Fox at the Pool Party

My neon **orange** swim trunks were supposed to be ironic. That's what I told myself when I bought them, anyway. Now standing at the edge of Carter's pool, clutching a red Solo cup like it's a lifeline, I'm realizing irony doesn't help when you're the only guy not swimming because you're terrified someone'll notice you forgot to shave the back of your ankles.

The pool itself is basically social warfare in liquid form. There's a hierarchy, and I'm definitely at the bottom alongside the kids playing Marco Polo at 3 PM when everyone else is trying to have a moment. Carter's older sister Skylar and her friends hold court on the floaties, conducting their Instagram stories like they're directing a movie. Everyone wants to be in their orbit, or at least in the background of their posts.

Then he climbs out of the pool.

**Fox**. That's what everyone calls him — his name's actually Finnegan, which he hates, but someone started saying Fox last year because of his red hair and the way he moves, kind of quick and observant, like he's tracking something no one else can see. He's in that grade above us, the one where people start having cars and apartments and apparently outstanding jawlines. Water streams off him like he's in a slow-motion scene from a movie that I'm definitely not qualified to be in.

He catches me staring. I consider faking a sudden interest in the pattern of the concrete decking, but he's already walking over, and now we're making eye contact, and this is it — this is where I die of embarrassment.

"Nice trunks," he says. His voice is deeper than I expected. "They're... bold."

"Ironically bold," I hear myself say, and then I want to dissolve into the concrete. What does that even mean? Who says that?

Fox laughs, though. Not mean laughing. Real laughing. "I respect the commitment to the bit. Not everyone can pull off orange." He gestures toward the pool. "You coming in or what? The temperature's actually decent for once."

"Maybe," I manage. "I'm just... you know. Hanging."

"I feel that," he says, like actually gets it. "These things can be a lot. Sometimes I just show up for the snacks and the psychological drama." He grins, and something in my chest does that annoying flutter thing. "Well, let me know if you change your mind. Don't leave me out here dealing with Carter's terrible playlist alone."

He walks toward the snack table, and I watch him go, still clutching my cup like an absolute weapon. The **pool** water ripples against the edges, catching the late afternoon sun. Maybe I will get in. Maybe I won't. But for the first time all afternoon, I'm not thinking about my ankles. And honestly? That feels like winning.