The Cat Who Taught Me to Float

Pool parties at the Hendersons' house were legendary, which was exactly why I'd spent the entire summer running from them. Try showing up to a backyard full of chlorine-slicked juniors in denim shorts when everyone else is basically in their underwear. Hard pass on that particular circle of teenage hell.

But Maya had been begging for weeks. "It's just floating," she'd said, like floating wasn't somehow the most vulnerable thing a person could do in front of their crush. "Also, Evan's gonna be there."

Because she knew exactly which buttons to push.

So there I was, Thursday afternoon, standing beside the Hendersons' inground pool like I'd accidentally wandered onto the set of a music video. Maya was already doing her mermaid thing in the shallow end. Evan—why did he have to look like that—was perched on the diving board, laughing at something stupid Tyler had said.

I was calculating my exit strategy when I saw it.

The Hendersons' cat, Barnaby—a massive orange fluff-ball who usually regarded humans with disdain—was stalking along the pool's edge. Probably hunting the glow sticks someone had dropped.

Then, in one spectacularly ungraceful motion, Barnaby pounced.

He missed the glow stick entirely and went straight into the deep end.

I reacted before I could think about it—years of watching my little sister's near-death experiences will do that to you—and jumped in after him.

Turns out, cats can swim. Sort of. Barnaby was thrashing his way toward the shallow end with the grim determination of someone who'd just made a terrible life choice but refused to admit it. I reached him, grabbed his scruff, and hauled us both toward the edge.

By the time I dragged us out, dripping wet and fully clothed, the entire party had gone silent.

Barnaby shook himself off like nothing had happened and proceeded to groom his wet fur with offended dignity.

Then Evan started laughing. Not mean laughing, but the good kind—bent-double, can't-breathe laughing. Maya was losing it too. Someone started clapping.

"Bro," Evan said, between gasps. "You just full-on rescued a cat from a swimming pool. While wearing jeans."

I looked down at my soaked clothes. My denim shorts were practically falling off me. My hair was plastered to my forehead. Barnaby was now licking his paw like he'd planned the whole thing.

"Yeah," I said, and found myself actually smiling. "I guess I did."

"Also," Maya added, "you know you can swim, right?"

And that was the thing—I hadn't even thought about it. The whole time I'd been dragging Barnaby to safety, I'd been swimming. Not perfectly, not gracefully, but swimming.

Evan held out a hand to help me up properly. "You okay?"

"Never better," I said, and meant it.

Later, when I'd changed into the spare swimsuit Maya kept at their house and was actually in the pool with everyone else, I realized something about all those months of running: sometimes you have to jump in fully clothed to figure out you knew how to swim all along.

Also, Barnaby spent the rest of the party on the roof, presumably judging us all. Which, fair.