Dog-Paddling Through Summer

The vitamin bottle sat on my bathroom counter like a daily accusation. "Take me for strong bones! Take me for growing!" Mom's voice echoed in my head even though she was two states away at her new place with Dave.

I grabbed the bottle anyway, dry-swallowing one like I had every morning since seventh grade when the pediatrician said I was "slightly below average height." Whatever that meant.

Barnaby — my dad's ancient golden retriever who smelled like corn chips and despair — thumped his tail against the doorframe. He knew what time it was. Our morning constitutional along the creek trail before the Texas heat turned the air into soup.

"You ready, buddy?"

Barnaby's version of ready was standing up slowly, like each joint required individual processing time. We both moved like that lately — me trying to disappear into my hoodie at school, Barnaby just existing through the slow-motion sunset of dog years.

The creek trail was empty at 7 AM, thank god. That was the whole point. avoiding the inevitable question: "Why don't you ever come to pool parties, Marcus?" Because showing up in swim trunks while everyone else looked like they'd stepped out of a TikTok filter? Absolutely not.

Barnaby waded into the creek like he owned it, which he basically did. The water came up to his chest, his tail creating a small wake. Dog-paddling, obviously. But he didn't care. Barnaby had never once worried about who was watching or whether his doggy paddle looked cool.

"You're literally living your best life," I told him.

He shook off water all over my shorts.

But then he started paddling toward the deeper section where the current picked up, where the older kids sometimes jumped off the rope swing on weekends. Barnaby kept going like he'd suddenly forgotten he was seventeen in human years and part fish.

"Barnaby!"

He was swimming now, full-on laps in the deeper water. And something about it — the way the morning light hit the ripples, how peaceful he looked just moving through the water — made me slip off my slides and wade in.

The creek wasn't the community pool. There were no lifeguards, no popular kids watching from the side, no expectations. Just me, Barnaby, and water that felt like a second skin.

I started swimming too. Not trying to impress anyone. Not wondering if my strokes looked dumb. Just moving through the water, feeling my muscles work, feeling like myself for the first time in forever.

"Hey!" a voice called from the bank.

I froze. It was Maya from my English class, holding a coffee like she'd been there the whole time.

"The water's actually pretty decent today," she said. "Mind if I join?"

Barnaby swam over to greet her like she was his oldest friend. And something clicked — the vitamin on my counter, the hiding in hoodies, all of it. Some things you can't swallow. Some things you have to dive into.

"Yeah," I said, already paddling toward the rope swing. "Yeah, come on in."

Later that morning, I dry-swallowed another vitamin. But this time, I didn't hate it so much.