Chlorine Kisses

My hair had never looked worse. After two hours at the pool, the chlorine had turned my normally floppy brown curls into something resembling a hay bale. Great. Just what I needed when Maya was finally coming to one of our summer hangouts.

I ducked underwater, letting the cool silence wrap around me. When I broke the surface, wiping water from my eyes, there she was—orange bikini, hair slicked back like a seal, holding an Orange Julius in one hand like she owned the entire world.

"You coming to my baseball game tomorrow?" I blurted, immediately wanting to dissolve into the pool.

Maya grinned, setting her drink down on the edge. "Wouldn't miss it, baseball star." The way she said it made my stomach do somersaults.

Later that night, I found myself doing something pathetic: scrolling through her Instagram for the hundredth time like a total spy. Each post was a minefield—was that smile for me? Did that caption mean something?

My phone buzzed. A notification from Maya: *nice hair today ;)*

I stared at it until the screen dimmed. She'd noticed. She'd actually noticed.

The next day at my game, I spotted her in the bleachers. I played like my cleats were on fire—stole bases I had no business stealing, slid into home with dirt streaking my uniform like war paint. Every time I looked up, she was there, orange umbrella shading her face, smiling.

After we won, she met me by the dugout. "You were amazing," she said.

"My hair's a disaster," I mumbled, self-conscious again.

She reached out and tucked a stray curl behind my ear. "I like it messy." Then her phone buzzed, and she held it up to show me her screen. Her Instagram was open on my profile. "Been doing some spying myself."

The heat rushed to my face as she winked and walked away, leaving me standing there with my heart hammering like a baseball against a bat.

Maybe messed-up hair wasn't so bad after all.