Summer Skin

The hat was supposed to be armor. A snapback pulled low enough that maybe nobody would notice the new acne mapping constellations across my forehead, or that I'd grown two inches over the summer and didn't know what to do with my own elbows.

At Maya's pool party, everyone already seemed to know the choreography. They moved in synchronized clumps—smoothing sunscreen over each other's backs, shouting inside jokes, existing with that terrifying confidence of people who'd never had to wonder if they were doing being a teenager wrong.

I sat on the edge of the **pool**, feet dangling in water that smelled like artificial coconut and chlorine, nursing a **papaya** smoothie I'd grabbed because it seemed exotic and sophisticated. A mistake. The fruit was slimy, cloyingly sweet, and I had no idea how to eat it with dignity.

"You're not gonna come play **padel**?"

It was Leo—Leo who sat behind me in bio, Leo whose laugh sounded like something I'd write in a diary if I kept one, which I didn't, obviously. He stood there in swim trunks, holding a racquet, looking irritatingly effortless.

I nodded toward my drink. "Maybe later."

"You've been holding that smoothie for twenty minutes," he said, and I could've died. "Your hat's gonna fall in."

It did. The universe, apparently committed to my maximum humiliation, chose that moment for a rogue beach ball—launched by someone doing something stupid near the **palm** trees—to clip the side of my head. The snapback tumbled into the pool with an unceremonious splash.

I froze. This was it. The moment everything ended. My face, exposed. My terrible haircut, revealed. My entire social future, circling the drain beside a rapidly sinking hat.

Leo just laughed—not mean, not pitying. Just... amused. He reached into the water, fished out the hat, and wrung it out like a dishrag.

"There," he said, handing it back dripping. "Now you have to come play padel. You can't look any worse than that."

I looked at my wet hat, then at his easy grin, then at the group on the court—shouting, missing shots, looking ridiculous and not caring.

"Fine," I said. "But I'm terrible at sports."

"Same," Leo said, already walking away. "That's why nobody actually keeps score."

I left the unfinished smoothie on the table. I followed him toward the court, hat forgotten in my hand, feeling suddenly lighter. Maybe being fifteen wasn't about armor. Maybe it was about letting things sink, then diving in after them.