Orange Hair at the Pool

The chlorine stung my eyes, but I kept them open anyway. Wednesday afternoons at the rec center pool were basically a social battlefield, and I was losing. Hard.

I'd bleached my hair over the weekend—spontaneous rebellion, my mom called it. My dad just sighed and asked if I needed money for more dye. Now it was this weird orange-ish blonde that made me look like a traffic cone that had seen better days. I was supposed to be reinventing myself for freshman year, but instead I was just the kid with the questionable hair who couldn't swim without looking like a drowning squirrel.

"Hey, Orange."

I froze mid-stroke, water sloshing awkwardly as I grabbed the lane rope. Jake. The Jake who played varsity baseball and had somehow survived puberty with perfect skin and an actual jawline. I was still waiting for my jawline to show up. Probably got lost in the mail.

"Nice dye job," he said, tugging his faded baseball cap higher on his forehead. "You going for that whole 'I don't care what anyone thinks' vibe, or did it just go wrong?"

My brain short-circuited. This was it. The moment where everyone laughed at the kid with the orange hair and zero coordination.

"Both," I said, before I could overthink it. "Mostly the second part though. My original plan was more 'mysterious blonde' and less 'construction worker chic.'"

Jake laughed. Actually laughed. Not mean-laughed.

"Dude, I tried to give myself highlights last summer," he said. "Looked like a cheetah for three weeks straight. My brother wouldn't stop calling me Cheeto for MONTHS."

"No way."

"Way. I have pictures. They're cursed."

We talked for twenty minutes while I clung to the lane rope like my life depended on it. Baseball, the hell that was gym class, how much the school cafeteria's 'mystery meat' looked like regret. Normal people stuff.

"Hey," Jake said, standing up to grab his towel. "Some of us are playing baseball at the park tomorrow if you wanna come. You can bring the orange hair. It's good luck."

I floated there for a solid minute after he left, grinning like an idiot at the ceiling.

The orange hair was still a disaster. I was still going to look like a traffic cone on the first day of school. But for the first time ever, that felt okay. Maybe even kind of perfect.