Bear at the Bottom of the Pool

The heatwave had turned everything into melted asphalt and humidity so thick you could practically swim through the air. I stood at the edge of the pool party, clutching my phone like a lifeline, watching everyone else float through the water like they were born with gills.

"You coming in or what?" Jordan called from the middle of the pool, droplets cascading off their arms like diamonds. Jordan, who I'd been lowkey crushing on since September, who somehow made flailing around in water look like an Olympic sport.

I shook my head. My excuse was ready on my tongue: I had to help my mom with the cable installation. The streaming service had stopped working, and she refused to accept that maybe—just maybe—our internet from 2015 wasn't cutting it anymore. But that wasn't the real reason.

The real reason was buried at the bottom of my backpack: Mr. Cuddles. The stuffed bear my grandma gave me before she died, the one I still couldn't sleep without. The one that would absolutely demolish whatever social capital I'd spent all year building if anyone found out.

A scream shattered the air. Not a fun scream. A real one.

Everyone's head snapped toward the shallow end. There, clinging to the pool ladder like it was a life raft, was the feral calico cat from the neighborhood—the one I'd been secretly feeding behind the apartment complex for weeks. Her fur was plastered to her body, eyes wide with pure terror.

Nobody moved. They just stared, phones already out, recording.

"Someone grab her!" Jordan yelled.

Still, nobody moved. The cat was hissing, claws extended, panic radiating off her in waves.

Before I could think about how this would look—how uncool it was to care, how I'd definitely get my clothes wet—I was in. I plunged into the pool, clothes and all, and reached for the cat. She scrambled up my arm, claws sinking in, but I didn't let go. I hauled us both onto the concrete, dripping wet, my white shirt basically see-through now, Mr. Cuddles tumbling out of my unzipped backpack.

The cat shook herself off and bolted.

And there, on the concrete, next to my soaked self, sat Mr. Cuddles. One ear missing. Fur matted from years of hugs.

Jordan walked over, dripping water, and picked him up. "Dude," they said, grinning. "I still sleep with my childhood stuffed rabbit. No cap."

"Really?"

"Really." Jordan handed him back. "You just saved a cat while fully clothed. That's, like, the most badass thing I've ever seen."

Someone handed me a towel. Someone else offered me their hoodie. And for the first time all year, I actually felt like I belonged.

Later, when I got home, my mom was still struggling with the cable. "Did you fix the internet?" she asked.

"No," I said, setting Mr. Cuddles on my bed. "But I think I finally figured out how to stop hiding."