Poolside Panic

My palms were sweating so bad I could practically fill a swimming pool. Not that I'd actually get in one. I've been rocking the same fakecast on my arm for three weeks just to avoid swim class. But today? Today is Jordan's pool party birthday bash, and apparently my arm miraculously healed overnight according to my mom who totally ratted me out.

"You're not still scared of deep end, are you?" Chloe says, flipping her hair like she's in a slow-motion shampoo commercial. She's been my friend since kindergarten, but ever since she got contacts and discovered TikTok, she's been acting like she's too cool for basically everything.

"I'm not scared," I lie, because what else am I supposed to say? 'Actually yes, I still have recurring nightmares about that time I almost drowned at the community pool when I was seven'? Not exactly a vibe.

Jordan's older brother Marcus and his friends are by the grill, being absolute bulls about how to properly flip burgers. They keep shouting stuff like 'THAT'S HOW WE DO IT' and cranking their terrible music. I don't know who told seventeen-year-old boys that they're the main characters of every party, but someone definitely should've corrected them by now.

Then I see IT. The cat. Not just any cat—the massive orange tomcat from Mrs. Henderson's house down the street. He's perched on the fence like he's judging everyone's bathing suit choices, looking distinctly unimpressed with the whole situation.

"That cat is literally my spirit animal," I mutter.

The next thing I know, someone—a total random who's definitely not even in our grade—shoves me from behind. "CANONBALL!" they scream, and suddenly I'm airborne.

Time slows down. I see the water approaching. I see Chloe's eyes go wide. I see the cat jump down from the fence like this is the most entertaining thing that's happened all year. And then I hit the water.

It's not that deep. It's not that scary. I come up sputtering while everyone laughs, but something inside me shifts. The water feels okay. The deep end isn't actually that deep.

"You okay?" Jordan asks, looking genuinely concerned.

"Yeah," I say, treading water. "Actually, I'm good."

The orange cat sits by the edge, tail swishing, and I swear he nods approvingly. Maybe I'm not so scared after all. Or maybe it's just that middle school fear is like being underwater—you can either thrash around and panic, or just learn to hold your breath and keep swimming.