Goldfish Memory Summer

The **pool** party invitation had been sitting on my nightstand for three days, mocking me with its glittery gel letters. "SWIMMING POOL BASH!!!" it screamed, and honestly, the triple exclamation marks felt a bit aggressive.

I'd been stress-eating **vitamin** gummies like they were candy. Not the cool ones shaped like bears, but the gross adult ones that taste like synthetic orange and judgment. My mom said they'd help with "stress and growth," which was basically code for "you're awkward and puberty is hitting you weirdly."

The real problem wasn't the pool. It was the pool people. The ones who'd been my best friends since elementary school but suddenly seemed like completely different species over summer break. Callie had showed up to the mall last week wearing actual eyeliner and talking about boys with the confidence of someone who'd never fallen face-first off a swing set.

I stared at my reflection. Same glasses, same frizzy hair, same overall vibe of "person who accidentally says 'you too' when waiters tell them to enjoy their meal."

"Hey, sweetie, you talking to yourself again?" My mom leaned against my doorframe, holding a glass. "Your **goldfish** died again, by the way. That's the third one this month."

"Goldfish have three-second memories, Mom. Maybe he just forgot how to be alive."

"That's a myth, actually."

"Whatever. Can we get a dog?"

"We're not getting a dog. You're going to that party tonight, right?"

I groaned into my pillow. "Do I have to? It's going to be so awkward. Everyone's going to be all... evolved and stuff."

"Sometimes," she said, setting the glass on my desk, "you have to jump in the pool even if you can't see the bottom."

"That's terrible advice. I could hit my head."

"You'll be fine." She paused at the door. "And Maya? Take the hair tie out of your wrist. It's cutting off your circulation."

The party was exactly as terrifying as I'd imagined. Callie was there, shimmering in a bikini that made me hyperaware of my one-piece with the built-in skirt situation. But then something weird happened. She saw me standing there like a hostage situation, and she didn't ignore me or make that tight-lipped smile.

"MAYA!" She practically tackled me. "Oh my god, I've been texting you all summer, you never respond!"

"I... what?"

"Your notifications are probably off again, aren't they?" She rolled her eyes, but fondly. "Come swim. The water's perfect. And I need to tell you about how I put on eyeliner for the first time today and looked like a raccoon for three hours before figuring it out."

Maybe change wasn't about becoming a different person. Maybe it was just about learning that the people you thought were leaving you behind were actually just awkwardly figuring stuff out too. And maybe that was okay.

"Race you to the deep end," I said, already running.

"You're on, loser!"

Maybe growing up wasn't so bad after all. Even with the synthetic orange aftertaste.