Poolside Panic

The bass from the speakers vibrated through the concrete patio, but I couldn't feel it. Not really. Not when I was standing three feet from the deep end, frozen like I'd been cursed by some medusa.

"You good, bro?" Marcus asked, floating lazily in the water like he owned the place. Of course he was comfortable. Marcus was the kind of friend who could strip down to his swim trunks without hesitation, chest puffed out like he'd been hitting the gym since third grade.

"Yeah," I lied. "Just... adjusting to the temperature."

The truth? I'd never learned to swim. Not really. Not properly. And at sixteen, that wasn't exactly something you advertised, especially when half the junior class was watching.

Especially when Kayla was watching.

She was perched on the pool edge, legs dangling in the crystal-blue water, laughing at something Preston said. Preston, whose hair somehow looked better wet. Preston, who probably learned to swim before he could walk.

"Race you to the other side!" someone yelled.

My stomach did this sick flip-flop thing. This was it. The moment I'd been dreading all summer. Marcus's pool party. The social event of the season. And I was about to be exposed as the only guy in our grade who still doggy-paddled.

Marcus hauled himself out of the pool, water streaming off his athletic frame. He grabbed my arm, steering me toward the shallow end.

"Bro, you've been standing there like a statue for twenty minutes. What's actually up?"

The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "I can't swim. Not like, actually swim."

Marcus stared at me. Then burst out laughing. But not the mean kind. The genuine, head-back, this-is-ridiculously-funny kind.

"DUDE. I've been trying to get you in the pool since seventh grade. Why didn't you just say something?"

"Because it's embarrassing!"

"What's embarrassing is standing there looking like you're contemplating the meaning of existence instead of just getting wet." Marcus's expression softened. "Look, my little sister learned last summer. It's not that deep. Literally."

The rest of the afternoon blurred into splashing, swallowed water, and Marcus failing spectacularly at being a swim instructor but succeeding completely at being a friend. By sunset, I wasn't exactly Olympic material, but I could make it across the pool without feeling like I was dying.

And somewhere between the shallow end humiliation and the deep end triumph, Kayla slid into the water beside me.

"You finally made it in," she said, smiling. "Took you long enough."

Maybe tomorrow I'd tell her about my Instagram-worthy doggy paddle. Maybe I wouldn't. But for the first time all summer, I wasn't thinking about what I couldn't do.

I was just swimming.