Orange Tank Top Secrets

The orange tank top lay on my bed like a dare. Mom said it was too bright, said it screamed for attention, which was exactly why I'd bought it. Freshman year, and I was still trying to figure out who I was supposed to be.

My dog Buster flopped onto my feet, his golden fur against my legs. He didn't care about fitting in. He just wanted treats and belly rubs. Sometimes I envied him.

"You're not seriously wearing that to Maya's pool party," my brother called from the hallway.

"Yes, I am."

"Her friends are gonna roast you."

I almost changed. But then I remembered how I'd spent the last three months basically being a spy on Maya's Instagram—watching her posts, trying to decode what her friend group was into, what they talked about, what made them laugh. Pathetic, I know. But that's what happens when you're the new kid and you don't have your people yet.

The pool party was worse than I'd imagined. Girls in matching bikinis that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Guys doing cannonballs and loud competitions. And there I was, orange tank top shimmering in the sun, feeling like a walking traffic cone.

Then Maya appeared. Actual Maya, not Instagram Maya. She had zero makeup. Her hair was frizzy from swimming. And she was carrying—randomly—a coil of cable TV wire.

"Hey!" she waved. "You made it!"

"Yeah... what's with the cable?"

"Oh!" She laughed, this real unpracticed laugh. "My dad's been trying to get the old TV working for movie night, but the cable's all jacked. Wanna help me figure it out?"

We spent twenty minutes tangled in wires while everyone else swam. She showed me her secret obsession with reality TV. I told her about Buster's weird habit of howling at mail trucks.

"Your orange tank top is sick," she said when we finally gave up on the cable. "I wish I had the guts to wear colors like that."

Later, when her friends jumped in the pool, Maya grabbed my hand. "Come on."

We swam until our fingers were pruned. I didn't win them all over instantly. I didn't suddenly become popular. But for the first time since moving here, I felt like maybe I didn't have to spy on other people's lives to have my own.

Buster was waiting at the window when I got home. I scratched behind his ears and thought about how the best days aren't the ones you plan for Instagram—they're the ones where you just show up as yourself and someone decides that's enough.

The orange tank top? I'm wearing it again tomorrow. Obviously.