Electric Palm Summer

My palms were sweating. Like, actually sweating through my orange swim trunks as I stood at the edge of McKenna's pool party. The seventh grade social hierarchy was in full effect, and I was lowkey spiraling.

"Yo, Marcus! You gonna jump or what?" Tyler yelled, doing a cannonball that sent water everywhere. Everyone laughed. I forced a smile, my heart doing that thing where it beats so hard you can feel it in your throat.

McKenna herself floated nearby on a flamingo inflatable, her hair wet and perfect. She caught my eye and smiled. My brain short-circuited. I'd been crushing on her since September, and now here I was, frozen at her pool party like some awkward NPC.

The sky darkened unexpectedly. Storm clouds rolled in fast, and then—CRACK. Lightning split the sky, illuminating everything in this weird purple flash for half a second. Someone screamed. Everyone scrambled out of the pool.

Inside, the party shifted to awkward basement vibes. Someone's older sister put on music. Pizza arrived. And then there it was—the world's most green spinach-artichoke dip that McKenna's mom made, looking like actual pond sludge.

"You should try it," McKenna said, suddenly beside me. "It's actually fire."

I stared at her. Was this happening? The girl I'd been lowkey obsessed with for nine months was talking to me about spinach dip?

"Uh, sure," I managed. I dipped a chip. Took a bite. Waited for the gag reflex.

Instead—actually good? Like, shockingly good?

"See?" She grinned. "You thought it was gonna be mid, didn't you?"

"Dead ass, I did," I admitted, and she laughed.

We talked for twenty minutes while lightning kept flashing outside, illuminating the basement windows. About school, about how Tyler's cannonballs were actually annoying, about how she'd noticed me in math class. My palms stopped sweating. The orange trunks stopped feeling like a mistake.

Sometimes the stuff you think will be mid ends up being the best part. Sometimes lightning literally strikes while you're eating pond-slush dip with your crush. Sometimes seventh grade doesn't completely suck.

I left with her Snapchat. Small victories, but victories nonetheless.