The Day Buster Made Me Brave

The problem with lying about knowing how to swim is that eventually, someone's going to invite you to a pool party. That someone was Jake, and that party was in two hours, and I was currently hyperventilating into a paper bag while my mom lectured me about B vitamins.

"These will help with stress, Maya," she said, shaking a bottle of neon-yellow capsules at me. "Take one before the party. You'll thank me."

I downed a vitamin with lukewarm tap water, thinking about how I'd told Jake I was "basically a mermaid" last week when he'd mentioned his annual summer bash. In reality, I'd nearly drowned at age seven during a tragic incident involving a wave pool and a too-aggressive inner tube. Since then, pools were basically my personal nightmare.

But Jake had smiled when I said it. That crooked, braces-free smile that made my brain short-circuit. So here I was, accepting an invitation to social suicide.

My dog-walking gig was my only escape. Buster, this chaotic golden retriever from down the street, was my emotional support animal slash paycheck. We'd developed a routine: I'd let him drag me to the park, he'd chase approximately forty-seven squirrels, and I'd dissociate about my increasingly elaborate web of lies.

"Why did I tell him I was on swim team, Buster?" I asked, as he enthusiastically sniffed a suspicious-looking bush. "Why couldn't I have just said 'no thanks, pools are gross' like a normal person?"

Buster responded by eating a stick.

The pool party was exactly as terrifying as I'd imagined. There were大概 fifty people in various states of beach-ready perfection, and there was Jake, shirtless by the deep end, calling my name.

"Maya! You made it!" He waved me over. "Everyone, this is Maya. She's amazing at swimming, you should race her."

A race. Of course. Because why not just heap humiliation on top of panic?

I was backing away, rehearsing my sudden migraine excuse, when Buster somehow materialized beside me. I must have forgotten to lock the gate. My dog-walking instincts kicked in—"Buster, NO"—but it was too late. He spotted Jake, who he knew from walks, and bolted toward him, right into the pool.

The splash was catastrophic. Jake fell backward. People screamed. Buster, realizing his mistake, began to paddle frantically toward the shallow end, but the panic in his whine was unmistakable.

And then I was moving.

I didn't think about how I couldn't swim. I didn't think about my carefully curated outfit or my social standing or anything except that Buster was scared. I hit the water fully clothed, clutch motion and all, and the universe's greatest miracle occurred: my feet touched bottom.

The pool was only four feet deep.

I stood there, soaked and gasping, lifting a very wet, very relieved Buster into my arms. The entire party was silent. Then someone started clapping. Then Jake was there, helping me out of the pool, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

"That," he said, grinning, "was literally the coolest thing I've ever seen."

"I thought Buster was drowning," I said, dripping pool water onto the deck. "I wasn't thinking."

"Clearly." He handed me a towel. "Also, you know you're standing, right? In the middle of the pool?"

We both started laughing. Eventually, I confessed everything—about not knowing how to swim, about making up the swim team thing, about the vitamin my mom said would help with stress. Jake just shook his head.

"You jumped in for a dog, Maya," he said. "That's way more impressive than swimming laps anyway."

Later that night, I texted my mom: "The vitamins didn't work. But something better did."

Buster slept in my room that night, his fur still smelling vaguely like chlorine. Sometimes the bravest things you can do is forget you're supposed to be afraid.