Poolside Lightning Strikes

The truth about goldfish memory is a lie. They remember everything, just like how I remember every humiliating moment from freshman year. Standing at Tyler's massive pool party in my oversized Target bikini while actual Instagram models draped themselves across the pool edge like mermaids who paid their dues.

I'd spent three hours straightening my hair that morning, only for the humidity to turn it into a frizzy halo the second I stepped outside. Classic.

"Hey, Marina!" Tyler's voice boomed across the deck. "You gonna stand there all day or actually get in?" His friends laughed. Tyler, who'd somehow morphed from a pimple-faced band geek into the school's golden boy over summer break.

I adjusted my towel with as much dignity as I could muster. "Just getting acclimated."

"More like avoiding the bull, right?" This came from Sasha, Tyler's new girlfriend. She'd probably never had an awkward moment in her life. Her hair fell in perfect beach waves that were absolutely natural and definitely not the result of a very expensive treatment.

The bull. Everyone called him that behind his back—Jason, the senior who'd been held back twice and made it his mission to terrorize anyone smaller than him. He was currently doing cannonballs in the shallow end, sending waves crashing toward a cluster of freshmen.

I should have just stayed home and finished my British Lit assignment.

Then the sky opened up.

Not rain—lightning. A jagged crack of white that split the sky like something out of a movie. Someone screamed. Jason surfaced from a cannonball just as thunder shook the ground beneath us.

"Everyone out! NOW!" Tyler's dad appeared at the patio door, looking more panicked than I'd ever seen an adult look at a pool party.

We scrambled toward the house, grabbing towels and phones and dignity. I ended up huddled under the kitchen island with Sasha of all people, both of us dripping wet and shivering.

"That was actually kind of badass," she said, teeth chattering. "The lightning, I mean."

I shrugged. "Nature doesn't care about social hierarchy."

She laughed—a real laugh, not her performative giggle. "You're funny. I like that." She paused. "Jason's been a jerk to you too, hasn't he?"

"We all have our scars."

"Yeah." She looked toward the window, where rain was now hammering against the glass. "You know, Tyler used to be terrified of water until he was twelve. His parents tried everything—lessons, therapy, even those kiddie pools with the slides. Nothing worked. Then one day he just jumped in the deep end."

"Really?"

"Really. Sometimes you just have to stop being scared and do the thing." She looked at me. "Like actually talking to people at parties instead of hiding near the snacks."

I felt my face heat up. "Was I that obvious?"

"Only a little." She bumped my shoulder with hers. "But we're cool now, right?"

"Yeah." I smiled. "We're cool."

Outside, the storm raged on. But inside, something had shifted. Maybe goldfish do have three-second memories, and maybe this moment wouldn't matter in a week. But right now, lightning had struck, and I'd actually made a friend.

Sometimes the scary parts are where the good stuff happens.