Orange Swimsuit Summer

The orange one-piece suffocated me. Mom swore it was "vibrant," but at fifteen, vibrant meant look-at-me-I'm-a-loser. I stood at the edge of the Johnsons' pool, clutching my towel like a security blanket, while kids from school splashed and screamed like they'd invented fun.

"Hey! Pool noodle joust!" Someone shouted. My crush, Marcus, waved at me. "You in, orange-girl?"

Orange-girl. Great. Now I was a character in a dystopian novel where everyone wore gray except me.

I'd rather have been home watching cable reruns of Friends, but Mom had practically pushed me out the door. "Your father's out of town on business again. You need social interaction, Maya." Right. Because what I really needed was to stand out like a traffic cone.

"Come on!" Marcus splashed water at me. "Don't be a wuss."

Wuss. The word stung. I dropped my towel and slid into the pool, the cool water swallowing me like relief. For a second, I could just be another body in the blue. No orange. No expectations.

When I surfaced, Marcus was floating nearby, grinning. "That wasn't so bad, right? We're doing a cannonball contest off the diving board. You should judge."

"Judge?"

"Yeah. You're observant. I see you watching people all the time at school." He said it like it was normal, not weird.

Later, I sat on a lounge chair watching them compete, eating papaya from the fruit bowl Mrs. Johnson had set out. It was exotic and sweet, nothing like the apples and bananas in our cafeteria. Marcus climbed onto the diving board, silhouette against the sunset.

"What's the verdict, orange-girl?" he called down.

"Solid seven," I shouted back. "Form needs work."

He laughed, a real one, and something shifted. Maybe being the orange one wasn't so terrible. Maybe it just meant I was brave enough to be seen.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked, dripping wet as he climbed out.

I swallowed a piece of papaya, suddenly hopeful. "Maybe."

Maybe I'd even wear the swimsuit again. Being memorable wasn't the worst thing in the world.