Poolside Cannonball

The hat was stupid. I knew it, my friends knew it, everyone at Tyler's pool party knew it. But I wore it anyway—the kind of neon monstrosity that screamed "please roast me."

I stood by the edge of the pool, clutching my solo cup like it contained the antidote to awkwardness. Across the deck, Blake circled like a shark. Actual shark behavior—his friend group called themselves "The Bull Pen" because apparently subtlety wasn't their thing. Blake had been terrorizing me since seventh grade, and today was no exception.

"Nice hat, loser," Blake announced, loud enough for half the party to hear. "Is that what you're wearing to homecoming?"

Laughter rippled. I felt that familiar burning behind my ears—the one that precedes either crying, throwing up, or accidentally doing something brave.

Then came the barking.

A golden retriever came BOLTING around the side of the house, running full speed toward the pool like it was being chased by literal ghosts. Tyler's dad's dog. Tyler's dad's VERY excitable dog.

The dog didn't slow down. It didn't consider the consequences. It just LAUNCHED itself into the pool in a catastrophic splash that drenched Blake, his phone, and his entire crew of bull-pen idiots.

I've never seen a more perfect disaster.

Blake was sputtering, his phone dripping, his expensive shorts ruined. The dog was paddling happily, totally jazzed about its life choices. And I? I was laughing so hard I had to sit down.

"NOT COOL!" Blake yelled, which somehow made it funnier.

Someone started clapping. Then cheering. Pretty soon the whole party was losing it, and suddenly the hat wasn't stupid anymore. It was iconic. The hat of the guy who watched a dog annihilate his bully's social standing in three seconds flat.

"Bro," Tyler said, wiping tears from his eyes. "That was legendary."

I tipped the hat. "Works every time."

Lie. It would never work again. But for the first time in forever, I didn't feel like running away from anything.