Fox in the Chlorine

The summer before sophomore year, the air around our neighborhood pool always tasted like chlorine and awkward possibility. I'd been staring at Maya's snapchat for three hours straight—her posts from the party last night that I wasn't invited to. My iphone screen was basically burned into my retinas at this point.

Then Jace slid onto the lounge chair beside me, holding up a gummy bear like it was contraband. "You look like you're about to throw your phone in the deep end,"

"Maybe I should," I muttered, but I didn't. Social suicide wasn't really my vibe.

Jace popped the bear into his mouth. "My cousin says that stressing about who's posting what is literally poison. Like, actual poison. She's into that holistic stuff. Says I need to take vitamin D supplements because I never go outside."

"You're literally outside right now."

"Exactly. I'm overcoming my deficiencies. Present company included."

I laughed despite myself. Jace had this way of making everything feel lighter. That was probably why I had the biggest crush on him. Not that I'd ever admit it—maintaining plausible deniability was basically my religion.

The real fox showed up then. Not literally, though that would've been cooler. I'm talking about Riley, the girl who'd somehow convinced everyone she was seventeen when we all knew she was fifteen. She moved through the pool area like she owned the whole summer, phone in hand, recording stories that would make everyone feel like they were missing out.

But then something happened. Riley slipped at the edge of the pool, phone flying, and everything changed in that weird instant where the popular kid becomes human for exactly three seconds. Jace didn't even think—just dove in after her phone. When he came up dripping, everyone stared.

Riley's face was so red. But she laughed. Actually laughed. And suddenly the whole dynamic shifted.

Later, sitting on the pool edge with legs in the water, Jace said, "You know what? That was the most vitamin D thing I've ever done."

"That doesn't even make sense," I told him, but I was smiling.

He shrugged. "Neither does being fourteen and feeling like everything's the end of the world. But we're figuring it out."

He was right. We were figuring it out. One awkward moment at a time.