Poolside Panic

My hair looked like a tumbleweed had died on my head. Okay, that's dramatic, but it was the first day of summer and Tyler's annual pool party, and I'd spent forty-five minutes trying to look effortless. The kind of effortless that says, "Oh, this? I just woke up like this." Instead, I looked like I'd just woken up.

"You good, Maya?" Marcus asked, grinning. He was already in his swim trunks, golden retriever energy radiating off him.

"Totally," I lied. "Just taking it all in."

In hindsight, I should've taken more than three seconds to actually take it all in. Because when I finally did grab lunch from the snack table—desperate to avoid getting in the pool and revealing the one-piece swimsuit my mom had picked out, because apparently two-pieces were for fast girls—I discovered something tragic.

The spinach artichoke dip had spinach in it. Which should've been obvious. But I was nervous, okay? And I didn't notice the green specks stuck between my front teeth until I'd been talking to Tyler for five solid minutes about his summer plans.

FIVE. MINUTES.

"So yeah," Tyler said, backing away slowly. "I'm gonna go... check on the goldfish."

The what now.

I followed his line of sight to a glass bowl on the patio table, where a single goldfish swam in lonely circles. Someone had drawn a tiny top hat on the bowl with Sharpie.

"That's Bubbles," a girl named Jessica said, appearing beside me. She had those perfect beach waves that probably happened naturally. "Tyler's had him since third grade. We're giving him a proper funeral next week when he inevitably dies."

"That's... dark?" I said, still self-conscious about my teeth.

"That's high school," she shrugged. "Everything's a little doomed."

I couldn't stop laughing. Something about her tone—the dry, deadpan delivery of someone who'd seen too much and was only fifteen—broke the weird tension I'd been carrying around like a backpack full of rocks.

"I'm Maya," I said.

"Jessica," she nodded. "And you have something in your teeth."

I died. Right there. Social decimation. Complete.

"I was trying to figure out how to tell you," she said, not unkindly. "Wanna go for a run? There's a trail behind his house. We can ditch this before the ritualistic goldfish mourning ceremony begins."

I looked at her, really looked at her, and realized she was nervous too. Her hands were doing that thing mine did when I was anxious—picking at her cuticles, like she wanted to be anywhere but here.

"Yes," I said. "A thousand times yes."

We ended up running all the way to the creek and back, talking about everything and nothing. Her parents were getting divorced. My mom wouldn't let me dye my hair purple. We both hated spinach dip now and forever.

By the time we got back, Tyler had moved the goldfish bowl to a shady spot. Marcus was doing cannonballs. And I realized something as I stood there, breathless and sweaty and happier than I'd been in months:

Nobody was watching me as closely as I was watching myself.

"Wanna get in the pool?" Jessica asked. "Together?"

"Yeah," I said, and meant it. "Yeah, I really do."

We jumped in. Fully clothed. Because sometimes you just have to make your own waves.