Chlorine Zombie Summer

My hair was supposed to be this perfectly messy bun, but instead it looked like a chlorine-damaged bird's nest. Another swim meet, another reminder that I'm basically a zombie at this point. Practice at 5 AM will do that to you.

"You good, Maya?" Jordan asked, sliding onto the bleachers next to me. Of course he looked fresh. Of course his hair still had that effortless curl thing going on.

"Living the dream," I deadpanned, forcing down the giant vitamin D gummy my mom swore would help with "seasonal affective disorder" even though it was literally July. The pool humidity was already frizzing my hair to new dimensions.

The locker room had been brutal today – everyone talking about sectionals, who'd made states, who was "totally bombing" their times. I'd changed in the bathroom stall like a loser because apparently at sixteen I still wasn't confident enough to be around half-naked girls who looked like they belonged in a sports Illustrated swimsuit issue while I looked like, well, a swimming zombie.

Jordan's cat popped up on his phone screen. "Look, Bean sent you a supportive vibe."

I snorted. "Your cat hates me. She literally hissed last weekend."

"She's protective. And also judgmental." He nudged my shoulder. "So, the vitamin thing – you actually think those work?"

"Dude, I don't know. My mom's on this whole 'wellness journey' kick. I'm basically a test subject at this point." I tucked a piece of frizzy hair behind my ear, feeling weirdly exposed. "But honestly? After morning practice, I'll take whatever keeps me from face-planting in first period."

Jordan nodded, watching the varsity team warm up. "You know you're gonna crush it, right?"

The compliment hit different coming from him. "That's the plan. Either that or I'll shuffle through the rest of the meet like a hair-covered zombie and everyone will think it's performance art."

He laughed, and something in my chest did that annoying flutter thing. "Performance art would be on brand for you."

"Wow, thanks."

"That was a compliment!" He held up his hands. "You're eccentric. It's cool."

Eccentric. Sure. We watched the swimmers slice through the water in that way that made it look effortless, even though we both knew better. My hair was starting to dry into some questionable shape, my vitamin supplement was probably giving me weird burps, and I was emotionally compromised by a boy whose cat despised me.

Being a teenager was absurd. Being a swimmer was absurd. This whole chlorine-soaked, vitamin-fueled, cat-judging existence was ridiculous.

But Jordan was still sitting there. And I hadn't face-planted. Yet.

"Maya! You're up!"

I stood up, shaking out my arms. Hair disaster imminent. Zombie mode fully activated. Time to swim like my slightly awkward, vitamin-supplemented life depended on it.