“Yep, that’s what I’m doing, swimming across the lake,” I mumble.
She’s not buying it. “If you’re currently swimming in the lake, then why are you crouched in the woods?”
Her question hangs in the air between us as the answer becomes clear.
“Caleb…”
“What?” I ask testily. I shouldn’t snap at her. It’s not her fault everyone at camp has to take a swimming aptitude test each year. It’s not her fault my cabin’s finally been called up. And it’s definitely not Lucy’s fault that I don’t swim. Ever.
“Caleb, I know you can’t swim, but—”
“I can. I just don’t like to,” I protest, hating that everybody at camp knows me as the kid who hates the water. And it’s not just that. Everybody here knows what happened to me. They know that my dad died when I was really little, which, on its own, is sad enough. But when you add in the fact that he died while saving me from drowning? Yeah, that’s about as sad as it gets. It’s also why I don’t like to go near the water if I don’t have to. But I also don’t like talking about it. “Not everybody likes swimming, Luce. Besides, why do you care?”
“It’s the rule, Caleb. Everybody has to do the swim test. I get why you’re hiding here, but they’re going to find you. You need to turn yourself in.”
She’s pacing now, and I have to laugh.
“Turn myself in? Luce, I’m chilling in the woods, not on the lam from the Feds.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “It doesn’t matter, Caleb. When you don’t show up for the swim test, they’re going to come looking for you.”
I smile. “No, they’re really not.” Another glance at my watch tells me I only have a few minutes until my best friend Booker will dive deep and swim to shore just as I slip into the water to finish the last few strokes of my test.
Now she’s suspicious. “What’s going on, Caleb? What are you up to?”
“None of your business, Luce,” I shrug, edging a little closer to the tree line.
“Don’t call meLuce. That’s not my name.”
“So? You call me Caleb. But my name’s Whit. How is that any different?”
“Your name is Caleb Whitman. That’s why I call you Caleb. It is literally your first name.”
“Yeah,” I acknowledge. “But only my mom ever calls me Caleb. Everyone else calls me Whit. It’s what they called my dad, too.”
She thinks for a second. “If I agree to call you by your nickname, will you tell me what the heck you’re doing in the woods?”
“No, that’s a dumb deal and you’ll never stick to it,” I say, crouching next to her. “’But I’ll tell you what’s up if you tell me why you’ve been crying.”
“I have not been crying,” she lies.
“Then why are your eyes all red and puffy?”
“Maybe I have allergies,” she sniffs.
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes.
“Fine,” she huffs. “My mom was supposed to come visit this weekend. For the talent show,” she sniffs. “But she’s a total flake and probably doesn’t even remember the promise that she made. My dad and I are better off without her.”
Lucy believes her words, so I just nod. In an act of bravery or stupidity, I reach out and brush an errant tear from her cheek with my thumb. She doesn’t stop me, and the contact is like an electric shock that zings through my body.
Since she was honest with me, I figure I owe her some honesty, too. “Booker’s swimming my lap.”
“Booker Zabek? They’re never going to believe he’s you.”
Her comment stings a little, considering I’ve got more meat on my bones than my best friend does. But I know something Lucy doesn’t. “Yeah, they are. He swam his lap first, then, while Ty was swimming his lap, Knox shaved Book’s hair and helped him put three of my t-shirts on. He jumped in when it was my turn and started swimming. As soon as he hit the water, I started running. And in…” I check my watch, “about twenty-nine seconds, give or take, he’s going to slip out of the water right as I slip into it.”
Lucy looks aghast, like my friends and I are a bunch of geniuses—or hardened criminals—for concocting such a plan.
