Chlorine Secrets

The pool deck was basically my second home, my hair permanently smelling like chlorine, my fingers pruned into raisins by 3 PM every summer day. I was the worst one on the swim team, always finishing last at practice, but Coach said I had heart. Whatever that means.

My crush Jake played baseball, and I'd become kind of a professional spy where he was concerned. Not creepy-stalking spy — more like strategic-observation spy. Okay, maybe slightly creepy. I knew his baseball games ended at 4:30, which meant I had exactly twelve minutes to dry my hair, change out of my swimsuit, and casually walk past the baseball field like I had somewhere important to be.

"You gonna tell him, or just keep spying through the fence?" Maya asked one afternoon, flopping onto the pool chair next to mine.

"I'm not spying. I'm... conducting research."

"On what? His baseball swing or his hair?" She smirked. "Because you stare at both equally."

I threw my towel at her. That was the day my dad's dog Buster — this ancient golden retriever who belonged to everyone and no one — decided my research needed intervention. He'd been sleeping under the bleachers, probably waiting for the baseball guys to drop hot dog pieces, when suddenly he bolted.

Directly toward Jake.

With my backpack in his mouth.

The backpack containing my swim journal where I'd written JAKE+ME in bubble letters approximately forty times.

I vaulted over the fence in what was probably the most unathletic moment of my life, screaming "BUSTER DROP IT" while eleven baseball players watched. Jake stopped mid-swing. His hair was perfect, sweat-mussed and golden-brown, and he was looking right at me.

"That your dog?" he called, grinning.

Buster dropped my backpack at his feet. Jake picked it up, handed it to me, and I swear my heart stopped beating.

"You're the swim girl," he said. "I've seen you spying through the fence."

"I wasn't—"

"You're always wet," he continued. "It's kind of impressive, honestly."

"Pool practice," I managed. "Chlorine. You know."

"Cool." His dimples appeared. "Want to play baseball? We need someone for outfield."

"I don't play baseball."

"Neither does Buster," he said, as the dog rolled happily in the dirt. "But he's out here anyway."

And just like that, I wasn't the chlorine-smelling spy girl anymore. I was the girl who played baseball with wet hair and a golden retriever who belonged to everyone and no one, standing next to Jake, who I finally noticed had really nice eyelashes.