The Bear Who Saved My Summer

My palms were sweating so bad I could barely grip the mascot head. First day on the job, and I was already regretting letting Tyler talk me into working at Splash Valley.

"You'll be fine," he'd said. "Just hand out water samples and wave at kids. Easy money."

Easy money. Right. Now I was stuck inside a giant bear costume that smelled like every middle schooler's gym locker combined, while Tyler—my so-called best friend since kindergarten—got to work the slide with all the cute lifeguards.

I lumbered toward the splash pad, my giant bear feet slapping against the concrete. A group of girls from my sophomore class were gathered there, and I felt my stomach drop. If they recognized me inside this thing, I'd never live it down.

I tried to turn around, but my bear vision was terrible. I tripped over a tiny kid who screamed and burst into tears.

"BEAR HURT ME!" the kid wailed.

The girls looked over. I froze. Then I did the only thing I could think of—I dropped to my knees and opened my fuzzy arms for a hug. The kid stopped crying instantly and wrapped her arms around my bear neck.

"Bear sorry," I said in my dumbest bear voice. "Bear give hug."

The girls actually laughed. Not the mean kind either. One of them—Maya, who sat behind me in English—took a picture and showed me the screen. I looked ridiculous. But also, kind of amazing.

"Whoever's in there," she said, "you're killing it."

By the end of the summer, I'd mastered the bear wave, the bear shuffle, and the bear hug that could calm any crying kid. Tyler and I spent our breaks hanging out at the water cooler, making fun of tourists and planning our senior year prank. And somehow, I ended up with Maya's number in my phone—not because she figured out who I was, but because she thought the bear was "low-key iconic."

My palms still sweat when I think about it, but honestly? Being the bear was the best thing that could've happened.