Fox in the Deep End

The chlorine stung my nose as I stood at the edge of Maya's pool, clutching my towel like a security blanket. Everyone else was already swimming, laughing, splashing like they'd been born in the water. Meanwhile, I was still debating whether to jump in or fake a sudden illness.

"You coming in or what?" Fox called out. That was his actual nickname—red hair, mischievous grin, always the class clown. He treaded water in the deep end, looking annoyingly confident.

"Yeah, yeah, give me a sec," I mumbled, trying to sound chill instead of terrified.

The problem wasn't that I couldn't swim. The problem was that my body had decided to change ALL AT ONCE over the summer, and now my bikini felt like it was displaying a giant "LOOK AT ME" sign. Thirteen was the worst age.

Fox swam over to the edge and rested his arms on the concrete. "You know, the water's actually not that deep. Unless you're scared."

"I'm not scared," I lied. "Just... adjusting."

"Adjusting to what? The existence of water?"

Okay, maybe he was funny. But still annoying.

I heard giggling from the shallow end where the popular girls sat on the pool steps, their waterproof mascara perfectly intact. They looked like they belonged in a magazine. I looked like, well, me.

"Whatever," I said, taking a deep breath and stepping toward the pool. Fox was still watching, waiting for me to chicken out. I wasn't about to give him that satisfaction.

The water hit me like a shock—cold, enveloping, somehow easier than standing there exposed. I kicked off from the bottom and swam toward the deep end, not stopping until I reached Fox.

"See?" he grinned. "Not so bad."

"Shut up," I said, but I was smiling too. Maybe this summer wouldn't be so bad after all.