Sink or Swim

Leo's mom thrust the bottle toward him every morning like it was the only thing standing between him and certain death.

"Your *vitamin*. For your... everything."

He'd dry-swallow the neon orange gummy because teenagers didn't chew vitamins anymore than they'd admit to crying over homework, and anyway, the whole ritual felt less like nutrition and more like she was trying to supplement parts of him she couldn't otherwise fix.

The hat stayed on. Inside, outside, at dinner. It wasn't even his good hat — just a cracked-velvet dad hat from a thrift store that smelled like someone's attic. But it was staying on because underneath it, Leo's hair was doing something he couldn't control, and the hat was doing what hats do best: hiding the things that felt too loud to explain.

Chloe's pool party loomed like it always did — annual, inevitable, and filled with people who looked like they'd been *swimming* in confidence since birth. The invitation said "bring a swimsuit" but Leo heard "bring your entire personality and also prepare to be seen."

"You're going," his mom said, which was less a question and more of a weather forecast.

He stood at the pool's edge for twenty minutes watching people cannonball and splash and exist so effortlessly while he calculated exit strategies and depth ratios and why chlorine always made everything feel like a performance review.

Then Maya materialized beside him, holding two otter pops.

"You know," she said, "water's just water. It's not gonna ask you about your future plans."

Leo's laugh surprised him.

"Also," she continued, "your hair looks fine without the hat. I've seen you at school."

She'd seen him. She'd noticed. And somehow that was worse and also suddenly, miraculously, better.

"I don't know how to dive," Leo admitted, which felt bigger than it should've.

"Neither do I," Maya said, and handed him an otter pop. "We can look ridiculous together."

So Leo took off the hat. Set it on a chair like shedding something he'd outgrown. And when they both jumped — awkwardly, ungracefully, barely making a splash — the water didn't ask about anything. It just held them both like water does: no explanations needed, no perfect form required, just bodies moving through something bigger than themselves.