Poolside Protocol

The backyard of Jessica's house looked like something out of a teen movie – twinkling lights strung up around the pool, Spotify playlist bumping something bass-heavy that vibrated in my chest, and basically everyone from sophomore year crowded around the deep end in swimsuits that cost more than my entire wardrobe.

I stood by the snack table, clutching a red solo cup like it was a life preserver, while Buster – my elderly chocolate lab – sat at my feet, tongue lolling out like he wasn't literally at the coolest party of the summer.

"Riley!" Jessica called from the pool. "Bring Buster in!"

I hesitated. I'd only come because my mom made me, something about "putting yourself out there" after I'd spent most of freshman year rotting in my room. Bringing Buster had been a strategic decision – he was basically a furry conversation starter, a social buffer between me and having to make awkward small talk.

But as I led Buster toward the pool steps, I noticed something weird. In the corner of the yard, under the shadow of an oak tree, someone was watching. Not casually watching – like, actually watching. A guy in a hoodie (at a pool party? weird) holding a phone up at an angle that definitely wasn't for selfies.

The realization hit me: he was filming. Filming what, exactly?

My brain, which had consumed way too much true crime content, immediately jumped to SPY. Was he cataloging everyone's social interactions? Recording for blackmail? Or – and this was somehow worse – was he like, a journalist for the school gossip page?

I changed course. Instead of the pool, I marched Buster straight toward Hoodie Guy.

"Hey," I said, trying to sound way more confident than I felt. "What are you doing?"

He jumped, nearly dropping his phone. "Nothing!"

"Doesn't look like nothing." Buster chose that moment to shove his wet nose into the guy's hand. The distraction worked – the guy's guard dropped.

"Okay, fine," he sighed. "I'm just... observing. My parents said I had to come 'make friends' but I don't... I don't really do parties. I was gonna fake it by telling them I met people."

"So you're spying to fake having a social life?"

"Pathetic, right?" He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm Leo, by the way."

"Riley. And this is Buster."

We ended up sitting on the patio furniture, eating chips and making up fake stories about everyone at the party. The popular clique became secret agents. The swim team was actually a mermaid cult. Jessica's dad, grilling burgers, was running an international smuggling operation through his small business.

"You're pretty good at this spy stuff," Leo admitted.

"I watch a lot of YouTube," I said. "But honestly? This is better than actually being in the pool."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Sometimes the view from the sidelines isn't so bad."

Buster sprawled across both our feet, completely unbothered. For the first time all night, my chest stopped feeling so tight. Maybe putting yourself out there didn't mean diving into the deep end. Maybe it just meant finding someone else who'd rather watch from the edge.