Belly Flop Protocol

The community pool smelled like chlorine and desperation — exactly where I did NOT want to be July before freshman year. But Maya had insisted. "Pool party, Sam! Social reset! We're literally reinventing ourselves this summer, remember?"

I remembered. I just hadn't signed up for the part where reinventing involved actual swimming in actual water while people watched.

Because here's the thing: I couldn't swim. Not like, couldn't-swim-well, but like, actually-couldn't-swim-at-all. My plan had been perfect: lounge by the edge, look mysteriously contemplative, maybe fake a phone call when anyone tried to drag me in.

Then I saw him. Tyler Chen, wearing those stupid sunglasses that cost more than my entire wardrobe, standing near the deep end like he owned the place. He'd spent all of eighth grade ignoring my existence, but now he was looking right at me.

Or was he?

Every time I glanced over, his eyes snapped away. Weird. Unless... was he spy-curious? Following my socials, watching from afar, too nervous to approach? Maya'd told me she'd seen him liking my posts. Maybe this was it. The moment.

I felt ridiculous. Why did I care? Tyler was just a guy. But isn't that the whole problem — caring about things that don't matter while the things that do get drowned out by all the noise?

"Truth or spin!" someone yelled, and of course the bottle pointed at me.

"Truth," I said automatically.

"Pussy," Maya whispered, but she was grinning. "Okay, what's your biggest lie? The thing you've been fronting about all year?"

The noise of the party faded. All those eyes. Tyler still watching, I could feel it. This was it. I could keep faking it or I could just... not.

"I can't swim," I said. "Like, at all. I've been pretending since sixth grade when I doggy-paddled through that one lesson and prayed nobody noticed I was basically drowning the whole time."

Silence. Then Tyler pushed off from the wall and walked over, water dripping down his chest like he was in a music video or whatever.

"Same," he said. "I can't swim either. I just stand in the shallow end and look confident about it."

Wait. WHAT?

"You've been spy-watching me because you can't swim either?" I blurted.

He laughed — actually laughed, looking sixteen different kinds of embarrassed. "No, I've been watching you because I thought you were going to figure out I'm faking it and expose me."

We stared at each other. Then Maya yelled, "BOTH OF YOU IN THE SHALLOW END. I'M TEACHING YOU RIGHT NOW. THIS IS RIDICULOUS."

And that's how I spent my July before high school: learning to swim alongside Tyler Chen, both of us looking like absolute idiots, neither of us caring anymore.