Dead Inside at the Deep End

The heat wave had turned everyone into a zombie by third period. My phone buzzed with Mia's text: pool party @ Jake's. 2pm. DON'T BE LAME.

I stood in front of my mirror, adjusting my fedora. Yes, a fedora. In my defense, it was 2026 and I was going through my post-ironic vintage phase. The hat stayed.

Jake's house was the kind of rich that made your own living room feel like a failure. His backyard featured an actual swimming pool with waterfalls and stuff. Mia was already there, floating on a unicorn inflatable with two other girls from the volleyball team. They looked like they belonged in a music video. I looked like I belonged in a thrift store.

"Yo, Marcus!" Jake waved from the diving board. "Get in here, the water's straight-up magical."

I hesitated. First: taking off the hat would reveal the haircut I'd given myself at 2am during an existential crisis. Second: my torso had the muscle definition of a cooked noodle.

"You good?" Mia paddled over, squinting. "You look like you're about to throw a punch or pass out. Hard to tell."

"Just vibing," I said, because that's what you say when you're definitely not vibing. "Testing the waters. Literally."

Then Jake's mom appeared with a fruit tray. "Who wants fresh papaya? Just flown in from Costa Rica!"

Papaya. The fruit that tastes like soap and disappointment. But suddenly, everyone was grabbing chunks like it was the most normal thing in the world. Even Mia, who'd spent all week complaining about how her life was basically over because she got a B+ on her history final.

"Come on, Marcus," Jake called, doing a cannonball that splashed water everywhere. Including my fedora.

The hat was ruined. My hair was exposed. The catastrophe was complete.

But then—everyone laughed. Not mean laughing. Actual laughing.

"Dude," Jake said, surfacing. "Your hair is giving major artist energy. I dig it."

"Seriously," Mia added. "It's giving avant-garde. It's giving main character."

Something shifted. Maybe it was the papaya talking (I'd tried a piece—it was still soap), or maybe it was just the ridiculousness of the moment. I jumped in.

The water was perfect. The unicorn float was taken, but someone tossed me a slice of pizza from the poolside table. We spent the next three hours having splash wars and debating whether zombies could actually win in a fight against vampires (my stance: zombies have numbers, but vampires have style).

My fedora dried on the patio table, a crumpled monument to my former self. I left it there. Some things are better left behind.