Fox at the Pool Party

Jax stood by the pool fence, sweating through his favorite hoodie. The Friday night bash at Maya's house was already popping—music thumping, people cannonballing, someone's uncle's tropical playlist blasting. And Jax was still outside.

"You coming in or what?" Zara called from the pool edge, her palm-frond lei bobbing. She'd been trying to get him to jump in for twenty minutes.

"Nah, I'm good," Jax said, voice tight. He hadn't brought swim trunks. Who shows up to a pool party without swim trunks? The same guy who'd spent all week hyping himself up, then ghosted his own group chat when they asked what he was wearing.

A fox darted through Maya's backyard—actual wildlife in suburban Los Angeles. It paused near the papaya tree her dad was weirdly proud of, ears swiveling like it was judging Jax's life choices.

"Yo, that's a fox," someone said. Everyone turned. The fox looked at them, completely unbothered, then trotted off like it owned the place.

"Dude," Zara said, splashing over to the edge. "Your mascot just told you to get in here."

Jax's phone buzzed. His mom: 'Did you make it? Don't be weird :)'

He was already being weird. He'd been weird all week, ever since that incident in gym class when he'd frozen up during dodgeball and everyone thought he was zoning out, when really he'd been having a full-on panic about how he didn't know how to talk to people anymore.

"Forget it," he muttered, pulling off his hoodie. Jeans next. Then—boxers. Whatever.

He cannonballed.

Surface erupted. People hollering. Zara high-fiving him. Maya's dad handing him sliced papaya from a tray like this was totally normal. The juice ran down his chin, sweet and weirdly peppery, and he laughed so hard he choked.

"There he is," Zara said.

Jax swallowed papaya. "Yeah. Here I am."

Outside, the fox was gone. But Jax wasn't hiding anymore.