Chlorine Hearts

The pool glowed like a radioactive martini in Mia's backyard, all rippling turquoise and underwater LEDs. I stood at the edge wearing last year's Target bikini—the one with the weird pattern that made me look like I was wearing a strategically placed napkin—while everyone else dove in like they'd been born with gills.

"You coming in or what?" Tyler yelled, shaking water from his hair like some kind of wet golden retriever. He'd been that way since seventh grade, when he morphed from my neighbor into practically a different species. The kind that played varsity sports and had defined jawlines and didn't still sleep with a stuffed elephant named Barnaby.

I opened my mouth to say I'd just, you know, watch, when something came running—or really, barreling—through the side gate. A dog. Not like a cute Instagram dog. This was maybe eighty pounds of mutt with one flopped ear and a tail that cleared everything off the coffee table in its wake.

Before anyone could process this chaotic energy, the dog took one look at the glowing pool and launched. Not a graceful dive. A full-bodied belly flop that sent a wave of chlorinated water directly into Tyler's face.

The dog surfaced, paddling like it had invented the concept, looking ridiculously pleased with itself. Someone shouted "MAX?" and suddenly the party vibe shifted from awkward to absolute chaos.

That's when it happened. The dog, now dubbed Max, swam straight to me. I don't know why. Maybe because I was the only one not screaming or laughing or trying to be cool. I just stood there, knee-deep in the shallow end, while this wet beast proceeded to shake itself directly onto my last-year's-Target-bikini self.

Tyler appeared beside me, wiping chlorinated water from his eyes. "You okay?"

And the weird thing was, I actually was. Because suddenly nobody was looking at me—everyone was looking at the dog who'd crashed the party like it owned the place. And I wasn't the awkward one anymore. I was just the person the dog had chosen.

"Yeah," I said, scratching Max behind his good ear. "Actually, I'm good."

Later that night, when Max's owner finally came to collect him—this frantic sophomore named Jordan who'd been running three streets over looking for her escape-artist foster dog—Tyler caught my arm. "Pool party next Saturday? Just us?"

I thought about saying I couldn't swim. I thought about making up something about volunteering at the animal shelter. Instead, I just said, "Sure. But maybe no dogs this time."

He grinned, and for the first time since seventh grade, it felt like we might actually be the same species again.