Last Splash Before the Fade

The chlorine smell hit me first—that sharp, chemical scent that screams summer's almost over. I found Marco slumped in a plastic chair by the apartment complex pool, looking like something that crawled out of a grave after pulling three consecutive graveyard shifts at the gas station.

"You look like a zombie," I said, dropping into the chair beside him. "No offense."

"None taken," Marco rasped, cracking one eye open. "I feel like one too. Haven't slept more than four hours since June. My brain's basically mush at this point."

He fished in his backpack and emerged with an orange bottle of vitamin D gummies, shaking two into his palm like they were the only thing standing between him and total system failure. "Doc says I'm deficient. Says that's why I'm always tired."

"Or maybe it's because you've been working yourself to death," I said, but I popped the gummy he offered me anyway. Peach flavor. Not bad.

The pool was mostly empty—just a couple of little kids in the shallow end and an old lady doing laps with agonizing slowness. In two weeks, this place would be packed. In two weeks, we'd be seniors, and somehow that made the water look different. Like we'd outgrown it.

"You nervous?" Marco asked suddenly, staring at the orange slice floating in his soda can.

"About what?"

"School. College apps. Everything." He stretched his arms behind his head, and I noticed—really noticed—how different he looked. Thinner. Dark circles under his eyes. Working to save up because his parents couldn't help with tuition, while I'd been complaining about which AP classes to take.

"Yeah," I admitted. "But I'm more nervous about us drifting apart. You working all the time, me doing extracurriculars... we're barely gonna see each other."

Marco sat up straighter, the zombie posture slipping for the first time. "That's not gonna happen. We've been best friend since seventh grade, when I puked on your shoes at the amusement park and you didn't even get mad. Some minimum wage job isn't changing that."

"You puked orange slushie all over my white Nikes," I said, but I was smiling. "That was friendship, alright. Pure trauma bonding."

"Next summer," Marco said, "we're coming back here. Every single day. No jobs. No stress. Just being annoying together in this exact spot. Deal?"

"Deal."

We sat there until the sun started dipping, painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold. The zombie was still tired, and the future was still scary, but the water was still cool, and some things—like friendship—don't wash away that easily.