Poolside Espionage

The summer before tenth grade, I got a job as a lifeguard at the country club pool. Mostly because my dad said I needed to "learn responsibility" but also because I'd been spying on Maya's Instagram for months and I knew she spent every July there, hosting these legendary pool parties that my family could never afford.

I was on lifeguard duty—perched on the orange plastic chair they'd positioned at the deep end like some kind of throne for awkward teenagers—when Maya's cousin decided it would be hilarious to announce he'd started his own business.

"It's not a pyramid scheme," he told everyone gathered around the snack bar. "It's a multi-level marketing opportunity. You guys could all be entrepreneurs."

Someone snorted. "Bro, that's literally the definition of a pyramid scheme."

Maya caught my eye from where she was swimming laps in the slow lane. She gave me this tiny, conspiratorial smile, and my heart did this full-on gymnastics routine. We'd been watching her cousin try to recruit people into his "essential oils empire" all summer, and it had become our weird little inside joke. Every time he'd approach someone new, we'd make eye contact across the pool and try not to laugh.

Her cousin kept going. "My first month, I made three hundred dollars. By next year, I could be driving a Tesla."

"By next year," Maya called out, flipping onto her back to float, "you could also be speaking to your parents from a prison phone."

Everyone lost it. Even me, though I tried to play it cool because I was technically working.

Later, when my shift ended and most people had left, Maya found me sitting on the edge of the diving board, feet dangling in the water.

"You were totally spying on him," she said. "I saw you watching."

"Professional obligation," I lied. "Lifeguard training. They teach us to spot suspicious behavior."

"Uh-huh. Sure." She sat beside me, and our shoulders touched for just a second before she pulled away. "Hey, some of us are going to the reservoir tomorrow. You should come."

I thought about everything I could say—something smooth, something impressive—but what came out was, "I have to work."

"After work, genius. Like seven-ish. We're doing this whole bonfire thing. Austin's bringing his guitar because he thinks he's in a band now."

She stood up, dripping water everywhere, and I noticed she'd painted her toenails orange. Same shade as my lifeguard chair.

"Be there," she said, and then she was gone, leaving me with chlorine-scented air and the realization that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't completely invisible after all.