Poolside Riddles

The **sphinx** of adolescence had me cornered at the deep end. You know that feeling? When everyone else seems to have decoded the riddle of being sixteen and you're still stuck on question one.

The Schmidt's **pool** party was in full swing. Kids cannonballed off the diving board while lounge chairs held clusters of influencers posting aesthetic sunset pics. My **iPhone** buzzed relentlessly in my pocket—42 unread group chat messages from friends wondering where I was.

But I was paralyzed.

Because of Tyler. The **bull**-headed hockey captain who'd somehow decided my existence was offensive. Yesterday he'd "jokingly" knocked my tray out of my hands in the cafeteria. Today he was doing that thing where he'd catch my eye and smirk, making sure I knew he remembered.

"Hey."

I jumped. Maya materialized beside me, holding a weird-looking fruit. "You gonna hide in the corner all night or actually swim?"

"I'm not hiding," I protested, though my towel was wrapped around me like a security blanket.

She held out the fruit. **Papaya**, squishy and orange and entirely too exposed. "My mom's obsessed with these. She says they're 'exotic.' I say they taste like wet socks. Want some?"

I eyed it dubiously. "Why would I want something that tastes like wet socks?"

"Exactly! It builds character." Maya's grin was infectious. "Also, Tyler's over by the snacks being a jerk to some freshman. If you stay here, you're basically letting his bull-charging routine work."

She was right. The sphinx's riddle wasn't about Tyler. It was about whether I'd let his nonsense dictate my entire summer.

I ditched the towel. "Fine. But if that papaya is nasty, you're owing me."

"Deal." She bit into it first, grimacing, then passing it over.

We cannonballed together. The water washed away the weight of everything—Tyler's smirk, the unanswered texts, the sphinx's impossible questions. Sometimes you don't solve the riddle. You just dive in anyway.