Poolside Palm Readers

My palms were sweating so much I could practically water the fake palm trees framing Maya's backyard pool.

"You coming in or what?" Tyler called, doing a cannonball that sent chlorinated water spraying toward my towel.

"Just warming up," I lied, clutching the bottle of gummy vitamin D my mom had pressed into my hand before I left. "Take these," she'd said, like they were some kind of social anxiety antidote. Right. The only thing that would fix this was if I could actually swim without looking like a drowning hamster.

Maya pulled herself up the pool ladder, water dripping from her neon bikini. She was everything I wasn't: effortless, confident, glowing like she'd been kissed by the summer sun itself. I'd been crushing on her since seventh period English, when she'd caught me staring and just winked.

"Hey," she said, dripping pool water onto the concrete. "You okay? You look like you're gonna puke."

"I'm good," I squeaked. My voice cracked. Smooth.

She laughed, but it wasn't mean. "Wanna play sharks and minnows? We need one more."

The pool lights reflected off the water like liquid stars. This was it. The moment. I could stay on my towel, safe and dry and invisible, or I could jump in and maybe—just maybe—not humiliate myself.

"Sure," I heard myself say. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

I stood up, my legs trembling slightly. The vitamin gummies rattled in my pocket like a tiny reminder of home, of safety, of the person I was before I decided to be brave.

"What's that sound?" Tyler asked.

"Nothing," I said, and grabbed Maya's outstretched hand. Her palm was soft and damp and perfect.

Then I jumped.

The water shocked my skin, swallowing me in cool blue silence. For a second I panicked, arms flailing, but then I kicked upward and broke the surface, gasping. Everyone was laughing—Maya the loudest.

"You look like a wet puppy!" she splashed.

I splashed back. And just like that, I was in. I was swimming. I was part of it.

Later, when my skin was pruned and my eyelashes were crusted with chlorine, Maya sat beside me on the pool edge. Our legs dangled in the water, toes brushing.

"Your hands are shaking," she said softly.

"Nerves," I admitted.

She took my hand, interlacing our fingers. Her thumb traced small circles on my palm, sending electric shivers up my arm.

"Don't be nervous," she said. "I've got you."

Maybe those vitamins were magic after all. Or maybe this was just summer doing what summer does—growing you up whether you're ready or not.