Poolside Protocol

The gummy vitamin sat on my tongue like a tiny orange existential crisis. Mom swore they'd help me grow, but at fifteen, I'd already hit six feet and still felt like I was shrinking every time Jake Miller looked my way.

"You'll thank me later," she called as I grabbed my bike.

The air smelled like chlorine and cut grass — signature scents of the Miller's annual pool party. The crowd was already thumping. I spotted Jake by the deep end, shirt off, hair wet and perfect, radiating that effortless popular kid energy I'd spent three years trying to decode.

My stomach did gymnastics.

The inflatable goldfish floatie drifted past me, its dead eyes judging my outfit choice. Why had I worn the trunks with the tiny sharks? Who was I trying to be? The real question: why did I care what people who'd called me "String Bean Lucas" until seventh grade thought about me?

"Yo Lucas, you jumping in or what?" Jake's voice cut through my spiral.

"Yeah, just — " I started, but my brain glitched. In that moment, I remembered my hair. The gel. The POOL. The chemical disaster waiting to happen. The one thing my mom had forgotten to warn me about in her vitamin pep talk.

I froze. Everyone was watching. Well, not everyone. But it felt like everyone.

Then: a flash of orange in the bushes. An actual fox. It stood there, ears perked, looking at this ridiculous pool full of screaming teenagers like we were the weird ones. Which, honestly? Fair.

The fox twitched its tail, then vanished into the neighbor's yard.

And suddenly, none of it mattered. The perfect hair. Jake's approval. The sharks on my trunks. I cannonballed into the deep end, chlorine stinging my eyes, gel melting into probably hilarious spikes.

"Finally!" Jake grinned, splashing water at me. "Thought you were gonna stand there all day being emo."

I surfaced, hair destroyed, dignity intact, feeling lighter than I had all summer. Sometimes you just gotta jump in and let the chlorine ruin the vibe. The fox would understand.