Neon Orange at the Deep End

The neon orange swimsuit felt like a spotlight I hadn't asked for. Standing at the edge of Johnson's pool, I watched everyone else — the popular kids, the ones who moved through locker rooms and house parties like they owned the atmosphere — and suddenly my chest felt too tight. This was supposed to be summer, freedom, the start of everything. Instead I was frozen.

Then Maya appeared at my elbow, holding the world's most chaotic terrier. "This is Potato," she said, like that explained anything. "He stole someone's hat."

Potato was indeed clutching a straw cowboy hat between his teeth, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. Maya's curly hair was half-styled, like she'd started trying and given up halfway through. She wasn't popular. She was just... Maya.

"He needs a friend," she said, handing me the leash. "I need nachos. You good?"

And somehow that was it. I was standing there with a dog named Potato, wearing a neon orange swimsuit that had felt like social suicide five minutes ago, but now just felt like... color. Potato sat on my foot and I realized nobody was watching me. Everyone was too busy performing their own insecurities.

Maya returned with two plates of nachos. "You good?" she asked again.

"Yeah," I said, and it wasn't a lie. "Yeah, I'm good."

We sat on the pool's edge, feet in the water, eating nachos while Potato made friends with everyone who'd pet him. The popular kids were still over there, doing whatever popular kids did, but it didn't feel like they were the main characters anymore. The orange wasn't too bright anymore. It was just orange.

Sometimes the best parts of growing up happen when you stop performing and start living. Also, dogs help. Dogs definitely help.