Chlorine & Confidence

The lifeguard **hat** sat three sizes too big on my head, sliding down over my eyes every time I moved. Mom had insisted I take this job at the community pool — "great for your college applications," she'd said, simultaneously shoving a bottle of gummy **vitamin** D supplements into my backpack. "You're always inside, you need sunshine vitamins."

Now I was sitting in the elevated chair, watching teenagers my age cannonball into the **water** while I awkwardly blew my whistle at completely wrong times. They were living their best lives. I was living my most embarrassing one.

"Hey Lifeguard Lila!" called Tyler, the soccer captain who sat behind me in chemistry. "Nice hat! Very... authoritative." His friends snickered. I felt my face match the bright red of the pool's lane markers.

That's when I noticed the little kid in the shallow end, going under for too long. Something in my brain clicked. I didn't think about my stupid hat or my awkward positioning or how Tyler's laugh sounded like a dying cat. I just moved.

I hit the **water** perfectly — thank you, six months of forced swim lessons — and reached the kid in three strokes. He was fine, just swallowed some **water** and panicked. His mom thanked me like I'd saved her from a burning building.

When I pulled myself out, dripping and breathless, Tyler actually clapped. "Okay, that was actually sick."

I adjusted my crooked hat, suddenly not caring that it looked ridiculous. I'd done something real. Maybe tomorrow I'd even wear the sunscreen Mom packed. Probably not, though. I did have standards.