Orange Trunks, True Colors

Jordan's orange swim trunks were basically a warning flare. TOO BRIGHT, his brain screamed, yanking the locker room door open at Taj's house. But Mom had bought them. "Orange brings out your eyes, mijo," she'd said, holding them up like a prize.

Now Jordan stood at the edge of the pool, heart hammering like he was facing a full count with bases loaded. Baseball analogies. Always baseball.

Because that's who he was supposed to be: Jordan Martinez, star pitcher. Captain of the team. The guy who threw heat and dated cheerleaders and bulked up on those chalky vitamin shakes his dad swore by. The guy whose bedroom was basically a baseball museum.

The guy who took secret ballet classes three times a week and had been for two years.

"Yo Jordan!" Taj shouted from the deep end, splashing water everywhere. "You gonna stand there all day or actually swim?"

Jordan's fingers gripped the waistband of his obnoxiously orange trunks. This was it. The moment. Take off the shirt. Let everyone see what the vitamins and protein powder hadn't fixed — the lean, dancer's body. Not bulky enough for baseball, according to his dad. Perfect for ballet, according to Madame Elena.

He peeled off his shirt.

Silence. Then whispers.

"Damn," someone muttered. "I thought he'd be more... built."

Jordan's face burned hotter than the July sun. He considered diving. Just disappearing underwater and never coming up. But then Maya floated over, looking like she belonged in a magazine, all effortless cool in a simple black one-piece.

"You're blocking the stairs," she said, not unkindly.

"Right. Sorry." Jordan stepped aside.

"You dance?" Maya asked quietly.

Jordan froze. "What?"

"Your posture. And your arms." She tilted her head. "And the way you carry yourself. My sister's a dancer. I know the look."

The pool seemed to go quiet. This was it. The moment everything changed. One word and the baseball Jordan died.

"Ballet," he said, surprised by how steady his voice sounded. "For like, two years."

Maya's face lit up. "NO way. That's actually sick. Do you do pas de deux?"

"Yeah, I — wait, you know what that is?"

"My sister made me watch The Nutcracker every Christmas growing up." She grinned. "So, are you gonna jump in or what? Or are you afraid you'll get your orange trunks wet?"

Jordan laughed — a real laugh, not the fake one he used when his baseball teammates made jokes he didn't find funny. He cannonballed into the pool, orange trunks and all, and for the first time in forever, he didn't care what anyone thought.

Later, dripping wet and eating pizza with Maya and Taj and people who actually knew him, Jordan caught his own reflection in the sliding glass door. The orange trunks weren't so bad after all.

They were bright. They were bold. They were impossible to ignore.

Kind of like him.