Palm Reading by the Pool

Summer's supposed to be chill, but mine's serving major anxiety energy. Sixteen years old and I'm basically drowning in my own awkwardness. Which is ironic, considering I'm literally a lifeguard at the community pool.

The gig sounded sick on paper—free pool access, tan lines, and finally looking like I have my life together. But the reality? More like standing in a high chair while parents judge my nonexistent authority skills and kids do their best to test my CPR knowledge.

"Hey Lifeguard Mia!" Some tween yell-whistles from the diving board. "Can you palm a basketball from up there?"

I flash my best fake smile—the one that says I'm totally not questioning every life choice that led me here—while internally calculating how many days until college applications.

Then there's Mrs. Reynolds, who's decided the pool deck is her personal spa day. She's got her romance novel, oversized sunglasses, and this tiny dog she treats like it's her emotional support animal. The dog—a fluffy something named Cinnamon—is currently having none of this heat situation.

Cinnamon breaks. Not like emotionally, but literally escapes from Mrs. Reynolds's tote bag and goes full chaos mode, running circles around the pool, yapping at kids, causing actual panic. I'm supposed to be the responsible one here, but instead I'm watching this tiny dog living its best life while parents are grabbing their kids like it's a shark attack.

I climb down from my throne of judgment (also known as the lifeguard stand) and do what any self-respecting almost-adult would do: I chase after the dog in my lifeguard swimsuit, barefoot across the burning concrete, feeling like absolute garbage.

Cinnamon finally stops at the feet of Jake—the cute one who works at the snack bar and has been making my palms sweat literally every time he looks at me.

"Nice rescue," he says, holding out his hands for the dog. His fingers brush mine and suddenly I'm not thinking about my summer of awkwardness anymore. "You know, you're kinda brave for a newbie."

I catch my reflection in his sunglasses—hair frizzy, face flushed, dignity zero—but somehow, I'm okay with it.

"Just doing my job," I say, trying to sound confident while Cinnamon licks my face. "Someone's gotta save the world from escaped dogs."

Jake laughs, and something shifts. This summer might not be perfect, but maybe that's the point. We're all just swimming through the awkwardness, hoping someone notices we're trying.

Next summer, I tell myself. Next summer I'll have it all figured out. Probably. Maybe. Okay, definitely not—but at least I'll have better stories.