Poolside Panic

I stood frozen at the edge of the pool, clutching my towel like a lifeline. The **water** glittered tauntingly below, filled with splashing, laughing bodies that all seemed to belong here. Meanwhile, I felt about as natural as a penguin at a beach party.

"You coming in or what?" Maya called from the deep end, dripping wet and completely unbothered. She'd been my best friend since kindergarten, back when our biggest worry was who got the swing first. Now, in the summer before tenth grade, everything felt different. Bodies changed. People grouped off into new constellations. And I'd spent the entire school year hiding under hoodies.

The problem? My **hair**. It had exploded into this frizzy, unmanageable halo that made me look like I'd stuck a fork in an electrical socket. I'd tried everything—products, tutorials, prayer—but nothing worked. So I'd just... stopped swimming. Stopped going to the pool. Stopped doing anything that required exposing myself.

"In a minute!" I lied, adjusting my towel for the fiftieth time.

That's when chaos erupted.

A golden retriever—a **dog** that belonged to Maya's neighbor—came tearing through the backyard gate, tail wagging like a metronome on overdrive. Someone had left a plate of burgers on a picnic table near the pool. The dog made a beeline for it, full speed ahead.

"NO!" three people screamed simultaneously.

The dog skidded on the wet concrete, legs scrambling cartoonishly, and plowed straight into the pool—right where I was standing. The splash was monumental. I was drenched. So was the dog, who immediately started doggy-paddling toward the burgers like his life depended on it.

Everyone was laughing. Including me, somehow.

As I stood there, soaked to the bone, my hair plastered to my face, my towel clinging to me like a second skin, waiting for the embarrassment to set in... it didn't. Instead, something weird happened. I looked around and saw that everyone was watching the dog, not me. Nobody cared about my hair or my body or any of the stuff I'd been obsessing over.

Maya's cousin, Jordan, swam over and held out a hand to help me—which was when I noticed the massive tattoo on his shoulder. It was a **bear**, fierce and detailed, with tiny cubs at its feet.

"Nice ink," I said, climbing into the pool properly this time.

"Thanks," he said, grinning. "My mom's Native American. Bear represents strength. Protection." He paused. "You okay? That was pretty dramatic."

"Yeah," I said, and realized I meant it. "Actually, I think I'm good."

I dunked my head underwater, letting the chlorine wash away the last of my self-consciousness. When I came up for air, shaking water from my eyes, Maya was watching me with this tiny smile.

"Took you long enough," she said.

I laughed and started swimming toward the deep end, where the real party was. Sometimes it takes getting pushed in—literally—to realize you were ready to jump all along.