Fox at the Pool

I hadn't planned on almost dying from embarrassment on my first day as a lifeguard, but there I was, gummy **vitamin** D falling out of my pocket in front of everyone at the **pool**.

"What's that, baby? You still take your vitamins?" Derek laughed, looping his towel over his shoulder like he owned the place. The other junior lifeguards snickered. My face burned hotter than the pavement.

"My mom makes me," I mumbled, which was true but also completely pathetic at sixteen. I shoved the gummy bears back in my pocket, wishing I could dissolve into the chlorinated water.

The whistle around my neck felt heavy. This wasn't how I'd imagined it—sitting in the chair, cool sunglasses on, watching over the screaming kids and the cool kids. Instead, I was the joke.

That's when I saw it—a real **fox**, trotting along the fence line like it was completely normal to see a wild animal at a suburban pool. Orange-red fur, black socks, that sharp clever face. It stopped and looked right at me.

"Whoa," I whispered, mostly to myself.

The fox didn't care what anyone thought. It was just existing, being magnificent, completely unbothered by Derek or the awkward social hierarchy or anything else. It paused, considered the situation, then ducked through a gap in the fence and vanished.

"Did you see that?" I asked, but nobody had. They were too busy discussing whose turn it was to do a snack run.

I thought about that fox all summer. About how it moved through the world like it belonged everywhere, didn't need anyone's permission. About how stupid it was that I felt embarrassed about taking care of myself.

By August, when the fox appeared again at dusk, I didn't hide my vitamins. I ate them openly, sitting on the lifeguard stand, watching the water turn purple in the sunset. Some things are worth doing, even if they're not cool.

The fox paused at the fence again, looked at me, and dipped its head like it knew.

I winked back.