Shallow End Spy

I crouched behind the azalea bushes, phone camera ready. My target: Jordan, my ex-best friend turned TikTok royalty, hosting the pool party of the season. I wasn't really a spy—unless you counted stalking someone's Instagram stories as intelligence gathering. But today, I had a mission: figure out how Jordan had leveled up socially while I was still stuck loading Dishwasher Drama at my parents' restaurant.

The backyard was a vibe checker's nightmare. String lights. A bluetooth speaker blasting something with too much bass. Girls in bikini sets that probably cost more than my car. And there he was, holding court by the pool like he'd been born doing it. Jordan caught my eye. For a second, I thought he'd do that thing where he pretends not to see me. Instead, he waved.

"Yo, Marcus! Get in here!"

I froze. This wasn't part of the recon plan. But suddenly, everyone was looking at the bushes. No going back now.

"Thought you were working," Jordan said as I emerged, leaves in my hair. Smooth.

"Shift got cut. You know how it is."

We stood there awkwardly until someone shoved us both into the pool.

The water shocked the air out of me. When I surfaced, sputtering, Jordan was already swimming toward the deep end like an Olympic hopeful. I doggy-paddled after him, fully aware I looked like a drowning rat compared to his graceful strokes.

"You've been spying on my stories," Jordan said once we reached the quieter side of the pool. "I can see your account in the viewers list, genius."

"I was just... I don't know. Curious."

"About what? How to be popular?" He laughed, but not meanly. "Marcus, I'm not some social climbing expert. I just got lucky with that one dance video. I still play D&D on Fridays. Still hate talking to girls. Still overthink everything."

I stared at him. The water rippled between us, distorting his face. "Seriously? But you're like—"

"Performative," he finished. "It's all a performance. And you? You're too busy watching to realize you're actually interesting."

He splashed water in my face. "Also, next time you want to spy? Don't wear your work uniform. It's kind of a dead giveaway."

I looked down at my server apron, now soaked and clinging to me like a second skin. We both cracked up.

"Get out, both of you!" someone yelled. "No aprons in the pool!"

We climbed out, dripping and laughing, and I realized something: I hadn't lost a friend to popularity. I'd just been too busy watching from behind the bushes to notice he was still the same Jordan, just—wetter. And maybe, just maybe, I could stop spying and start swimming.