Poolside Panic

My palms were sweating. Like, actually dripping. I gripped the plastic vitamin bottle my mom had shoved in my hand before—"for energy, honey"—and tried to look casual. Like I wasn't about to have a full-blown panic attack at Jessica Martinez's pool party.

The problem wasn't the swimming. I could swim. The problem was the swimsuit. And the hair. And basically everything about sophomore year.

"You coming in or what?" Jordan called from the pool. His hair was wet, messy perfect, and I felt my face catch fire.

"Yeah! Just, uh. Taking my vitamins."

WHY did I say that? Jordan gave me this look that was half confusion, half amused, and I wanted to dissolve into the patio tiles.

My hair had already surrendered to the humidity—frizz city, population: me. I'd spent forty-five minutes trying to look effortless, and now I looked like I'd been electrocuted. Meanwhile, Jessica's friend group sat in a perfect circle under the palm tree, looking like they'd stepped out of a TikTok.

I couldn't bear it. The gap between who I was and who I wanted to be felt huge. Unbridgeable.

Then Jordan splashed water at me.

"Get in here, weirdo. Taking vitamins at a party? You're such a dork."

But he was smiling. Actually smiling.

I realized something: nobody was watching me as closely as I was watching myself. Jessica's crew was too busy taking selfies. Jordan was too busy—wait, was he waiting for me?

I dropped the vitamin bottle on the chair. The hair was whatever. The palms could sweat. I jumped in.

The water was perfect. Jordan swam over. "Finally. Took you long enough."

"Shut up."

"Your hair's crazy," he said. "It's kinda cool though."

My heart did this whole gymnastics routine.

Maybe sophomore year wouldn't be so bad after all.