Beneath the Surface

The backyard pool sparkled like something from a Instagram post, which made sense because everything about Chloe's house was curated perfection. Meanwhile, I was fifteen years old and still did that weird doggy-paddle thing when forced into deep water.

"You coming in or what?" Tyler yelled, splashing **water** that somehow hit me from across the deck. He was all effortless grace doing cannonballs off the diving board, because of course he was.

"Just taking my **vitamin** D," I lied, holding up my phone like that explained anything. My friends knew I was bluffing. They also knew I'd been avoiding actual **swimming** since the fourth-grade incident where I'd somehow managed to get my swim trunks stuck on the ladder.

Then it happened — that moment where the air goes weird and staticky, like the world's holding its breath. **Lightning** forked across the sky, purple-white against twilight.

"Everyone out! NOW!" Chloe's dad yelled from the back door.

We scrambled toward the covered patio, and in the chaos, I ended up squished next to Tyler on a too-small loveseat. Our knees touched. My heart was doing something concerning that had nothing to do with the storm.

"So," he said, casual as ever, "you never really answered about swimming lessons. My cousin teaches at the community center. I could go with you. If you wanted."

The rain started, a weirdly peaceful sound against the patio roof. I looked at the empty **pool**, water still rippling from everyone's exit, and realized something weirdly profound: nobody actually cared about my doggy-paddle except me.

"Yeah," I said, and felt something shift inside, like finally surfacing after holding my breath too long. "I think I'd like that."