Catfish & Chlorine

The backyard shimmered with that specific kind of magic that only happens when parents are out of town and someone's older brother leaves the garage fridge stocked. Lila stood at the edge of Marc's pool, clutching her solo cup like it was a lifeline, watching Kendall float on an inflatable flamingo with the kind of effortlessness that made Lila's stomach hurt.

Kendall was a sophomore, had that effortless thing happening — hair the color of a sunset (her friends called it orange, but that felt too simple for something that caught light like that), skin that never seemed to burn, always positioned at the exact center of whatever was happening. Lila was a freshman, still figuring out which version of herself she was supposed to be wearing today.

"Yo, Lila!" Chase yelled from the deep end, splashing water everywhere like an overexcited golden retriever. That boy was such a dog sometimes — all energy and zero chill, crashing into conversations and feelings with his whole heart. "Get in here! The water's perfect!"

Lila hesitated. Her swimsuit was new, purchased after three hours of crying in the dressing room last weekend because nothing fit the way she wanted it to. The way she thought it was supposed to.

Kendall drifted closer, flamingo bobbing. "You good?"

"Yeah," Lila said, but her voice came out small and weird. "Just, uh. Running through my playlist options. Mood-wise."

Kendell laughed, and it was this genuine sound that made something loosen in Lila's chest. "Mood? Is that what we're calling body dysmorphia now? Because same, honestly."

Lila stared at her. Kendall, with the sunset hair and the effortless everything, felt weird in a swimsuit too?

"My cat," Kendall said suddenly, pushing off the flamingo to tread water. "She refuses to drink from a bowl. Only wants water from a running tap. Like, she'll sit there meowing at the bathroom sink for twenty minutes, princess behavior, but sometimes I feel like that. Like I can only take things in when they're moving, you know? When there's momentum?"

Lila looked around at everyone laughing and splashing and being terrifyingly young and beautiful. "Yeah," she said quietly. "I know exactly what you mean."

So she got in. She cannonballed (badly, creating more of a splash-fail than a splash), came up sputtering while Chase lost his mind, and Kendall just gave her this tiny nod from the flamingo. And for the first time all summer, Lila stopped holding her breath.

Later, when they were sprawled on towels watching the sky turn that perfect orange-gray color that exists only in summer, Kendall scooted closer and said, "Your hair looks good wet. Like, actually, you should wear it like that to school Monday."

And Lila thought about cats and running water and all the things that felt impossible until suddenly they weren't. "Maybe," she said, and the possibility felt like something she could carry in her hands.