Summer Between

The country club parking lot felt like walking into a lion's den, except the lions were wearing Vineyard Vines and driving their parents' BMWs. I tugged at my swimsuit, suddenly aware that my orange—one piece from Target—wasn't exactly giving luxury vibes.

"You coming?" Marcus called from the padel court. He was everything I wasn't: effortless, golden, currently shirtless and sweating in a way that should've been illegal.

I grabbed my racket from my bag, where my papaya—half-eaten, already browning—sat as evidence of my attempt to appear ~exotic~ and sophisticated. Because nothing says cool like carrying tropical fruit to a place where everyone else had electrolyte drinks that cost more than my entire existence.

"She's not gonna know you exist if you keep staring at her like a golden retriever," said Kayla, dropping onto the bench beside me. Kayla was my only real friend here, mostly because she'd once spilled blue slushie on Jessica Pearson's white sandals and earned herself permanent social exile.

"I'm not—" I started, but Jessica herself walked past, surrounded by her flock of friends who all moved in terrifying synchronization.

"Whatever," Kayla said, already scrolling through her phone. "Just ask her to swimming later. The pool party? It's low stakes. If she says no, you can blame it on the dog."

"My dog is at home. Also, he's eleven and has anxiety."

"She doesn't know that. Tell her Buster has separation issues and you have to leave. Boom—dignity intact."

By afternoon, the padel court was a battlefield of sweat and sunscreen and teenage desperation. Marcus was actually decent at it, which was annoying. I managed to not completely embarrass myself, though I did trip over my own feet during match point and faceplant into the clay. The group's laughter was genuine enough that I couldn't tell if they were laughing with me or at me, which is basically the eternal teen condition.

Later, at the pool party—Jessica was there, in a swimsuit that probably cost more than my college fund—I stood by the snack table, nursing a papaya smoothie that tasted like regret and artificial sweetener. Kayla was by the diving board, dramatically flirting with someone's older brother.

Then Marcus appeared beside me. "You coming in? The water's actually not terrible."

"I—I don't have a towel," I said stupidly.

He grinned, all teeth and summer evening light turning everything orange-gold. "I've got an extra. Come on."

And as I waded into the water, surrounded by people I'd spent all summer trying to impress, I realized something: none of them were actually thinking about me. They were all too busy worrying about who was watching them.

The dog—Buster—would've been proud. He always chased his own tail anyway.