Poolside Secrets

My hair was already frizzy before I even got to Jessica's pool party. Two hours of flat-iron work, destroyed by five minutes of summer humidity. Classic.

I wasn't even supposed to be here. Not really. I'd been "spying" on their group chat from my burner account—the one where I pretended to be someone from our rival middle school—just to see what they were saying about me after I got cut from the friend group two weeks ago. Pathetic? Yeah. But watching them hang without me hurt more than I wanted to admit.

The party was everything I expected: playlist too loud, Jessica posing by the pool with her squad, everyone acting like this was the most important night of eighth grade. I hid behind the patio furniture, nursing my lukewarm soda, trying to look busy with my phone.

Then Coach's golden retriever—a massive, happy disaster named Bear—came bounding out of nowhere and cannonballed into the pool.

Chaos. Absolute chaos. Bear shook off like a wet dog everywhere, soaking everyone and everything. Phones went flying. Jessica's perfect hair got drenched. Her waterproof mascara ran down her face like she'd been crying.

And then I saw it—my old childhood teddy bear, the one they'd thrown away as a "joke" last month, floating in the pool like some sad swollen testament to everything that had changed between us.

Bear (the dog) paddled over and fished it out, carried it dripping to me like he knew. Like he was saying, *this is yours, you don't have to hide anymore.*

Jessica stared at me, all wet mascara and ruined pool party, like she expected me to be humiliated.

Instead, I grabbed my stuffed bear and walked home with actual Bear trailing behind me, leaving my hair a glorious frizzy mess.

Some things are worth losing.