“Hence the private property sign,” I say, turning away to look toward the road.
“I think the owner lives in California,” says Tucker wryly.
“Yay for us. I won’t actually get shot on my seventeenth birthday.”
“Nope.” Tucker readjusts his hold of the rope. His knees bend. “You’ll just get wet,” he says, and leaps out of the tree.
The rope swoops over the water at an angle. Tucker lets go and hollers as he drops straight into the water. The rope springs back and I reach out and catch it, staring down at where Tucker’s head bobs in the water. He turns toward me and waves as he’s swept downriver.
“Come on!” he yells. “You’ll love it.”
I take a deep breath, grip the rope more firmly between my hands, and jump.
Amazing, the difference between falling and flying, and I’ve experienced a lot of both. The rope lurches out over the river and stretches under my weight. I grit my teeth to keep my wings back, the desire to fly is so strong. Then I scream and let go, because I know if I don’t let go the rope will bring me crashing back into the tree.
The water’s so cold all my breath leaves me in a rush. I pop up to the surface, coughing. For a minute I don’t know what to do. I’m a competent swimmer, but not a great one. Most of my swimming has taken place in swimming pools and along the beaches of the Pacific Ocean. Nothing could have prepared me for the way the river grabs me and pulls me along. I get another mouthful of river water. It tastes like dirt and ice and something else I can’t identify, something mineral. I come up sputtering, then start to swim for the side in earnest before I’m swept completely down the river, never to be seen again. I can’t see Tucker. Panic rises in my throat. I can just see the news report now, Mom’s sorry face, Angela’s, Wendy’s when she realizes that this whole thing is her fault.
An arm snakes around my waist. I turn and almost knock heads with Tucker. He tightens his hold on me and pushes hard toward the shore. He’s a strong swimmer. All that beefy arm muscle definitely helps. I can do little better than hang on to his shoulders and kick with my legs in the right direction. In no time we’re gasping on the sandy riverbank. I flop onto my back and watch a fluffy white cloud pass over.
“Well,” says Tucker simply. “You’re brave.”
I glare at him. Water drips off his hair, down his neck, and then I jerk my gaze up to his eyes again, which are impossibly blue and filled with laughter. I want to punch him.
“That was dumb. We both could have drowned.”
“Nah,” he says. “The river’s not so fast right now. I’ve seen it worse.”
I sit up and look upriver toward the tree, which looks like it’s a good half mile away now.
“I guess the next step is to hike back to the tree.”
Tucker chuckles at the irritation in my voice. “Yep.”
“Barefoot.”
“It’s pretty sandy, not too bad. Are you cold?” he asks, and I see in a flash that if I am he’ll gladly put his arms around me. But I’m not really cold, not now that the sun is out and the water has mostly evaporated from my skin. Just a little damp and chilly. I try not to think of Tucker so close with his bare chest, heat pouring off him, and me in this itsy-bitsy two-piece with goose bumps rising across my belly.
I scramble to my feet and start walking up the bank. Tucker jumps up to walk alongside me.
“Sorry,” he says. “Maybe I should have warned you about how fast the river is.”
“Maybe,” I agree, but I’m sick of being mad at Tucker, when, after all, he did come to my rescue at prom. I haven’t forgotten that. And he’s here now. “It’s okay.”
“Want to try it again?” he asks, his dimple showing as he smiles at me. “It’s lots easier the second time.”
“You really are trying to get me killed.” I shake my head at him incredulously. “You’re crazy.”
“I work for the Crazy River Rafting Company during the summers. I’m in the river five days a week, sometimes more.”
So he was pretty confident that he’d be able to pull me out, no matter how crappy a swimmer I was. But what if I’d gone straight to the bottom?
“Tucker!” someone yells from upriver. “How’s the water?”
At the tree there are at least four or five people watching us make our way toward them up the shore. Tucker waves.
“It’s good!” Tucker calls back. “Nice and smooth.”
By the time we reach the tree, two other people have climbed up and jumped into the river. Neither of them seems to have the least bit of trouble getting to shore. Seeing that is what has me up in the tree again. This time I make an effort to whoop as I fall, the way Tucker did, and strike out for the shore as soon as I’m in the water. By the fourth time I jump, I’m not scared anymore. I feel invincible. And that, I now understand, is the draw of places like this.
“You’re Clara Gardner, right?” asks a girl waiting to climb the tree. I nod. She introduces herself as Ava Peters, even though we were in chemistry together. She’s the girl I saw with Tucker that one day at the ski lodge.
“There’s a party Saturday at my house if you want to come,” she tells me. Like I’ve suddenly been allowed in her club.
“Oh,” I say, stunned. “I will. Thanks.”
I flash a grateful smile at Tucker, who nods like he’s tipping his hat. For the first time it feels like we might, just maybe, be friends.
Tucker takes me to dinner at Bubba’s that night. Even in that casual barbecue joint, it feels enough like a real date that I’m a bit antsy. But after the food arrives it’s so delicious that I relax and wolf it down. I haven’t eaten since my bowl of Cheerios this morning, and I don’t remember ever being so hungry. Tucker watches me as I gnaw on a barbecued chicken wing like it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. The sauce is insanely good. After I’ve cleared a quarter of a chicken, barbecued beans, and a big helping of potato salad off my plate, I dare to look up at him. I half expect him to say something snide about the way I pigged out. I’m already formulating a comeback, something to call attention to the fact that I need some extra meat on my bones.
“Get the vanilla custard pie,” he says without a trace of judgment. He’s even looking at me with a hint of admiration in his eyes. “They bring it with a slice of lemon and when you bite the lemon and then eat a piece, it tastes exactly like lemon meringue.”