Sweaty Palms at the Deep End

Maya's palms were sweating so bad she could barely grip her phone. She was fifteen, standing at the edge of Chloe's above-ground pool, watching everyone else cannonball into the water like they didn't have a care in the world. The air smelled like coconut sunscreen and chlorine, and somewhere in the distance, she could hear the crack of a baseball bat from the park next door—reminding her that she'd rather be literally anywhere else.

"You coming in or what?" Chloe yelled, splashing water from where she floated on an inflatable flamingo.

Maya's crush, Liam, surfaced near the ladder, water droplets running down his arms. He shook his hair like a golden retriever, and Maya's stomach did that embarrassing flutter thing. "The water's fine, Maya. Don't be a wimp."

She wasn't a wimp. She just... hadn't quite mastered the art of Being A Teenager yet. Everyone else made it look so easy—the flirting, the splashing, the existing in your own skin without wanting to evaporate.

"I'm good," Maya squeaked. Her voice cracked. Perfect.

Suddenly, a baseball came flying over the fence from the neighboring yard, straight at Maya's face. She didn't think. She just reached up and—SNAP—caught it barehanded. Her palm stung like crazy, but she was holding the legit baseball that had nearly taken her out.

The entire pool went silent.

Then Liam started clapping. "Dude. That was actually sick."

Chloe's jaw dropped. "Since when do you have athletic skills?"

Maya looked at the baseball in her stinging palm, then at everyone staring at her like she'd just revealed she could speak six languages. A grin tugged at her lips. "My dad played minor league," she lied smoothly. "Guess it's genetic."

She tossed the ball back over the fence, then jumped into the pool clothes and all. The cool water shocked her system, washing away the anxiety, replacing it with something way better—the feeling that maybe, just maybe, she could handle this growing up thing after all.