Pool Rules and Curveballs
The carnival goldfish stared at me through its plastic bag like it knew I was about to ruin everything.
"You're actually doing this?" Maya asked, raising an eyebrow as she adjusted her lifeguard whistle. The pool deck smelled like chlorine and cheap sunscreen, the usual summer cocktail that had defined every July since forever.
"I have to," I said, clutching the bag like my life depended on it. "Tyler's on the baseball team now. If I show up to his party without this goldfish, I'm literally dead socially."
Maya rolled her eyes. "You're bearing your entire soul for a guy who thinks 'bae' is still cool slang. Be so for real right now."
The truth was, I didn't care about Tyler that much. But I cared about not being the only girl at his party who didn't get invited with a plus-one. The goldfish was supposed to be my conversation starter, my way of proving I was fun and spontaneous and not just the quiet girl who spent half her summer swimming laps alone because practice was the only place I didn't have to perform.
"Whatever," I said, but my hands were shaking.
The pool's annual summer carnival was in full swing behind us—kids screaming on the inflatable slide, the smell of cotton candy and hot dogs everywhere, the baseball team showing off in the batting cages they'd set up in the parking lot. Tyler was probably there, being effortlessly charming in his uniform.
"You know what?" Maya said, suddenly serious. "You don't need a goldfish to be interesting. You swim varsity. You're actually smart. And you don't have to bear the weight of other people's expectations just to fit in."
She was right. I looked at the goldfish again, swimming in tiny circles like it was trapped in some ridiculous performance of teenage awkwardness.
"Fine," I said. I walked to the edge of the pool and dumped the whole bag into the water. The goldfish darted away, finally free.
"What about Tyler?" Maya called.
"He can get his own fish," I said, diving into the cool blue water where I didn't have to be anyone but myself.