Poolside Apocalypse

The heat hit me like a wall the second I stepped out the door. Arizona in July, and I was voluntarily going to a party? I must be losing it. But Maya had texted me. *Hey, coming to Jordan's pool thing? Everyone's gonna be there.* The *everyone* felt heavy, loaded with possibility. I grabbed my bike, pedaling furiously against the sun, my oversized t-shirt flapping like a sail.

Jordan's house was already pulsing with music that I could feel in my chest before I even saw the backyard. About thirty people from school, most half-submerged in the **water**, others clustered around coolers. I spotted Maya immediately, of course. Her hair was wet and slicked back, and she was laughing at something Jordan's golden retriever, Buster, was doing—standing on his hind legs, trying to steal a hot dog from someone's plate. The **dog** was the MVP of this party, no contest.

I hovered near the edge, clutching a warm soda like it was a lifeline. Then someone shouted, *"Pickup game in the front! Who's in?"* A ragtag group of us drifted to the street, still damp from the pool, someone tossing a battered **baseball** from a garage find. I haven't played since Little League, but suddenly I'm in right field, grass staining my bare feet, watching Maya's brother toss underhand pitches. Someone put their phone on a portable speaker, and trap beats floated into the suburban evening as I connected with the ball, solid and satisfying, running it down as the sky turned purple.

Later, we collapsed on pool chairs, someone's laptop propped on a cooler showing *Zombieland*. I've seen it a dozen times, but watching it here, with Maya's arm brushing mine, felt different. "You ever think about what you'd do in a **zombie** apocalypse?" she asked, turning to me. I rambled something about barricading a Costco, and she laughed, actually laughed, and I felt like I'd scored again.

The night blurred into comfortable chaos—Buster barking at fireworks that weren't there, Jordan's dad coming out to yell about the noise, someone cannonballing into the deep end at midnight. And somewhere between the movie credits and Maya walking me to my bike, she said, *"This was actually really fun."* I nodded, unable to find words, and she added, *"We should hang out more. Like, just us. Maybe Saturday?"*

I rode home under streetlights, grinning like an idiot, already planning what to wear, completely oblivious to the fact that my hair was a disaster and I smelled like chlorine and rejection—no, wait, not rejection. Possibility.