Chlorine & Courage

The summer before ninth grade, I was five-foot-nothing with the coordination of a newborn giraffe. My older brother, endless font of wisdom that he was, suggested I start taking his mega-growth **vitamin** supplements. "Trust me, Leo," he'd said, pocketing the twenty bucks our mom gave him for "supplies." "These worked for my buddy's cousin. Shot up like six inches in one summer."

Three weeks later? Still five-foot-nothing, but now I had pee that turned neon orange. Thanks, Brandon.

The real growth spurt happened at the Hendersons' annual **pool** party—the social event of the season, where eighth-grade hierarchies got cemented and crushes got revealed in the worst possible ways. I'd been psyching myself up for weeks, practicing cool exits from the water in front of my bathroom mirror. I had it down to a slow-motion nod that I felt certain made me look mysterious and thoughtful, instead of like I had neck problems.

I was mid-practice when Jason Miller, who definitely didn't get the memo about being twelve years old, swaggered up to the diving board. The guy was already shaving, had described his "epic" spring break stories to anyone who'd listen, and had once worn a leather jacket to school in April. Absolute **bull** artist, but the kind everyone believed anyway.

He was showing off these fancy flips his coach had taught him at summer camp, each one followed by applause and whoops from his entourage of admirers. I watched, equal parts impressed and nauseous, until someone from the deep end yelled, "Hey, Leo! Your brother said you were gonna jump off the roof last year! Let's see it!"

Everyone turned. Jason paused mid-flex. I felt my face go hot.

I didn't want to do it. My stomach was somewhere in my throat. But somehow I found myself climbing up the ladder to the Hendersons' flat roof, seven feet above the deep end. My legs were basically jelly at this point. Below me, the pool looked tiny.

"Chicken?" Jason called out, grinning.

Something in me snapped—maybe it was the neon-orange confidence, maybe it was just desperation. I closed my eyes and jumped.

The world went sideways, then splash-dark, then I was breaking the surface to silence. Then grins. Then applause louder than anything Jason's flips had gotten.

"Again!" someone shouted.

I did it again. And again. Until the sun went down and Chloe Henderson actually asked for my number, and Jason Miller stopped being the most interesting person at the party.

That night, I found Brandon's stash of vitamins and flushed them down the toilet. I'd grown six inches that afternoon, but not the way I'd expected. Sometimes growth doesn't come in pill form. Sometimes you just have to jump off a roof into the deep end and trust that the water's deep enough to catch you.