What I Thought Was True by Huntley Fitzpatrick Read Free Book Online Page B

still, summer air.
    Rising in me, I know, is what I’ve been trying to avoid. For
    months. I open my eyes, let the memory lap at the edges of my
    thoughts, then close them again, and give in.
    They call it the Polar Bear Plunge, which doesn’t really make
    sense because it’s held in the spring—and here in Connecticut,
    polar bears are pretty damn scarce.
    But ocean water in March in Connecticut is the stuff of
    hypothermia. And the Polar Bear Plunge is Stony Bay High
    Athletic Department’s big spring fundraiser. There’s always a
    bonfire, and the cheerleaders and the PTO bring hot cider and
    yell encouragements as the athletes run into the icy water. Par-
    ents and people from town show up—to bet on who stays in
    the water longest, who will swim out farthest. This year, since
    Vivien was cheer captain and Nic on the swim team, which I’d
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    been timing for all year, I got up at seven a.m. and went with
    them to watch.
    The morning was blinding bright and extra cold. There’d
    been one of those freakish heavy coastal snowstorms the week
    before, and patches of snow still drifted in the tall sea oats. I
    wanted to stay in Vivien’s warm car with the heat on nuclear,
    but Nic was in swim trunks and Vivie wearing her skimpy
    cheer outfit with only Nic’s sweatshirt pulled over it. So I got
    out and stood by the bonfire in the name of supporting the
    football team, the field hockey team, the soccer team, the base-
    ball team, the basketball team, and the swim team.
    Plenty of show-offs all around, stripping down and striking
    muscle or cheesecake poses to hoots and whistles from the
    well-bundled crowd. Hooper, though small, was speedy and
    mighty confident for a skinny, pale guy. Ugh, and he was wear-
    ing a Speedo. Gross, Hoop.
    I clasped my fingers around a foam cup of cider, blowing
    into it to feel the warm steam on my face, then heard a rustle
    of movement next to me, felt this prickle of awareness across
    my skin, and turned. It was Cass. He’d shucked off his parka
    and shirt and was now unbuttoning the top of his faded jeans,
    revealing navy swim trunks.
    I expected him to be out putting on a show like the oth-
    ers. Even Nic, hardly an exhibitionist, swirled his sweatshirt
    on a finger with a grin before tossing it to Vivien. But Cass was
    alone, quietly undressing. Right next to me.
    I assumed he didn’t realize who I was. I’d grabbed Mom’s
    parka on the way out the door, and with the hood tipped up I
    had all the sex appeal of the Goodyear Blimp.
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    He hesitated, then kicked his pants and the rest of his dis-
    carded clothes into a pile farther from the fire.
    “Bet on me, Gwen?”
    I looked at him. Shivered. Shook my head.
    “You should. Nic and Spence are the flashy ones with all the
    strokes, but I’m all about going the distance. And endurance.”
    “I’m not the betting kind.” I took a sip of my cider, breathed
    in the apple-cinnamon-scented steam, added quietly, “Good
    luck.”
    He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something,
    then shook his head and loped off. I tried unsuccessfully not
    to follow him with my eyes as he strode through the crowd,
    but . . . Those nice shoulders, the V of his upper body tapering
    down. I mean, it was purely aesthetic. Who wouldn’t look?
    The opening air horn blasted, shrill, ear-splitting. Everyone
    plunged into the water. Jimmy Pieretti, ever the comedian,
    was wearing a yellow-and-white polka-dot bikini, although I
    couldn’t imagine where he found one that fit. Nic got delayed
    by Vivie’s good-luck kiss. There was a lot of splashing and yell-
    ing and swearing.
    “Quit your bellyaching and focus!” Coach Reilly bawled
    through his bullhorn. Through the crowd, I saw Cass dive into
    the water, then slice through the surf, shoulders and forearms
    flashing in a fast crawl. Yes, there were chunks of ice. I