Chlorine and Palm Trees

My mom's obsessed with the vitamin D gummy situation — apparently, my "indoor child aesthetic" was becoming a legitimate health concern. So here I am, standing at the edge of Jessica's pool party in bright orange swim trunks that feel way too loud for someone who specializes in blending into lockers.

Then I see Sam by the palm trees, scrolling through her phone with that easy confidence that makes everything look effortless. We used to be close until middle school hit like a social grenade and suddenly she was volleyball captain and I was... still me.

"Yo, Matt!" She waves like it's been five minutes instead of two years. "Get in here, the water's actually not gross."

My palms are sweating, which is pathetic because I'm literally standing next to a giant body of water. I can't do this. I can't just slip back into being her friend like nothing changed, like I didn't spend seventh grade watching her become someone else while I stayed the same awkward kid who still takes chewable vitamins.

So I freeze. I mumble something about forgetting sunscreen and bolt to the safety of the snack table, where I proceed to aggressively organize the chip bowls for twenty minutes because at least chips don't have a social hierarchy.

I'm peeking through my fingers, watching her laugh with the volleyball squad, and suddenly it hits me: nobody's thinking about me. Sam wasn't inviting me into some social trap — she just wanted to say hey. The overthinking? That was all me.

I grab a grape soda from the cooler and march back to the pool.

"Yo, Sam," I call out, and she turns, all genuine smile and none of the fake everything. "Race you to the other side."

She doesn't hesitate. "You're going down, Matt."

We hit the water at the same time, chlorine stinging my eyes, and I'm laughing so hard I accidentally swallow pool water but whatever. Because as I'm treading water beside my oldest friend, I realize something important: the only thing making me feel small enough to hide was me.

Later, we're sprawled on the lounge chairs in matching orange — her towel, my trunks — and Sam's telling me about how she almost failed her driving test three times. We're just two people being weirdly honest in the sun, and for the first time all day, my palms are dry.

"Same time next week?" she asks.

"Bet."

The vitamin D situation might still be ongoing, but I think I'm finally getting somewhere.