Operation Splash Zone

The mission was simple: infiltrate Jason Reynolds' pool party without looking like I was trying too hard.

I'd been conducting reconnaissance all week. Okay, fine—my friends said I was basically being a creep, but I preferred the term "strategic observer." I knew Jason showed up to baseball practice at exactly 3:45 PM every day. I knew his dog, a chaotic golden retriever named Buster, would inevitably chase a ball into the parking lot around 4:15. And I knew that if I timed my walk past the field just right, I could casually say, "Nice practice today," like I wasn't mentally cataloging his every move.

It was pathetic. I knew this. My best friend Leah had stopped responding to my texts about "the Jason Situation" altogether.

Friday arrived, and Operation Pool Party was officially a go. Leah insisted I wear the bikini from last summer—the one with the tiny flowers that made me feel like a fifth grader—but I'd bought a new black one-piece that said "sophisticated." At least that's what I told myself.

The party was already in full swing when I arrived. Jason's backyard looked like something from a teen movie—twinkle lights everywhere, music thumping from somewhere I couldn't see, and literally everyone from sophomore year crammed around the pool like sardines in a can.

"You came!" Leah materialized at my elbow, handing me a red cup. "Stop standing there like you're on surveillance duty and actually socialize."

"I'm not on surveillance," I protested, but my eyes were already scanning the area. Jason was by the deep end, surrounded by his baseball friends. He was laughing at something, water dripping from his hair, and suddenly my carefully planned "casual" approach felt incredibly stupid.

And then—Buster.

The dog came tearing around the side of the house, carrying what looked suspiciously like one of Jason's baseball gloves in his mouth. He was on a collision course with the deepest part of the pool, moving with the chaotic enthusiasm only a golden retriever can achieve.

"Buster, NO!" Jason yelled, but it was too late.

The dog executed a magnificent cannonball, landing with a splash that drenched half the party. The baseball glove floated to the surface like a tragic little boat.

For a second, everyone froze. And then we were all laughing—Jason included, once he processed that his lucky glove was now chlorine-soaked.

I moved before I could second-guess myself. "I can help you rinse that off," I called out. "My uncle collects baseball stuff, he knows how to save leather from water damage."

Jason looked up, water dripping from his eyelashes. "You'd do that?"

"Yeah," I said, like it was no big deal. "I mean, obviously."

Later, as we scrubbed chlorine out of the glove together at the kitchen sink, Jason said, "You know, I've seen you walking past baseball practice all week. I was hoping you'd come tonight."

I froze. Was I that obvious? Was my "strategic observer" cover blown?

"I wasn't—" I started, but he was already smiling.

"It's cool," he said. "I was waiting for you to actually talk to me instead of just spying from behind the fence."

The mission had been compromised, but somehow, I'd never been more okay with that.