The Chlorine Conspiracy

Maya's hair refused to cooperate that morning. She'd spent forty-five minutes trying to tame her frizzy curls into something approximating "effortless beach waves," but the humidity had other plans. Now she stood at the edge of Taylor's pool party, clutching her towel like a lifeline, watching everyone else float and splash like they'd been born in water.

"You coming in or what?" called Jordan, floating on an inflatable unicorn that was definitely too small for someone who played varsity basketball. His orange swim trunks blazed against the blue water, and Maya felt her stomach do that annoying flip-flop thing it did whenever he was within a twenty-foot radius.

"Just enjoying the sunshine," she lied, even though she was practically hiding behind a potted plant.

Truth was, Maya had become something of a spy at these parties. Not the cool kind – more like the socially awkward kind who overheard things because nobody noticed she was there. Last week she'd learned that Chloe was failing math and that Tyler had cried watching "Inside Out 2." Valuable intelligence, even if she had no one to share it with.

Her stomach growled, reminding her she'd barely eaten because her mom had gone through a "health phase" and replaced all the good snacks with spinach-based everything. A spinach smoothie for breakfast had been mistake enough. Now she was eyeing the chips and dip like they were contraband.

Then she saw it: Taylor's mom bringing out a plate of orange slices, positioned perfectly beside the spinach dip that nobody was touching. And Jordan – sweet, oblivious, possibly-interested Jordan – was swimming right toward that side of the pool.

Maya's brain made a calculation. If she didn't intervene, there was a 97% chance Jordan would eat spinach dip with orange slices, and his reputation would never recover. Or worse, he'd actually like it, and she'd have to reevaluate everything.

She dropped her towel and jumped in.

The water shocked her system, but she surfaced right as Jordan reached for a chip. "Hey!" she called, maybe too loudly. "Want to play chicken fight? I call top!"

Jordan paused, chip mid-dip. He looked at her – really looked at her, hair plastered to her forehead, probably looking like a drowned rat – and grinned. "You're on."

Later, when they were both pruney and the sun was setting, Jordan would admit he hated spinach dip. Maya would laugh so hard she'd snort orange juice out her nose. And for the first time all summer, she wouldn't feel like she was spying on her own life from the sidelines.