The Lap Count

I'd been running the same lie for three weeks.

"Yeah, totally on the track team," I'd told Jordan when he'd asked why I was always sweaty after third period. It was easier than explaining I was sprinting home to feed my mom's cats before she got home from her night shift. Again.

Now Jordan's pool party loomed. The social equivalent of a horror movie jump scare. Everyone would be there. Everyone in swimsuits. Everyone except me, probably.

I caught myself acting like a total spy that week. Jordan's Instagram story at 11:42 AM — pool selfie, captioned "saturday gonna be lit." I zoomed in. What kind of pool? Above ground? In-ground? Deep end? Shallow end? My stomach did this nervous little flip that was becoming its default state.

Thursday, I caught myself lurking behind a locker row, watching Jordan talk to Maya in the hallway. Like I was gathering intel. Pathetic.

The thing was, I wasn't even sure what I wanted. To be popular? To just fit in? To stop feeling like I was observing everything through a glass wall? Mom said high school was temporary. She also said my junior year transcript would be permanent. Thanks, Mom.

Saturday arrived.

I stood outside Jordan's house for seven full minutes before I could make myself walk up the driveway. The pool was in-ground. Of course it was.

I changed in the bathroom with military precision. Swimming suit on. Cover-up over it. Towel within reach. My heart was doing this thing where it felt too big for my chest.

Then I saw her — this girl from my English class, I think her name was Riley. She was sitting by the pool, legs pulled up to her chest, everyone's towels and stuff scattered around her chair. Just watching. Her phone was face-down beside her.

Something about her posture hit me different. She wasn't hiding. She was just... present.

I sat two chairs over.

"You're not gonna swim?" she asked, like it was a genuine question, not a setup.

"Probably not."

She nodded. "I'm just here for the vibes. Jordan's grandma made those cookies, though. I'd say get in on that action before they're gone."

I looked at her really then. No judgment. No expectation. Just another person figuring it out.

"I'm not on the track team," I heard myself say.

She raised an eyebrow. "Okay?"

"That's why I'm always running. I'm racing home to feed cats."

Riley cracked up. And something unlocked in my chest.

"I'm failing math," she said back. "Like, dramatically. My tutor is this guy who breathes through his mouth and explains algebra like it's his emotional support subject."

We were both laughing now. Jordan cannonballed into the pool, sending water everywhere. We jumped back, instinctively, and our elbows bumped.

"Wanna get cookies before they're gone?" she asked.

"Absolutely."

I didn't swim that day. But I stopped running from myself, too. And sometimes that's the same thing.