The Dead Summer

Maya dragged herself to the community pool at 6 AM, feeling like a zombie after three weeks of summer band camp. Her swim team coach, Coach Reeves, had them doing laps until their arms felt like jelly.

"You're lagging, Chen!" he barked from the deck. Maya's cheeks burned. Being the only Asian girl on a mostly-white swim team in the suburbs wasn't exactly a vibe.

Her phone sat in her locker — Coach had a strict no-iPhone policy during practice. Which was honestly fine, because Instagram was already making her feel some type of way. Everyone's summer looked perfect. hers looked like chlorine headaches and awkward silence.

After practice, she sat by the pool's edge, watching the cable guy work on the rusty box near the parking lot. He seemed like he had his life together.

"Hey."

Maya jumped. It was Liam from the boys' team, sitting way too close. His hair was still wet from swimming laps.

"Your stroke technique is actually sick," he said. "Like, you're probably gonna make regionals."

"Oh. Thanks." Maya tucked a wet strand behind her ear. Her heart did that annoying fluttery thing.

"Yeah, I've been kind of... watching. Like, observing your technique. Not in a creepy way." Liam's ears turned pink. "I sound like a spy. I'm gonna stop talking now."

Maya laughed — really laughed, for the first time all summer. "You're good."

They sat there for twenty minutes while the cable guy finished up and Coach Reyes yelled at someone else about lane etiquette. They talked about weird stuff — why the pool always smelled like artificially blue fruit punch, how band camp was actually cult-like, that time Liam accidentally swam into the wall during a meet because he was sneezing.

"You should come to the team bonfire tonight," Liam said, standing up. "If you want. No pressure. But also, you should."

Maya's stomach did a full gymnastics routine. "Maybe."

"Cool." He walked backward toward the locker rooms, grinning like an idiot. "I'll save you a s'more."

As Maya gathered her stuff, she finally checked her phone. Seven notifications. Three from the group chat making plans she wasn't invited to, four from Instagram.

She swiped them all away without opening them.

Some summers were about living your best life online. Some were about early mornings and chlorine and boys who called your stroke technique "sick." This one was gonna be different.