The Art of Not Drowning

I wasn't supposed to be at the country club. Mom had scored a summer job there cleaning locker rooms, which somehow meant I got guest privileges that felt borrowed, like someone else's prom dress I'd have to return with a stain.

That's where I saw him—Tyler, with his stupid perfect hair and stupid ease, playing padel on Court 3. Padel, because apparently tennis wasn't exclusive enough anymore. I sat by the pool pretending to read, actually watching through the chain-link as he smashed balls against the walls, laughing like he'd forgotten the rest of us existed.

"You again?"

I jumped. It was Brielle, Tyler's ex, wearing a swimsuit that cost more than my entire wardrobe. "You've been 'swimming' in your creeper vibes for three days straight."

My face burned. "I'm not—"

"Please. You're about as subtle as a bull in a china shop." She cracked her gum. "He's not worth it. He told everyone Jenny's slurping skills were better than her baseball swing. That's the bar you're measuring yourself against?"

The locker room incident. Everyone knew. Nobody said anything.

Brielle dove into the pool, slicing through the water like something determined. I watched her, then looked back at Court 3 where Tyler was now chest-bumping his pads bro. pads bro.

Something in me snapped. Not loud—just a tiny click, like a lock finally giving.

I walked to the padel court.

"Hey," I said. My voice didn't shake. "You suck at backhand."

Tyler turned, padel racquet dangling. "What?"

"Your backhand. It's weak." I gestured to the wall. "Bet I could beat you."

He laughed. But his friends didn't. They were already watching me differently.

"You're on," Tyler said, but something flickered behind his eyes. uncertainty.

Good.

I didn't win. But I didn't drown either. And later, when Brielle asked if I wanted to go to the lake instead of watching boys who peaked in tenth grade, I said yes. First time all summer I felt like I could actually swim.