Riddle by the Pool

The POOL deck shimmered with heat waves as I hid behind the concession stand, clutching my crinkled paper hat like armor. Summer job humiliation complete.

"Riddle me this," a voice purred.

I jumped. Zara perched on the diving board like she owned it, purple streaks in her HAIR defying gravity. The other lifeguards called her the SPHINX because she never spoke—until now.

"What breaks when you say its name?"

"Um, my social life?" I muttered.

She laughed, actually laughed. "Silence, genius. But close."

My iPhone buzzed in my pocket. Probably another group chat I was too cowardly to read. Zara's eyes flicked to it.

"That thing rules you, doesn't it? Like an ancient god demanding sacrifices."

"It's just a phone."

"Is it?" She hopped down, landing with impossible grace. "My grandma's CAT gets more likes than half your posts, and he sleeps twenty hours a day."

I wanted to be offended. I really did.

"Watch this," Zara said, grabbing my phone before I could protest. She typed something, handed it back.

MY OWN PROFILE. Updated bio: "Professional overthinker, amateur pool sitter. Ask me about my existential crisis."

"ZARA!"

"What? It's honest." She grinned. "Besides, everyone's already pretending. At least you're admitting it."

Something shifted. The air felt lighter.

"Now," she said, diving in without splash, "answer my riddle. What breaks when you say its name?"

I looked at my phone, then at her purple head breaking the surface.

"Silence," I called back.

"Finally." She waved me in. "Water's fine. And nobody here cares about your bio."

I jumped. The shock was cold, perfect, real.

Later, I'd delete Instagram. Eventually. But first, I learned to swim without checking my pocket every thirty seconds.

Small wins.