Poolside Panic

Maya's palms were sweating as she clutched her iPhone, the screen showing eleven unread texts from her best friend begging her to come to Tyler's pool party. She'd already spent forty-five minutes straightening her hair, only for the humidity to make it frizz the moment she stepped outside. Now she stood frozen at the gate, heart pounding like a bass drop.

The smell of chlorine and coconut sunscreen wafted through the fence. Inside, she could hear laughter and splashing, the sounds of everyone having the kind of summer that looked perfect on Instagram Stories. Maya's cat, Mittens, rubbed against her leg, sensing her anxiety. At least someone wanted her around.

"You coming in or what?" Tyler appeared at the gate, shirt already off, hair wet from swimming. He grinned, that easy confident smile that made half the sophomore class want to melt into a puddle. "Pool's sick. We're doing chicken fights."

Maya's stomach did that weird flippy thing it always did around him lately. "I... I didn't bring a suit," she lied, even though her bikini was stuffed in her beach bag.

Tyler raised an eyebrow. "Brooke said you were literally at Target buying one yesterday."

Caught. He’d seen her post her Target haul too, apparently.

"Okay, fine. I'm just... not feeling it today." Maya turned to leave, mortified.

"Hey." His voice softened. "Nobody cares how you look, Maya. We just want you here. Brooke's been asking where you are for like an hour."

Maya paused. Her fingers traced the palm tree design on her phone case. Something about the way he said it—that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't as invisible as she felt—made her turn back around.

"Fine," she said, reaching for her beach bag. "But I'm not being on anyone's shoulders. I have zero balance and I will absolutely drown everyone."

Tyler's laugh was genuine. "Deal. But you're definitely playing Chicken Fight later. We need you on our team."

Maybe this summer wouldn't be so bad after all.