Poolside Prophecy

The backyard shimmered with heat waves as I stood frozen at the edge of Maya's pool party. Everyone else was already in the water, laughing and splashing like they'd been best friends since kindergarten. Me? I'd been Maya's neighbor for exactly three days, and my social battery was already at 2%.

I adjusted my dad's old fishing hat—it was supposed to be vintage cool, but mostly just made me look like a confused suburban dad—and considered faking a stomach emergency. Then Charlie's Golden Retriever burst through the sliding glass door, barking like he'd just won the lottery. The dog made a beeline for me, tongue out, tail wagging so hard his whole body shook.

"No! Buster, bad boy!" Charlie yelled, but it was too late. Buster shook himself violently right next to me, spraying me with a fine mist of pool water and dog slobber. My vintage hat took a direct hit.

Everyone stared. My face burned hotter than the pavement.

"Sorry about that," Maya appeared beside me, passing me a towel. "Buster has zero chill. Also, nice hat."

The sarcasm was light, friendly. I almost relaxed.

"Thanks," I mumbled. "It's my dad's. Obviously."

"Hey, at least you're not Tyson," she lowered her voice. "He's been staring at himself in the reflection of the sliding glass door for twenty minutes. We call him the Human Sphinx—he asks himself riddles like 'Does my hair look better pushed back or natural?' and then answers them."

I snorted. Maya grinned, all braces and mischief.

"Wanna get in the water?" she asked. "Before Buster decides you need another bath."

"Yeah," I said, and for the first time all afternoon, I actually meant it.

Later, floating in the pool while Tyson posed by the door and Buster snoozed in a patch of sunlight, I realized something: being the new kid didn't mean I had to stay on the edge forever. Sometimes you just needed a wet dog, a sarcastic comment, and someone willing to jump in with you.