Marco Polo's Worst Day

I was already **running** ten minutes late to Hannah's end-of-school bash when my mom thrust a Tupperware at me.

"Bring this. Spinach artichoke dip. It's polite."

"Mom, no one brings spinach dip to a pool party."

"You do. Because I raised you to be thoughtful."

So there I was, hiking up Hannah's driveway in my new bikini (bright pink, why did I let Megan talk me into pink?) with a container of deathly green dip that could destroy any remaining social capital I possessed. I could already see the popular crew by the **pool**—Tyler doing cannonballs, perfect shiny hair and perfect shiny skin, while Chloe sunned herself like she was posing for a magazine.

I slipped through the side gate, praying to go unnoticed, when I heard it: my name.

"...Olivia's been acting weird lately. I think she likes him."

I froze behind the shed. They were talking about me. Like, actually talking about me. I pressed closer, trying to identify the voices, and suddenly I wasn't just the awkward girl with spinach dip—I was a full-blown **spy**, gathering crucial intelligence about my own social existence.

"Who?" That was Maya's voice.

"Liam, obviously. She keeps staring at him in chem."

My stomach did this embarrassing fluttery thing. Because, okay, yes. Liam. With his messy dark hair and those ridiculous dimples. The way he actually listened when people talked instead of just waiting for his turn. The fact that he'd smiled at me Monday when I dropped my pen and hadn't made me feel like a total loser.

"Liam?" Maya sounded skeptical. "Isn't he tutoring Chloe?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Then Olivia's delusional. That's brutal."

Ouch.

I should have walked away. Should have made my presence known and pretended I'd heard nothing. But instead I stood there, frozen, soaking up every painful word like a glutton for punishment, my knuckles white around my spinach dip container.

And that's when Liam himself rounded the corner of the shed.

We locked eyes. Him in his swim trunks, me in my pink bikini, clutching spinach dip like it was a bomb, with obvious drip-drip-drip evidence that I'd been listening for way too long.

His expression shifted from surprised to amused. "Nice dip."

I died. Just died right there. If the ground could have opened up and swallowed me whole, I would have thanked it.

"I... uh..."

"Need help with that?" He pointed at the Tupperware.

"No! I mean, yes? I mean..."

"Cool." He stepped closer. "So, how much of that did you hear?"

"All of it," I whispered. "Every humiliating word."

"Which part?" His dimples appeared. "The part where they said you were delusional?"

"You heard that too."

"I was coming to rescue you." He gestured at my dip. "From whatever social suicide mission you're on. Also, I wanted to ask you something."

My heart did that fluttery thing again, despite everything. Despite being caught, despite the humiliation, despite the spinach dip.

"Ask me what?"

"If you wanted to play Marco Polo. Since you're basically hiding already."

I stared at him. Was this happening? Was Liam—the actual Liam—asking me to join the pool game? While holding spinach dip?

"Only if you help me carry this," I said. "And never mention the dip."

"Deal." He took the container. "But I'm warning you, Tyler's a beast at Marco Polo. He's like a total bear about winning."

"I'll take my chances."

And as we walked toward the pool together, spinach dip and humiliation and all, I realized something: sometimes the most embarrassing moments become the best stories. Even if they involved leafy green vegetables and getting caught being a spy.

The game was on, and for once, I wasn't just watching from the sidelines.