Goldfish in the Deep End

My hair was supposed to be perfect. Sleek. Sophisticated. Instead, I looked like a wet poodle after an unexpected cannonball contest. The water from Marcos's pool splashed everywhere, and suddenly my carefully straightened strands were frizzing out like I'd stuck my finger in an electrical socket.

"Your hair," Marcos said, swimming over to where I was clinging to the pool edge like a terrified cat. "It's actually kind of cool. Wild."

I stared. This was Marcos. THE Marcos. The guy whose smile could probably cause actual lightning strikes within a five-mile radius. And he was talking to me. About my disaster hair.

"Cool," I repeated intelligently. "Right. Cool. Because I totally meant to look like this. It's a vibe."

"Totally a vibe," he agreed, treading water. His palm brushed against mine on the pool deck, and my stomach did that thing where it forgets how to stomach. "Hey, want to see something weird?"

"Weirder than me surviving this party without social death?"

Marcus laughed. This actual, genuine laugh that made his eyes crinkle in a way that should be illegal. He guided me toward the shallow end, where a single goldfish was doing its absolute best to pretend it belonged in a chlorinated pool.

"My sister's prize from the carnival," Marcos explained. "She won't let me flush it. Says it's lucky."

"A goldfish named Lucky in a pool full of teenagers trying to impress each other," I said. "Same, honestly."

The sky cracked open. Actual lightning, real this time, illuminating the whole backyard in this dramatic flash that made everything look cinematic and perfect and completely not real. Someone screamed—dramatically—and everyone scrambled out of the pool like the water had turned to lava.

Marcos didn't move. He stood there in the shallow end, rain starting to fall, and offered me his hand.

"Want to make a run for it?"

I looked at my frizzy hair. The goldfish swimming confidently in its adopted habitat. The rain making everything sparkle like we were in some coming-of-age movie montage.

"Yeah," I said, taking his hand. "Yeah, I do."

We ran through the storm, not toward shelter, but through it. And somehow, with my hair a mess and my palm sweating against his, everything felt exactly right.