Ever since that first day in mid-October, you thought I was a wild girl who swam in the river naked all the time and did all kinds of other crazy things, and I let you think that because it’s sexy, but it’s not true. I’m not wild; I’m scared all the time, and even though I’d gone swimming in the river tons of times, I’d never taken my clothes off before.
This is the truth about how I ended up nearly naked.
It started out first thing in the morning. My house was a mess, like always, and I couldn’t find a stapler, and I got crazy mad at Mom because everything disappears in our house. I freaked right out, like a goddamn stapler is the biggest problem in the world. On a scale of 1 to 10, I was a 9.5. I called my mom a disgusting pig. Said I hated her. Her green eyes blinked like I’d slapped her. I will never forget that look on her face.
Of course, I felt bad, but I ran out of the house, jumped on my bike, and rode for a long time down by the river, wavering between feeling mad at my mom and then guilty for being a jerk, until finally, I found myself at this hidden, grassy spot by the riverbank that Steph and I discovered when we were kids.
I was dripping with sweat and knew the river would make me feel better. Only I didn’t have a suit and I didn’t want to ride home all wet T-shirt contest.
Then I had a brilliant idea—I should swim naked. It would be daring and fun and so not like my mother. The thought of it made me laugh. Mom would scream in terror if she knew; she’d say I was going to be raped. Maybe I should text her a picture of myself naked next to the river with the message: This is how you live!
I peeled off my sweaty leopard-print T-shirt and then my black leggings and finally my bra and hung them on the bush. I was about to remove my pink underwear, but I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t scared of rape, exactly, more that someone would see me and take pictures and text them to everyone at school. So I left them on and took a giant leap into the river.
My body plunged underwater. The water was freezing but exhilarating. The current tugged at my feet. The weeds below waved at me. Beckoned. Bubbles flowed out of my mouth, downstream, sucked my anger with them. The water tasted of silt and some other faint chemical, probably pollution from the mill.
Above, through the bubbles in the water, the blue sky gleamed. Weeds tickled my feet. I kicked to the surface. My face burst out. I sucked in a breath of air. Then I put my face back under and floated on the water, kicking slowly to keep from drifting downriver.
My breasts floated to the sides like balloons. The icy water streamed under them. It felt so free, compared to wearing a bathing suit. You don’t know what a bother these puppies are.
I vowed: I’m never wearing a suit in the river ever again.
Then I started to count, just to see how long I could float without taking a breath. You know how much I love counting.
Probably at that same time, you spotted my bike by the trail and came into the clearing and saw me in the water, facedown, the sun shining on my white back and pink underwear. I looked dead, I see that now.
At the count of fifty-three, something sharp jabbed in my back. I screamed and jumped up, trying to stand on the slippery rocks, spitting out water.
You were standing above me, holding your pointy stick spear, waving it around. Your face was twisted with fear, unrecognizable, not the normal face I saw at school, the guy with all the friends, laughing, joking around, Mr. Jovial, Straight-A Student, Super Athlete, Mr. Popular.
I screamed as loudly as I could. You dropped the stick in the water and waved your arms in the air. “Stop!” you yelled. “It’s me, Chris, from school.”
“Holy shit.” I crossed my hands over my boobs, even though it was too late and you’d seen it all. I sank down in the brown water.
You glanced toward the trail, like you were afraid someone was coming. Later, you told me it wouldn’t have looked good, a black guy with a white girl who was nearly naked and screaming. I thought it was silly at the time, but now I know you always have to think about that stuff.
“Why are you stabbing me with a stick?” I said.
“You weren’t moving! I thought you were dead.”
“I was floating.”
“You looked dead. You had no top. And I recognized your red hair.”
“Tangerine,” I corrected. “The box says tangerine.”
You gave me a funny look, like who cares if the box said tangerine. “I thought someone had…”
“Raped and killed me?” I had to point out the lack of logic in your imaginary killer’s story. “And weirdly put my underwear back on?”
You grinned. That’s when I noticed your dimple. “I wasn’t thinking straight.” You glanced toward my T-shirt and leggings resting on top of the bush and my bra hanging down. It was a huge old-lady bra but really supportive. I didn’t have the money to go to a fancy lingerie shop in Seattle, like the girls you hung out with. I figured all the bras you saw probably had lace on them and not one single hole.
“Leave my clothes alone,” I said.
“I’m not going to touch them.”
“Guys think it’s funny to take a girl’s clothes.”
“I don’t think it’s funny.”
I tried to see if you had a cell phone on you. I worried you might take a picture of me, and it would be all over school the next day.
“You shouldn’t be swimming here alone,” you said. “The river’s dangerous. A couple weeks ago, two kids—”
“I know what happened,” I said. “The rapids are a ways downstream.”
Two brothers had drowned. The younger one was being pulled downstream and he panicked. The older brother swam out to rescue him, but he didn’t get there before the rapids, and they both died. The search boat and the scuba divers were on the news. I watched, gripping my mouth the whole time. The TV reporter was a leech, asking the best friend all these questions.
“Aren’t you worried?” you said.
“I’m a lifeguard. I always swim in the river.”
You studied me like you were trying to figure out if I was a crazy person. “Do you always go swimming with no clothes on?”
“It’s the best way.” I shivered. “Except it’s a bit cold right now.”
“I’ll get your clothes.” You stepped toward the bush.
“No!” I said. “I can get them. Just turn around and go back to the trail.”
“Okay, okay.” You let out a low chuckle and I worried I couldn’t trust you, but I didn’t have a choice. You disappeared under the Sitka spruce you later named Saber after a saber-toothed tiger because of its sharp needles. I hesitated for a second, but you seemed cool, so I rushed out of the water.
It took forever to get dressed. I was dripping wet and my fingers were frozen and I couldn’t get on my damn bra, and then my leggings got stuck on my wet legs.
You were so quiet.
“Are you still there?” I called.
“Still here.” A little laugh.
I ran my hand through my wet hair, smoothed it back, and then grabbed my backpack and walked over to the trail, trying to summon a little dignity. You were holding my bike for me, with your back still turned.
“Did you look?” I asked.
“No way.”
“You’re a real gentleman,” I said, sort of teasing.
“I try to be.” You grinned back at me in the cutest way, like you were shy. That’s when I noticed the way your sweaty gray T-shirt was clinging to your lean chest. You have one of those rare, perfect bodies, but you aren’t arrogant about it. You don’t strut. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just, you’re understated.
“I’m Jessie.”
You shook my hand, softly, held it in yours, which felt unbelievably hot. I thought it was because my hands were so damn cold—I didn’t know then that your body is a human heater. “I know,” you said. “We’re in bio together. You sit at the back. You always know all the answers.” You gazed at me in that soft, quiet way of yours. “Of course I know your name.”
“Bio is okay.” I tried not to smirk. Steph always tells me a guy says one nice thing to me, I’m his forever. “You should see me in French. It’s a disaster.”
“Je m’appelle Chris,” you said, in the worst French accent ever.
“Okay, maybe not that bad.” I grinned.
You grinned back, and we were silent; maybe it was a little awkward. I saw an old chip bag on the ground, so I bent down, picked it up, and stuffed it in my backpack to throw out later. You gave me a funny look.
“I like to clean up the trails. You know, if I see something, I think about the environment and it’s so beautiful here…” I trailed off, thinking, Oh my god, I’m such a nature nerd.
You smiled at me. “Cool.” Then you gulped, and it was that action, at that moment, which made me realize that maybe you liked me a little.
I glanced at the ridge in your chest, which I could make out through your damp T-shirt, and wondered what it would be like to run my finger along the curve of it. You saw me looking and you gave me this wide, little-boy smile, a yes-I-got-what-I-wanted-for-Christmas smile, and your brown eyes were so shiny, and bright and smart, and something about that smile, I don’t know, maybe it was your dimple, but that was it for me.
This is how that first day went, and from that moment on, damn near perfect. You tease me because I think I have an audiographic memory and you say nobody can recount conversations exactly. But I can! I swear. Somehow, people’s words attach themselves to me, like ivy. I remember everything.