Poolside Bull

The chlorine smell hit me before I even saw the **pool**, a shimmering blue rectangle in the Johnsons' backyard. I clutched my towel like a shield, heart doing that thing where it forgets how to beat normally.

"You good, man?" Marcus asked, clapping my shoulder. My oldest **friend** since kindergarten, and somehow still the only person who could make me feel better and worse at the same time.

"Fine," I lied, adjusting my t-shirt to hide the massive **spinach** stain from lunch. Mom's healthy kick was ruining my social life one green vegetable at a time.

Then I saw her. Riley, from third period English, laughing at something Tyler—the varsity **baseball** captain—was saying. Tyler, who'd accidentally hit me with a ball last week and pretended it didn't happen.

"You should talk to her," Marcus whispered, pushing me toward the snack table.

"No way. Look at me. I have spinach on my shirt and I can't swim."

"Exactly. That's your opening. Ask her to teach you. It's cute."

"What if she laughs?"

"What if she doesn't?" Marcus countered. "You gotta stop being scared of everything, man. Sometimes you just gotta grab life by the horns. Be the **bull**, not the china shop."

I stared at him. "Did you just quote an idiom wrong on purpose?"

"I'm inspirational," he grinned, then—without warning—shoved me toward the pool.

I didn't fall in. But Riley noticed me sputtering, saw the spinach blotch on my shirt, and instead of laughing, she smiled.

"Hey, Spinach Boy," she called. "Want to learn to not-drown?"

Twenty minutes later, I was floating (barely), Riley was laughing at my terrible form, and Tyler was sulking by the diving board. Marcus gave me a thumbs-up from across the deck.

Some days, you're the bull. Some days, you're just a kid with spinach on his shirt, learning to swim. But the real courage isn't about being fearless—it's about getting in the pool anyway.