The Art of Drowning Silently

The pool deck was basically social quicksand. You either navigated it like a pro or you sank, and I was definitely sinking. Literally. sophomore year and somehow I'd made it to the regional swim trials without knowing how to properly dive.

"You're overthinking it," Marcus said, chewing something green and crunchy. Spinach smoothie. Because apparently that's what varsity athletes drank now. "Just channel your inner baseball slide. You know, from PE?"

I stared at him. "Marcus, I failed that unit."

"Details." He waved it off like it was nothing, because Marcus was the kind of guy who made everything look effortless—the running, the swimming, the existing in public without wanting to die.

The water glittered below, deceptively calm. My heart was doing that thing where it forgot how to rhythm properly. Coach Michaels blew the whistle, and suddenly I was at the blocks, next to Jordan from the rival school. Jordan, who had definitely never failed a PE unit in her life. Jordan, whose hair somehow stayed perfect while literally swimming laps around everyone else.

"You got this," someone yelled. Probably Marcus. Possibly my imagination.

The whistle blew again, and I launched myself forward. Not graceful. Not Jordan-level. But I was moving, cutting through the water, suddenly furious—about the spinach smoothies, about the baseball metaphors, about how everything had to be a performance these days.

I surfaced, gasping, somewhere in the middle of the pool. Jordan had already touched the wall. But I was swimming. I was actually doing it.

"Your dive was terrible," Jordan said afterward, dripping wet and somehow still intimidating. "But your second lap? That was legit."

I blinked. "Seriously?"

"You've got rage-stroke potential," she said, like it was a compliment. "We're doing long-distance training this summer. You should join."

Maybe pool deck quicksand wasn't so bad if you learned how to swim through it.