Spinach Smoothie Summer

The spinach smoothie sat on the kitchen counter like radioactive sludge. My mom's latest health kick. "It'll make you strong," she said, as if chlorophyll could fix my entire existence.

"Drink up, Jordan. Swimming lessons start in an hour."

I chugged the green nightmare and grabbed my backpack, heart doing that weird fluttery thing. Not because of the backstroke. Because of Riley. Riley with the lightning-strike smile and the way they leaned against the poolside fence like they belonged in a music video.

My iPhone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Dad: *Baseball tryouts next Tuesday. I put your name down.*

I groaned so loud the neighbor's cat judging me from the windowsill actually looked offended.

Baseball. Because what my fifteen-year-old life was missing was the opportunity to stand in outfield while sweat collected in places sweat shouldn't be, pretending I cared about RBI stats.

But the worst part? The absolute rock bottom of my summer? The goldfish.

My little brother Toby had won it at the carnival – a pathetic, flopping thing he named Swim Shady before immediately losing interest. Now it was my responsibility. A fish that did nothing but swim in circles and stare at me with what I swear was disappointment in its bulbous eyes.

"You're one to talk," I told it, sprinkling those weird flakes that made the water smell like regret. "At least you're not playing baseball."

Swim Shady did not respond. Which, honestly, same.

The pool was chlorine chaos – screaming kids, the sharp smell of disinfectant, Riley already there in that swimsuit that made my brain short-circuit. I positioned myself near the shallow end like the absolute coward I am.

"Hey Jordan!" Riley called, waving like we were friends instead of me being the person who accidentally liked their Instagram post from 2019 at 2 AM three nights ago.

"What's up?" I called back, sounding approximately 87% cooler than I felt.

They swam over, water droplets running down their arms like something out of a coming-of-age movie directed by the universe. "Your dad tell you about baseball?"

"Oh my GOD, did he tell EVERYONE?" I facepalmed so hard my goggles probably left a mark.

Riley laughed. Actual music. "No, my dad's the coach. He said someone named Jordan Martinez signed up and I was like, no way, that's the person who gave me their goldfish."

I stared. "Wait. Swim Shady is YOUR fish?"

"I gave it to Toby because my mom said no more pets after the hamster incident." They paddled closer. "So, baseball. You gonna play or what?"

The spinach churned in my stomach. Something about goldfish and swimming pools and the way Riley's eyes caught the summer sunlight hit me all at once.

"Only if you teach me how to not look like a dying tadpole when I'm catching a fly ball."

Riley's smile got bigger. "Deal. But you have to try the spinach smoothie recipe. My mom makes them with pineapple."

"Pineapple saves everything."

"Baseball doesn't, though. Trust me." They splashed water in my direction. "But we can figure it out. Together."

My iPhone buzzed again. Dad probably. But I didn't check. Some things were more important than text messages – like first summers, green smoothies, and learning that maybe you don't have to be who everyone expects you to be.

Even if that means both swimming lessons AND baseball tryouts.

Especially then.