Absolutely Truly by Heather Vogel Frederick

cake.
    â€œListen up, everyone!” said Mr. Bigelow. He clapped his hands, and the sound bounced off the bridge’s wooden floor and walls. “I want you to start by just observing. Feel free to take pictures if you’d like, sketch if you’d like, jot down notes if you’d like. I’ll give you five minutes!”
    Beside me, Lucas pulled out a small notebook and a pencil and began to draw. I glanced over his shoulder and watched him for a minute or two; he was pretty good. Then I turned my attention to the river. Most of it was frozen, and the parts that weren’t were remarkably still—so still that I could see the reflection of the bridge’s red paint. I took a picture of that, too. Directly below us, some water was still flowing between the clumps of ice, and I watched for a while as it swirled lazily around the stone pillars holding up the bridge. Then I glanced over Lucas Winthrop’s shoulder again. He was adding a graffiti-speckled rafter above his sketch of the waterfall.
    Curious, I glanced up. The rafters were decorated with names, hearts, arrows, dates—the oldest one I spotted was 1899—and interlinked initials, sure signs that Cupid had been here. Directly overhead I saw SAM LOVES BETTY ; JOJO AND CARL ; and E & T FOREVER drawn inside a slightly lopsided heart. I took a few more pictures.
    I was so busy looking up that I didn’t notice Scooter and Calhoun until they were practically on top of me.
    â€œWhatcha looking at?” Scooter demanded.
    â€œNothing,” I replied coolly.
    He looked up, too, then nudged Calhoun. “Got a pen?”
    Calhoun fished in his jacket pocket and produced one.
    â€œGimme a boost—I’m going to add ‘Truly Gigantic loves Lucas,’ ” Scooter told him, and Calhoun snickered.
    â€œMorons,” I muttered.
    Calhoun bent over and laced his fingers together. As Scooter placed a foot in his grip and Calhoun started to hoist him into the air, Mr. Bigelow suddenly materialized.
    â€œDon’t even think about it, boys,” he said. “Besides the fact that it’s incredibly dangerous, defacing the bridge is a very big no-no, and the town will charge you a very big fine.”
    Scooter removed his foot from Calhoun’s grasp and held his hands palm up in the classic Who, me? gesture.
    Mr. Bigelow squeezed in between us and leaned on the railing, looking out at the falls. Several of my classmates drifted over. “Drink it in, kids, drink it in,” he said. “The minute the January thaw arrives, which should be any day now, this will all be water under the bridge.” He waggled his eyebrows at his stupid pun, and a chorus of groans went up around me. I could tell that my classmates really liked Mr. Bigelow, though. I was beginning to, as well.
    â€œSo,” he continued, “who knows why the early settlers built covered bridges in the first place?”
    Franklin’s hand shot up.
    â€œYes, Franklin?”
    â€œTo keep snow off the bridge?”
    â€œIndeed!” said Mr. Bigelow. “A buildup of heavy snow could collapse a wooden bridge like this one, which would have been disastrous for a town like Pumpkin Falls, cutting it off from the outside world. Instead, the slope of the roof allows the snow to fall harmlessly into the river.” He looked around. “Anyone else?” None of us rushed to answer, so he continued, “Covering a bridge also protected it from the elements, preventing rot. Our thrifty Yankee forbears liked the idea of extending a bridge’s useful life by a couple of decades.” He winked. “Plus, I wouldn’t put it past them to have figured out that someday covered bridges would attract tourists.”
    â€œSo how do waterfalls freeze, exactly?” asked Jasmine.
    â€œWhy, thank you for asking, Miss Sanchez!” said our science teacher. “Water freezes at thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit—you all know