Poolside Panic

The first time I nearly died of embarrassment, I was wearing a mismatched bikini and holding a plate of deviled eggs at Tyler Henderson's pool party.

"You coming in or what?" Tyler called from the diving board, his perfectly tousled hair dripping like he'd stepped out of a teen magazine. My crush on him had survived eighth grade algebra and freshman year geometry, but it might not survive swimming in front of half the sophomore class.

"Just... adjusting my goggles," I lied, fiddling with nothing at the pool's edge. Behind me, someone's dad was explaining padel rules to a confused group of parents. "It's like tennis, but squished," he kept saying, and I snorted into my deviled eggs.

That's when Mr. Whiskers happened.

The neighbor's cat — a judgmental orange tabby who spent his days plotting world domination — came tearing through the Hendersons' pristine backyard like he'd just spotted a mouse. Straight toward the pool. Straight toward me.

"Cat!" someone shrieked.

I dropped my deviled eggs. I lunged for Mr. Whiskers. My foot slipped on something wet and questionably biological.

Splash.

The world went blue and muffled. I came up sputtering, hair plastered to my skull like a drowned rat, while Mr. Whiskers sat calmly at the pool's edge, tail twitching, looking supremely unimpressed.

Tyler Henderson — THE Tyler Henderson — was laughing so hard he fell off the diving board.

"You literally ran after a cat into a pool," Maya said later, when I'd dried off and was sitting on the patio watching the popular kids play padel with way too much intensity. "That's officially the most chaotic energy I've ever witnessed."

"Least I didn't chicken out," I muttered, watching Tyler wipe chlorinated water from his eyes. He caught me looking and — I swear to god — winked.

"Hey," he called across the patio. "Cat's gonna need a hero next time. You hiring?"

My face burned hotter than the August sun. But when Mr. Whiskers deigned to let me pet him on the way home, I figured some things — crushes, popularity, perfect pool parties — might not matter as much as I thought. And that cats are absolutely the worst wingmen ever.