Static and Storms

The cable had been out since Tuesday, which meant no streaming, no scrolling, just static and the sound of my dad's old radio crackling with baseball updates. "Rangers down by three," he'd call from the kitchen, like this was still 1997 and we actually cared.

I cared about one thing: getting through this summer without embarrassing myself in front of Maya.

We were at the community pool—her idea, obviously—because Maya had been on the swim team since forever and moved through water like she was part liquid. I, on the other hand, treated pools like they were personally offended me. But there I was, sitting on the edge while my friends did cannonballs and Maya practiced her butterfly stroke, all smooth shoulders and determination.

"You coming in?" she asked, paddling over.

"Maybe later," I lied, adjusting my too-big t-shirt. "Thought I might hit the batting cages later."

Maya raised an eyebrow. "You play baseball?"

"Yeah. Well, kinda."

"Show me."

So there we were, me swinging at a pitching machine that was definitely set too fast, Maya watching with this little smile that made my stomach do actual gymnastics. I connected with one pitch—solid contact, the ball soaring into the net—and Maya actually clapped.

"Not bad," she said.

Then the sky turned that weird greenish color, the one that means weather is about to get serious. The first crack of thunder made the parking lot lights flicker. A streak of lightning split the sky, electric and terrifying and absolutely beautiful.

"We should go," Maya said, grabbing her towel.

We ran to the covered area as the sky opened up. Standing there in the storm, watching rain hammer the asphalt, Maya turned to me with rain plastering her hair to her face and said, "You know what's crazier than this storm?"

"What?"

"I've been terrified of swimming since I was seven. I only joined the team because I didn't want anyone to know."

I stared at her. "But you're like... a mermaid."

She laughed. "Fake it till you make it, right? Like you and baseball."

The lightning flashed again, illuminating everything: the rain, her smile, the way this whole summer suddenly made sense. We were all just pretending, all terrified of something, all hoping nobody noticed.

"Teach me," I said.

"What?"

"Swimming. You teach me how to not be terrified of water, I'll teach you how to actually hit the ball. Deal?"

Maya extended her hand, rain dripping from her fingers. "Deal."

The cable could stay out forever. I had something better than signal now.