The Night at Gaskill's

The iphone buzzed in my pocket like a trapped wasp. Maria's text glowed up at me: *pool party @ Gaskill's. parents gone. bring whatever.*

I'd been waiting for this moment since freshman year. Gaskill's pool parties were legendary—the kind where something *happened*, something everyone talked about on Monday. But as I stood outside my house, my stomach twisted into knots.

"You're not actually going, are you?" My little sister sat on the porch steps, petting Mr. Whiskers—our fat orange cat who looked at me with what I swear was judgment.

"Shut up, Lena."

"It's just..." She hesitated. "Everyone says Tyler's gonna be there. The way he looks at you during lunch—"

I threw a pebble at the driveway. "Drop it."

Tyler. The reason I couldn't back out. The reason I'd spent forty minutes perfecting my eyeliner.

Gaskill's house was already thumping when I arrived. Kids I'd known since middle school were cannonballing into the pool, bodies flashing through the blue water like fireworks. Someone had dragged speakers to the backyard, and bass vibrated through my chest.

Then I saw Tyler by the patio table, surrounded by his friends. My heart did this stupid flutter thing.

"Hey, Sarah!" He waved me over, then paused. "Who's that guy by your house? The one with the motorcycle?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Your Instagram story. Some dude dropping you off." His voice changed—something sharper underneath. "You said you were busy tonight."

"That was my cousin, Tyler. From Jersey."

"Right. Sure." He laughed, but his eyes didn't crinkle. "You know, I'm done with the bull, Sarah. Just say it next time."

"What bull? I didn't—"

"Whatever."

He walked away, and his friends followed like ducklings. I stood there, humiliated, while someone screamed about a broken cable killing the music.

My phone buzzed again. *u ok?* from Maria.

I looked around—at the pool shimmering under fairy lights, at people pretending to have the time of their lives, at Tyler laughing across the yard like nothing had happened.

I turned and walked out.

Lena was still on the porch when I got home, Mr. Whiskers curled in her lap. The cat purred like a tiny engine.

"You're back early," she said.

"Yeah."

"Was it—"

"It was whatever." I sat beside her. "Hey, Lena?"

"What?"

"Never let guys make you feel small for doing absolutely nothing."

She nodded slowly, like she was filing that away for later.

"Also," I said, pulling out my phone, "I need you to teach me how to take better revenge photos."

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, we are *definitely* doing that."