Dead Signal at the Deep End

The fluorescent lights of North Valley High buzzed like an electrical headache, and honestly? I felt like a zombie. Three hours of sleep APUSH cramming will do that to you.

I clutched my iPhone like a lifeline, thumb hovering over the group chat. My friends were already at the pool party, sending Snaps that made my chest tight. Parties weren't exactly my comfort zone, which was why I'd spent the last two years basically being a spy—hovering at the edges, watching everything, participating in nothing.

"Yo, Harvey!"

The voice hit me before I saw him. Marcus. The entire varsity swim team walked behind him like they were his personal entourage. My stomach dropped through my sneakers.

"You coming to Kayla's thing or what?" Marcus asked, way too loud for the hallway. People turned. Heads swiveled. I wanted to dissolve into my locker.

"Yeah," I managed. "Eventually."

"Cool. Don't be weird about it." He slapped my shoulder—hard, not friendly—and kept walking with his crew trailing behind him like he was some kind of bull in a china shop and everyone else was just fragile pottery.

At the party, the pool glowed that artificial blue that only exists in suburban backyards. I positioned myself strategically near the snack table, spy mode fully activated, iPhone in hand just in case I needed to look busy. Kayla danced with her friends, radiant and unselfconscious in a way I couldn't even imagine.

Then Marcus shoved Kayla into the pool.

Laughing. Everyone was laughing. Kayla surfaced, gasping, and Marcus cracked up like he'd just said the funniest thing in history.

Something in me just—broke.

I jumped in clothes and all.

The shock of cold water knocked the air out of me. I surfaced sputtering to find Marcus staring, actually off-guard for once in his life.

"What the—"

"That's not cool," I said, and my voice didn't shake. "Help her up."

For three seconds, nobody moved. Then Kayla's friend Jenna reached for her hand, and suddenly Marcus was laughing it off, like it had all been a joke, whatever, no big deal.

But later, when everyone had migrated inside for pizza, Kayla found me by the pool edge, socks still squishing.

"Thanks," she said. "That was actually really brave."

I shrugged. "Marcus is just—"

"A jerk? Yeah." She sat down beside me. "But you're not, Harvey."

We sat there for a long time, legs dangling in the water, and I realized something: I hadn't checked my iPhone once. I wasn't spying anymore. I wasn't swimming upstream against my own anxiety.

I was just there.

"Next time," Kayla said, "you should actually swim. With actual trunks."

I laughed. It felt easy. "Yeah. Next time."

The zombie feeling was gone. Whatever this was—this terrifying, wonderful, messy thing called participation—I wanted more of it.