Gino’s yachts. But this was a different place, a different bed. There was too much to think about.
It was no use.
Ferris tugged his glasses on, then slipped out into the hall. Once downstairs, the door to the deck caught his eye. Maybe some fresh air would help clear his head.
The moment the glass door opened, Ferris heard low voices. His first instinct was to backpedal into the house, but it was too late—he’d been spotted.
There were two of them. Ferris recognized the pair from dinner—Gina and Benny. Gina was one of Demos’ older cousins. It was striking, how similar she looked to Demos—slender and pale with pitch black hair and a permanent air of apathy set into her features. Beniamino was her brother. In stark contrast to his sibling, he was large, brawny, and tanned. He had a head of dark, curly hair above a set of friendly blue eyes—Gino’s eyes.
Ferris hadn’t had much of a chance to speak to either of them earlier. They still felt like strangers. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I’ll just—”
“No, ah, non andare!” Benny said with a smile. “It is okay.” His accent was thicker than any Giorgetti Ferris had ever heard.
“Ah, all right,” Ferris said. “If you don’t mind.”
Gina seemed to mind. A hint of tension flashed across her features, but she merely tapped some of the ashes of her cigarette on the deck and glanced away.
“Are you not sleeping?” Benny asked after a moment of considering his English.
“No, I can’t sleep. Uh—non riesco a dormire. Anche tu?” Ferris said, mustering up the courage to use what he’d learned in his last three years of Italian classes.
“Oh! Parli Italiano? E’ fantastico! We are having, eh, plane lag.”
“Jet lag,” Gina said.
“So,” Ferris said. “You flew in from Italy today?”
“Si, arriving at JFK—questa mattina?”
“This morning?”
“È così! Yes.”
Ferris smiled, despite himself. This man spoke very little English, and Ferris spoke even less Italian. It was too risky to reach beyond the world of ‘things we both already know,’ but even so, he was enjoying their conversation. It was strange. Gina was so cold where her brother was so open—but similar upbringings didn’t necessarily mean similar personalities.
“You are Demos, ah—migliore amico. He writes you in letters,” Benny said, making the motion of writing on invisible paper.
“He does?” Ferris said. Migliore amico—that translated to best friend, right? His face felt warm. “Uh, yes. We spend a lot of time together.”
“How nice for you,” Gina scoffed. The mention of Demos seemed to shift her mood from ‘uninterested’ to ‘irritated.’ So irritated, in fact, that she tossed her cigarette butt aside and gestured to her brother. “Sono stanca. Vado a dormire.”
Benny gave Ferris an apologetic look. “Mi dispiace,” he said, turning to follow Gina back into the house. “Dormi bene!”
“Goodnight,” Ferris said with a weak smile. He looked out over the water as the door clicked shut behind him. He wondered what all Demos had said about him. He trusted Ferris enough to bring him to their summer home, and he trusted him with his deepest secret. It was too bad, really, that Ferris didn’t have much of anything to share in return. He would simply have to pay back the gesture by keeping his friend’s secrets to himself.
All of them.