Bear's Palm

I'd been **running** from my truth all summer.

Every morning at 6 AM, I'd drag myself to the community pool where Coach Martinez—this massive **bear** of a man with tattoos sleeping both arms—would blow his whistle and make us swim laps until our muscles burned. He'd been swimming state champion back in the day, or so he claimed, and now he was determined to whip us into shape.

"You're holding your breath, Mia," he'd growl, pacing the deck while I gasped for air. "Swimming's 60% mental. Get out of your head."

Easier said than done. My head was where all the problems lived.

My best friend Jordan had taken to calling me "**Vitamin** D" because I was always pale, always inside, always avoiding the sun. But this summer, I'd decided to change all that. Join the swim team. Get tan. Stop being the girl who stayed in during lunch period.

Then I met Chelsea.

She was the kind of girl who read palms at parties and owned it. She'd transferred from some arts school upstate, with rainbow hair and this confidence I couldn't even fake. One afternoon after practice, while I sat dripping poolside trying to convince myself to do one more lap, she sat beside me.

"You're thinking too loud," she said.

"Sorry."

"Don't be. Can I?" She held out her hand, palm up.

I hesitated, then placed my hand in hers. Her fingers traced the lines on my **palm** like she was reading braille.

"You're running from something," she said quietly. "But you can't swim away from yourself, Mia."

That night, I finally did it. I sent the text I'd been drafting for weeks. To the person I'd been running from all summer. To Jordan.

"I think I like you. Like, like-like you."

My phone buzzed back almost instantly. "Took you long enough, Vitamin D. Me too."

The next morning at practice, Coach Martinez blew his whistle. "What's with the smile, Gonzalez?"

"Nothing," I said, diving into the pool.

For the first time, I wasn't running. I was swimming toward something real.