Summer of Firsts

Marcus stood at the edge of the pool, toes curling against the concrete. The June humidity clung to his skin like an unwanted second layer. This was it—Chloe's legendary pool party, and he, the new kid who'd moved to Florida three weeks ago, had somehow made the cut. Only problem: Marcus didn't know how to swim.

"Yo Marcus, getting in or what?" That was Jordan—tall, confident, varsity jacket even in summer. Everyone called him "the Bull" behind his back, mostly because he plowed through life like he owned it and had zero chill about anything.

"Yeah, just... warming up." Smooth.

Someone thrust a red cup at him. "Try this papaya punch. Chloe's mom made it." He took a sip—tropical, weirdly spicy, nothing like the cheap soda he was used to. He gulped it down too fast.

Then he felt it: a shove between his shoulder blades.

Marcus hit the water cold. Time stretched weird, like when your phone lags in the middle of a TikTok. He flailed, water up his nose, chest tightening. People were laughing. They thought he was playing around. But he couldn't breathe, couldn't find the surface, everything was blue and burning and—

Hands grabbed him. Hauled him up. He gasped, coughing, clinging to the concrete edge.

Jordan stood over him, actually concerned. "Bro, you good?"

"I... don't swim," Marcus choked out, waiting for the humiliation. Waiting for the new kid nickname to stick for all the wrong reasons.

"Oh DAMN," someone said. But then: "Yo, same though," from another voice.

"My cousin almost drowned at his grad party last year," Jordan admitted, "so we're not doing that today." He extended a hand. "C'mon. I'll teach you. My little sister's been begging me to teach her anyway, you can be the practice dummy."

Later, while Marcus sat wrapped in a towel (Chloe had lent him a dry one, no big deal), Maya appeared. She was the quiet one who'd been reading tarot cards earlier.

"Let me see your hand," she said.

"Uh, why?"

"Palm reading, duh. I see a very brave first in your future." She traced a line on his palm with her thumb. "You good now?"

Marcus looked around—at Jordan demonstrating float techniques to some sophomores, at Chloe yelling at someone not to run, at the way his chest didn't feel so tight anymore. The papaya punch had settled warm in his stomach. His hair was a mess. He smelled like chlorine and embarrassment and something like... belonging.

"Yeah," Marcus said. "I'm good."