Deep End Diaries

My hair was doing that thing again—the frizzy halo effect that happened every time humidity hit above 60 percent. Which was every single day in July. I'd spent twenty minutes trying to tame it with gel that promised "sleek control" but delivered "school science experiment gone wrong."

"You coming?" Maya called from the pool's edge. Tyler's pool party. The social event of the summer, apparently. Tyler, whose Instagram stories showed him shirtless more times than could possibly be necessary.

"Yeah, just—give me a second."

My palms were sweating. Actually sweating. Like, I could've filled a water bottle with the nervousness pouring out of me. I wiped them on my shorts, which was pointless because I was about to get in a pool anyway, but anxiety isn't exactly rational.

The problem wasn't the swimming. The problem was the shirt-removing part of the swimming equation. The part where everyone would see. The thing I'd been hiding under layers and hooded sweatshirts since sixth grade.

A hickey. On my neck. From Rachel.

Rachel, who I'd been hooking up with in secret for three months because neither of us was ready to—what? Be seen together? Admit we liked girls? The whole thing was exhausting and thrilling and terrifying all at once.

"Lena!" Maya yelled. "Tyler just did a cannonball! You're missing it!"

I took a deep breath and started running toward the pool—running like I'd just stolen something, running like maybe if I moved fast enough, nobody would notice the mark on my neck. Running like I could outpace my own fear.

I reached the edge, pulled off my shirt in one fluid motion, and jumped.

The cold water hit me like reality checks always do—sudden and shocking. Underwater, everything was muffled and blue and simple. No hiding, no explaining, no sweating palms.

When I surfaced, Maya was laughing at Tyler's terrible backflip. Rachel was across the pool, watching me. She smiled, slow and secret, and I realized I was done running.

"Nice entrance," she said when I swam over.

"I was trying to be smooth," I said, wet hair plastered to my forehead like a disaster movie.

"You failed," she said. "But I like that about you."

Her fingers brushed mine underwater. Nobody could see. But for the first time, I didn't want to hide.