Cannonball Confidence

Mateo stood at the edge of the Phillips' backyard pool, chlorine stinging his nose. The Friday night party was in full swing—someone's Bluetooth speaker blasting that Drake song everyone pretended to hate but secretly loved, pink solo cups scattered across the patio furniture, and Jenna Parker floating on a flamingo inflatable like she owned the place.

He'd spent forty minutes that morning gelling his curls into submission, terrified they'd poof into something embarrassing. His abuela always said his hair was his crown, but seventh grade had taught him that crowns could get you laughed at in the locker room.

"Yo Mateo!" Carlos shouted from the deep end. "Quit overthinking it and jump!"

Then Tyler appeared behind him—the eighth-grade bull who'd already gotten detention three times for "accidental" shoving in the cafeteria. Tyler's baseball cap was backwards, his arms crossed, that smirk plastered across his face like he knew something Mateo didn't.

"What's the matter, curls?" Tyler needled. "Afraid you'll mess up that perfect hair?"

Mateo's face burned. Jenna was watching now. Everyone was watching.

Then his older sister Sofia's voice echoed in his head: *Never let them see you flinch, hermano. That's how they win.*

Something shifted in Mateo's chest—maybe it was the baseball trophies gathering dust in his room, maybe it was Sofia's words, maybe it was just being tired of being the kid who held back.

He didn't jump. He cannonballed.

The water swallowed him whole—cool and shocking and perfect. When he broke the surface, his curls were dripping down his forehead, gel completely destroyed, flattening into whatever shape they wanted. Carlos was cracking up. Jenna was actually smiling. And Tyler? Tyler looked like someone had popped his balloon.

"About time!" Carlos yelled, splashing water in Mateo's direction.

For the first time all year, Mateo didn't care who was watching. He shook his wet hair like a dog, droplets flying everywhere, and dove back under.