Summer in Orange Faux Fur

The sun beat down on the parking lot of Splash World, where I stood suffocating inside a seven-foot polyester bear costume. The headpiece smelled like three years of teenage sweat, and the faux fur was matted in places where previous mascots had clearly given up on dignity.

"Welcome to Splash World!" I shouted through the mesh mouth for the forty-seventh time that morning, my voice already raspy. A group of middle schoolers pointed and laughed. I resisted the urge to make the bear wave, settling for a slow, dignified nod instead.

My best friend Maya worked the funnel cake stand across the way. She'd texted me earlier: *remember, we need $200 each for Coachella tickets. this is WORTH it.*

But it wasn't just the tickets. It was that I'd finally asked Ethan to go with us yesterday at lunch, and he'd said yes. Now I needed to actually, like, exist in proximity to him without wanting to dissolve into a puddle of second-hand embarrassment.

The inside of the bear head was getting swampy. I waddled toward the break area, my orange paw-feet scuffing against the pavement. Behind the wave pool, I caught sight of the swimming lanes where the real employees—lifeguards with perfect tans and whistles—hung out. Ethan was one of them, of course. He'd gotten the lifeguard gig through connections, while I'd scrolled through job listings until finding this: "$15/hour to wear bear costume and greet guests. No experience needed."

The desperation had been real.

I ducked behind the concession stand and wrestled off the bear head, gasping for air. My hair was plastered to my forehead in sweat. I caught my reflection in a nearby window—flushed cheeks, humidity-frizzed hair, an actual orange sequin earring I'd forgotten to take off from last night's party. The aesthetic was not giving.

"You good, Bear?" Maya appeared with two cherry slushies.

"I'm bearing the burden of capitalism," I said, accepting the slushie. "Also, I think I'm developing a rash."

"Wait." She squinted at something behind me. "Is that Ethan?"

I turned. Ethan was walking toward us, still in his red lifeguard tee, looking unfairly good. He stopped when he saw me, and for a second, I thought he'd keep walking. He knew. Everyone knew about the bear.

"Hey," he said, grinning. "I heard they finally hired someone for the mascot spot. Didn't know it was you."

I felt my face burn hotter than the parking lot asphalt. "Yeah, well. Gotta fund the Coachella dream."

"Actually," he said, "I wanted to ask if you wanted to grab food after your shift. There's this orange stand by the exit—"

"The one with the mango churros?"

"Yeah. I was thinking maybe you could, like, show me the bear moves. I heard the wave is legendary."

Maya fake-gagged behind her slushie. I smiled, genuinely, for the first time all day.

"I'd bear that," I said. "See you at six."

As he walked away, Maya whispered, "Did he just—did he just ask you on a DATE while you're dressed as an ORANGE BEAR?"

"I think he did."

"And I think," she said, "this just became the best worst summer job ever."