Chlorine Dreams

My goldfish lived for three years. Three years of staring at me through glass, mouth opening and closing like it had something important to say. Then my sister fed it bread crumbs, and that was it. Fish funeral in the backyard, complete with a tiny shoebox and my dad trying not to laugh.

Now I'm staring at Jake's pool instead.

The water glitters like someone spilled diamonds all over it. Everyone's already in—Jake, Chloe, even Marcus who definitely didn't shave his armpits for this. I'm still standing here in my orange bikini that looked fire in the Target mirror but now feels like a neon sign screaming LOOK AT ME I'M TRYING TOO HARD.

"You coming in?" Jake calls. He's treading water, hair plastered to his forehead, and my stomach does that thing where it forgets how to stomach.

"Yeah! Just gotta—"

What? Find the perfect moment? Cool down the embarrassment that's currently making my neck feel like a radiator?

I've been running from this moment all week. Jake's party. His pool. The fact that freshman girls aren't supposed to be here but somehow I got invited anyway because I sit next to him in bio and he's actually decent for a popular guy.

Chloe splashes water at Marcus. Someone's playing Drake from a speaker that's definitely not waterproof. It smells like chlorine and coconut sunscreen and teenage desperation.

My goldfish never had this problem. It just swam. No overthinking. No worrying if it looked cool doing it.

I jump.

The water hits me like a cold slap, then it's just—water. Weightless. Jake swims over and he's smiling and maybe this isn't so scary. Maybe jumping in is the only way to stop standing on the edge.

"Nice color," he says, gesturing to my bikini.

"Target," I say. "Three weeks ago."

"Cool."

And that's it. No drama. Just cool.

My goldfish would be proud. Finally learned to swim.