Chapter Six
The water is an icy shock, stripping away any fears or feelings. I blast up toward the surface, emerge, take a deep, gasping breath of air, then plunge back down into the cold depths, push off from the pebbly bottom, flip toward the surface, turn on my back, eyes closed, lazily breathing in the difference between the icy water and the 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. Parents 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 43
43
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 wearing 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 others. 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.
44
44
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 yelling 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 mar-veled at some people’s school spirit. You couldn’t have made me take that plunge for anything less than world peace or having Emory’s medical expenses paid for life.
I walked down closer to the water, where Vivien was jump-ing up and down with the other cheerleaders.
45
45
“Shake it, shake it, Stony Bay. Swim it, swim it, all the way.”
About twenty kids had already lurched back out of the water toward the bonfire. Nic was sticking it out, but he looked crimson with cold. Jimmy Pieretti was evidently going for “Longest Time Underwater” because I could see his enormous legs sticking out in a headstand as the crowd shouted, “Jimbo, Jiiiiiiiiiimbo!” He had to top two hundred fifty pounds, but that wasn’t enough insulation: his toes were blue.
Coach, a bunch of parent volunteers, everyone was watching, but I still found myself counting heads, scanning the water.
By the shore my whole life, I’d grown up knowing what the ocean could give, then take away in a flash.
Where was Cass? He was popular, but no one was chanting his name the way they were for Jimmy or even Hoop, who had dashed out of the water to throw up on Coach Reilly’s shoes.
Where was Cass? Someone could easily have drowned in this noisy, yelling crowd, without anyone noticing.
I ran to the edge of the water, shielded my eyes from the bright sun dazzling off the waves, seeing black spots dancing in front of me. But no blond head. The race had been going on for at least five minutes, maybe more.
“Coach. Coach! Where’s Cass Somers?” I pulled at his sleeve as he raised the bullhorn again, my voice panicky. “Can you see him? Do you have binoculars?”
“Which one of you morons spiked the cider?” Coach bel-lowed. “You guys are disastrous. What the hell!”
I yanked at his sleeve again, and he turned, face ruddy against his thick black hair. “Not now, Gwen.” He tried to sound gen-46
46
tle. Coach had always been good to me, maybe because my dad’s restaurant donated food and ice cream for the beginning and end-of-year rallies. “Got a public relations disaster here. If the PTO finds out about the cider, we can kiss this fundraiser good-bye.”
“I can’t see Cassidy Somers. He’s in the water somewhere.” I tried to haul Coach with me into the waves, which were HOLY
FROSTBITE frigid. My skin felt like it was being peeled off with a thousand knives carved from ice. Coach remained motion-less, a red-faced Rock of Gibraltar. So I yanked off my parka, tossed it to the sand, waded in up to my knees, my waist, my armpits.
“Gwen! What the hell are you doing?” Vivien shouted. “Are you insane?”
Now everyone was back on shore, except me, in my cling-ing jeans and soggy hoodie, and there was a splash and Cass surfaced right in front of me, eyes wide and blue, hair plas-tered over his forehead, darkened to shifting shades of amber and gold by the water. He gave his head a shake, tossing his hair out of his eyes.
“I . . .” My teeth were chattering. My whole body was trem-bling. Cass too was shuddering so hard, I could feel his legs buck against mine. “I thought you’d drowned.”
He didn’t say anything, just reached out and wrapped an arm around my waist, stumbling as he tried to steer me to shore.
I was shaking and he was breathing hard and fast. I wasn’t sure who was holding up who, but he’d been in the water lon-47
47