Belly Flop Courage

The orange slice stuck to the rim of my solo cup like a sad garnish for my social anxiety. Jordan's pool party raged around me—bodies cannonballing, bass thumping, and me, clutching my spot on the patio furniture like it was the last helicopter out of Saigon.

"You coming in or what?" Maya called from the pool edge, water dripping from her perfect messy bun. She waved at me like I wasn't having a full-blown crisis.

"Soon!" I lied. My neon one-piece felt simultaneously too revealing and not cute enough. Every other girl here had mastered the aesthetic I'd been trying to achieve since seventh grade, while I still looked like a confused traffic cone.

Then I saw him—Lucas, my crush since he'd moved here three weeks ago—walking toward me, running a hand through his dark hair. My stomach did that embarrassing thing where it forgets how to organ.

"Hey," he said, dropping into the chair beside mine. "Not swimming?"

"Belly flop recovery," I blurted, then wanted to die. "From earlier. Obviously not right now. I mean—"

"Cool." He grinned, and I noticed he had one dimple. Just one. Illegal. "I was running past your house yesterday. Saw you through the window. Looked like you were... dancing?"

My face burned hotter than the pavement. "That was combat training. For... bears."

Lucas stared at me.

"In case of bear attack," I continued, digging myself deeper. "You never know when a bear might show up at a pool party. It's basic survival."

The silence stretched until I considered faking my own death.

Then Lucas laughed—a genuine, head-thrown-back laugh that made something in my chest unlatch. "You're weird, Val. I like that."

He stood up and offered me a hand. "Come on. I'll distract everyone while you jump. They won't even see the splash."

I looked at his outstretched hand, at Maya doing a backflip in the deep end, at the orange floating forgotten in my cup. Somewhere between my overthinking and actual doing, I made a choice.

I took his hand.

"Fine," I said. "But if I drown, tell everyone I fought the bear first."

"Deal." He squeezed my fingers. "Besides, everyone looks ridiculous in water. That's the point."

Maybe he was right. Maybe being seventeen was just one long belly flop, and the trick wasn't to stick the landing—it was to keep getting back on the diving board.

I walked toward the pool still holding his hand, and for once, I didn't overthink it.