Surfacing

I'd been a spy since seventh grade. Not the cool kind with gadgets and martinis — I was the person who sat behind you in algebra, collecting data. Who liked who. Who was fighting with their best friend. What everyone's cryptic Instagram stories actually meant.

Information was currency at Northwood High, and I was the Federal Reserve.

"You going to Jessica's pool party?" Chloe asked, sliding into the seat beside me. She was testing waters, seeing if I knew something she didn't.

"Everyone's going," I said, not looking up from my phone. "Including Jake."

Chloe's eyes widened. I'd done my job. I'd bought myself another week of relevance in the social ecosystem that chewed people up and spit them out like used gum.

But here's the thing about spies: eventually, you want to be seen too.

The pool party was exactly what you'd expect — boys doing cannonballs, girls taking perfectly candid photos, music thumping low enough that parents wouldn't come investigate. I sat on the edge, legs in the water, watching everyone swim around me while I stayed safely anchored to the concrete.

"You're not going in?"

I hadn't even noticed Jake sitting there. Jake, who I'd been spying on since he transferred here in September. Jake, whose entire existence I'd curated into a mental dossier: favorite band (Arctic Monkeys), allergy (cats), emotional vulnerability (high).

"I don't swim," I said, which was a lie. I just didn't swim HERE.

He nodded like this made perfect sense. "I get that. Last year, I threw up after swimming practice because the coach made us do laps after eating pizza. It was humiliating."

I stared at him. I'd been collecting intelligence on this guy for months, and somehow I'd missed the most important thing — he was weirdly awkward.

"My mom made me bring this," he said, holding up a Tupperware container. "She's obsessed with hybrids. It's a papaya. Have you ever had one?"

"No."

"Me neither. We could try it together. If we die, we die together."

We sat on the pool edge, eating this alien fruit that tasted like melon meeting a stranger. Neither of us died. Instead, we talked about everything except the carefully curated versions of ourselves we'd been performing for everyone else.

Later, when people started doing truth or dare, I stood up.

"What are you doing?" Jake asked.

"Going swimming," I said. "With someone who actually sees me."

I dove in. And for the first time in two years, I stopped watching from the surface.