Pool Party Apocalypse

My life was basically a horror movie, except instead of running from monsters, I was running from conversation. Standing at the edge of Maya's pool, clutching my iphone like it was a flotation device, I watched everyone else living their best lives. The August heat was already making my mascara threaten to stage a protest.

"You coming in or what?" Tyler yelled, splashing water everywhere. He was that specific brand of popular that made being annoying look like a personality trait.

"Working up to it," I lied, scrolling through absolutely nothing.

The truth was, I hadn't gone swimming since the Incident last summer—a backflop so spectacular it had been immortalized on someone's snapchat story for weeks. My social anxiety had been doing laps around my confidence ever since.

Then I saw Maya's little brother, Leo, standing by the patio table with his pet goldfish bowl. Something about the way he was swaying on his feet—like a tiny exhausted zombie after finals week—activated some dormant big sister instinct. The kid looked like he hadn't slept since the Obama administration.

"Whoa, Leo." I reached him just as the bowl tipped. Goldfish went flying. I made a desperate catch that would have made any sports team proud, but now I was holding a flopping, confused fish in my bare hands while Leo stared at me with wide, horrified eyes.

"BEAR!" he suddenly screamed at the top of his lungs.

The entire pool party went silent. Twenty faces turned toward us.

"There's no bear, Leo," I whispered through clenched teeth, still cupping his fish.

"BEAR!" he insisted, pointing at my chest.

It took approximately three seconds of pure humiliation before I realized—my swimsuit was from that kids' store with the cartoon bear logo. The one my mom had bought because it was "on sale" and I hadn't had the heart to return it.

Someone started laughing. Then someone else. But instead of the usual I'm-dying-inside laughter, it was actually... genuine?

"Dude," Tyler said, swimming over to the edge. "That catch was straight fire." He pulled out his own phone. "You gotta teach me that move."

I stood there, fish in hand, cartoon bear on my chest, phone in my pocket, and finally understood what they meant by leaning into the chaos. Sometimes you have to let yourself look ridiculous to realize nobody actually cares as much as you think they do.

"Your fish needs water," I told Leo, who was now giggling. "Let's put him back, yeah?"

The zombie look was gone from his face, replaced by the biggest grin I'd ever seen. And somewhere in that ridiculous moment, holding a goldfish I'd just saved from certain doom, I stopped being the girl who was scared of swimming and started being someone who could maybe, just maybe, handle this whole growing up thing.

One disaster at a time.