Dog Days at the Marina

I stood at the edge of the dock, my neon orange whistle dangling around my neck like some ridiculous badge of honor. First day as a swimming instructor at the marina, and I was already questioning every life choice that led me here. My phone had died hours ago—no charger, no backup battery, just me and a tangled mess of ethernet cable I'd somehow managed to knot around my ankle while attempting to look competent.

That's when I saw Max. This golden retriever mix with one ear that refused to stand up, paddling toward me like he owned the entire lake. His owner, this girl named Cassie from my history class, stood on the dock looking completely unbothered.

"He does this," she said, shrugging. "Max thinks he's a fish."

"My mom would say that's bull," I blurted out, then immediately regretted it. Smooth. Really smooth.

Cassie laughed though, actual genuine laughter that made her nose crinkle up. "Your mom sounds smart. But Max here, he's got spirit. Kind of like someone else I know who's standing on a dock in 90-degree heat wearing long cargo shorts."

I looked down at my outfit. "They were on sale."

"They're terrible."

"They're breathable."

We spent the next hour watching Max attempt to befriend a family of ducks that wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. Cassie told me about how she'd moved here last year, how she still missed her old friends, how she felt like everyone had already formed their friend groups and there was no room for her.

"High school's just one big game of musical chairs," she said, tossing a tennis ball for Max. "By the time you figure out the rules, everyone's already sitting down."

I thought about my own friend group back at school—how we'd been tight since middle school, how I couldn't remember the last time I'd actually tried to make a new friend. How I'd almost dismissed Cassie last year because she sat alone at lunch.

"You know," I said, "my friend Sarah's having people over on Friday. We're probably going to fail at making s'mores and argue about music. You should come."

Cassie looked at me, really looked at me, and something in her expression shifted. Like she'd been waiting for someone to finally notice her, to finally extend an invitation that wasn't out of pity.

"Only if Max can come too," she said.

"Deal."

Later that evening, as I finally managed to untangle that stupid cable from around my ankle, I realized something: sometimes the best things happen when you're just standing there, looking completely uncool, waiting for whatever comes next.