The Cat Who Couldn't Swim

My hair was basically a third arm by July. That's what happens when you're half-Guatemalan, half-Jewish, and your mom refuses to let you get a fade because "you'll look like those boys who steal catalytic converters." So there I was, fifteen years old, rocking a mop that could house a small family of birds.

Then came the invite. Maya's pool party. The same Maya who sat behind me in bio and smelled like coconut everything and had somehow made varsity swim team as a freshman.

I'd been running from this moment since sixth grade, when I got a rash from a public pool and everyone called me "Pizza Face" for three weeks. Not exactly the varsity swim team vibe I was going for.

"You going?" asked Leo, my ride-or-die since we got caught trading Pokémon cards in third grade. He was already shirtless, because Leo had zero body image issues and abs that looked like they were 3D printed.

"Dude, I can't swim."

"You literally live in California. How do you not swim?"

"I'm more of a land creature. Like a cat. Have you ever seen a cat swimming? They hate it. They look like wet rats. I'm a cat, Leo. A cat."

Leo stared at me. "You're comparing yourself to a cat right now. This is your argument."

"Cats are dignified, Leo. Dignified creatures who don't do pool parties."

But Maya had DM'd me. Actually DM'd me. "Hope you can make it! :)" So yeah, dignity could take a backseat.

The day of the party, I stood at the edge of the pool for twenty minutes, watching people cannonball and chicken fight and exist without the crushing weight of self-consciousness. Then this random cat—a literal cat—strolled into Maya's backyard like it owned the place. Gray, fluffy, walked right up to the pool edge, dipped a paw in, and yanked it back like it'd been burned.

"That's you right now," said a voice behind me.

Maya. Standing there in a bikini that matched her eyes, somehow perfect and somehow real.

"What?" I said, eloquently.

"You're both judging everyone from the sidelines. It's cute, but you're missing the fun."

She didn't say come in. She didn't say anything. Just dove into the pool, surfacing with water dripping from her hair, laughing at something someone said.

I looked at the cat. It was now sleeping in a sunbeam, completely unbothered.

But I didn't want to be the cat anymore. I wanted to be the person who jumped.

So I did.

The water hit my chest like ice. My hair plastered to my forehead. Someone laughed. But then I was under, everything muffled and blue and perfect, and when I came up gasping, Maya was there, grinning.

"About time."

I wiped my face. My hair was wrecked. I looked like a drowned cat.

"Yeah," I said. "Better late than never."

Some transformations aren't pretty. Some are just wet and cold and happen when you're fifteen and scared and jumping anyway.