The Night I Almost Drowned Trying to Look Cool

The bass from Jordan's basement speakers made my teeth vibrate. I'd been standing against the wall for twenty minutes, nursing a lukewarm Sprite like it was my job.

"You gonna swim or just stand there looking like a lost puppy?" Maya yelled over the music, grinning that grin that made my stomach do actual gymnastics.

The pool. Right.

I'd spent three weeks practicing my underwater dive in my bathtub. Three. Weeks. Because Maya Rodriguez had invited me to Jordan's end-of-summer party, and apparently, Jordan's family had a pool, and apparently, everyone was going swimming.

Problem was, I didn't know how to swim.

But fourteen-year-old me with a massive crush had zero chill, so instead of being normal and saying "actually, I'll just hang out and eat pizza," I'd decided to fake it. You know, like a total genius.

"Yeah, just gotta... find my towel," I lied.

"Bull," she said, laughing. "You've been 'finding your towel' since we got here. Come on."

Her hand was warm when she grabbed mine, and my brain short-circuited as she dragged me toward the back door. The August air hit us like a wall—humid, thick, smelling like chlorine and teenage desperation.

Everyone was already in the pool. Connor from AP History was doing a backstroke. Katie was sitting on the edge, her legs in the water. Jordan was demonstrating something that looked like a failed attempt at a dolphin kick.

"Your turn," Maya said, shoving me playfully.

My first mistake was the cannonball. Or maybe my first mistake was the polka-dot swim trunks my mom had bought, thinking they were "retro cool." Or maybe my first mistake was being born with the coordination of a newborn giraffe.

The water rushed into my nose. It went up my nose and into my brain and suddenly I was somewhere else—some underwater dimension where everything was muffled and blue and my arms refused to do what I told them to.

Panic rose in my throat like heartburn from hell.

And then—there was a lapping sound. Wet, frantic against my face.

I thrashed upward, gasping, and found Jordan's golden retriever, Buster, paddling around me like a fuzzy lifeguard, looking genuinely concerned.

"You okay, bro?" Jordan called from the edge. "Buster usually only rescues squirrels."

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. I was dog-paddling—actual dog-paddling, while an actual dog paddled beside me like we were in some sort of very sad synchronized swimming routine.

Mayya was laughing. Not mean laughing, but her head-thrown-back, hair-everywhere laugh that I had literally imagined in slow motion like a hundred times.

"I thought you said you could swim!" she called.

"I can!" I choked out, treading water with the elegance of a panicked flailing man. "Just... testing the waters. Literally."

Connor drifted over. "Bro, are you doing the dog paddle with the dog?"

"It's a synchronization thing," I said, because at this point, dignity was already dead. "Buster and I have been practicing."

Mayya swam over (gracefully, obnoxiously), wiped water from her eyes, and smiled. "You're the worst, you know that?"

"I know," I said, finally finding my footing in the shallow end. "But you invited me anyway."

"Yeah," she said softly. "I did."

Later that night, wrapped in a towel and sitting on the back porch watching everyone else swim, Buster curled up beside me like the good boy he was. My nose still burned from the chlorine. My polka-dot swim trunks were still tragic. I still couldn't swim.

But Maya sat next to me, our shoulders touching, and talked about everything and nothing until her mom came to pick her up.

"Next time," she said, standing up and stretching, "I'll teach you. For real."

"Next time," I agreed, trying to play it cool while internally screaming.

"And hey," she added, grinning. "At least Buster likes you."

I looked down at the dog, who was now snoring softly against my leg. "Yeah," I said. "At least that."