Poolside Secrets

Maya clutched her iPhone like it was a lifeline, the case slick with sunscreen and nervous sweat. The Taylor household pool party was in full swing — music bumping, kids screaming, chlorine hanging thick in the July air. She was supposed to be having fun. That's what her mom had said before dropping her off: "Go make friends, Maya. You're fifteen now. Time to stop being so... weird."

Weird. Maya hated that word. It was code for "too quiet" and "too observant" and "still sleeps with the same childhood goldfish that refuses to die."

Speaking of Goldie — her mom had texted earlier: "Don't forget to feed Goldie before you leave!" As if Maya could forget. Goldie had survived three moves, one accidental filter disaster, and Maya's entire awkward middle school existence. Sometimes Maya felt like Goldie, swimming in endless circles, trapped behind glass, watching normal people live their normal lives on the other side.

She'd become an expert at playing the spy this summer. Hovering at the edges of parties, earbuds in (even when nothing was playing), collecting intel on how normal teenagers operated. Like how they laughed too loud at jokes that weren't funny, or how they stood in clusters that seemed impenetrable.

The cable box at home had stopped working yesterday, and her dad had spent two hours on the phone with customer service, and Maya had wished she could be that calm about things breaking. Instead she was here, heart hammering like she was about to defuse a bomb instead of possibly saying one sentence to another human being.

"Hey."

Maya jumped, nearly dropping her phone in the process.

A girl with neon blue toenail polish and braces was standing there. "You're Maya, right? From algebra?"

Maya nodded, mouth suddenly dry.

"I'm Riley. You always sit by the window. You draw stuff in your notebook." Riley grinned, and it wasn't mean. It was... friendly? "I was gonna ask what you were drawing, but then I felt like a creep."

"I was drawing my fish," Maya said, then immediately wanted to evaporate. "I mean — my goldfish. His name is Goldie. He's like, immortal."

Riley laughed, but it wasn't mean either. "That's actually iconic. My fish lasted two days before my mom accidentally flushed him." She gestured toward the pool. "Wanna get in? The shallow end is chaos-free, promise."

Maya looked at her phone, then at Riley, then at the glittering pool water reflecting distorted versions of kids having the kind of summer she'd only watched from behind glass.

She slipped her phone into her bag.

"Yeah," said Maya. "Yeah, I'd like that."