Poolside Panic

The text lit up my iPhone screen like a warning flare: 'POOL PARTY @ JAKE'S - DON'T BE AWKWARD.' Thanks, Maya. Really helpful.

I'd been crushing on Jake since seventh period PE when he'd accidentally hit me in the face with a dodgeball and then spent ten minutes apologizing like I was some delicate flower instead of the klutz who'd walked right into the trajectory. Now it was junior year, and somehow I'd scored an invite to his legendary end-of-summer bash.

The problem? I hadn't been in a pool since third grade when I'd tried to impress my older brother's friends by attempting a cannonball off the diving board and instead executed what my mom called 'the world's most awkward belly flop.' The memory still made my stomach twist.

Saturday arrived with my anxiety at DEFCON 1. My dog Buster, a golden retriever with zero respect for personal space, sensed my vibes and kept nudging my hand with his wet nose as I stared at my swimsuit like it was a torture device.

'You're being ridiculous,' I told myself, pulling on the tankini I'd spent three weeks picking out online. 'It's just water. You shower. You bathe. How different can this be?'

Famous last thoughts.

I got to Jake's house and the backyard was already popping. People everywhere, music bumping, laughter floating through the humid August air. And there it was—the pool, glittering and blue and suddenly enormous. My heart started doing that weird fluttery thing that made me question if I should see a doctor.

Then Jake spotted me. 'Hey! You made it!' He was shirtless (help) and smiling like I was actually someone he wanted to see. 'Water's perfect, dude. Not too cold.'

'Dude.' He'd called me dude. Cool. Very chill.

I walked toward the pool like I was heading to my execution, trying to look casual and probably failing. Maya was already in, beckoning me with this wicked grin. 'Come on! The longer you stand there, the weirder it gets!'

She wasn't wrong.

I took a breath and slid into the water, and—oh. It wasn't terrible. Actually, it was kind of amazing. The cool water washed away my nervous sweat (gross but true) and suddenly everyone was just... people. Jake's sister's friend Maddie was doing this terrible backstroke. Some guy I recognized from algebra was challenging everyone to breath-holding contests. Jake splashed water at me, grinning. 'Race you to the other side?'

'You're on.'

I won. (Okay, he maybe let me win, but I'm counting it.)

Later, after we'd spent hours wrinkling our fingers and competing for the most dramatic cannonball, we were all sitting on the deck eating pizza when Jake's friend Tyler brought up cross country. 'Tryouts are Monday,' he said. 'You should come, transfer kid. You're fast.'

I'd been running since middle school, but always alone, always with headphones and the crushing weight of overthinking everything. The idea of doing it with other people—of being seen, of being judged—made my throat tight.

But then Jake shrugged. 'Yeah, come on. It's not that serious. We mostly just complain about how much hills suck and talk about what we're gonna eat after.'

I looked around at all of them—wet hair, towel marks on skin, laughter in the air. My phone buzzed in my bag somewhere, probably another Instagram notification, another thing to worry about. But right here, right now, none of that mattered.

'Sure,' I heard myself say. 'Why not?'

Buster was waiting by the door when I got home, tail thumping against the floor like I'd been gone for years instead of four hours. I scratched behind his ears, already planning my outfit for Monday's practice, already composing the text I'd send Jake about whose iPod had the better running playlist.

Sometimes the scary stuff—the stuff that makes you want to stay home and hide under your covers with your dog and a Netflix marathon—ends up being the exact thing you needed all along.