The Orange at the Deep End

Marcus stood at the edge of the pool, toe dangling over the concrete like he was testing dangerous waters. Which, honestly, he kinda was. The annual end-of-summer rager at Jessica Thompson's house, and somehow he'd spent forty-five minutes talking about baseball stats with her dad instead of actually, you know, socializing.

"You gonna jump or what?" Jessica called from where she floated on an inflatable pizza slice, orange bikini bright against the blue water. Her friends—The Populars, capital P—giggled in that way that made his stomach do uncomfortable things.

"Maybe," Marcus managed. Smooth. Real smooth.

He'd played baseball since kindergarten. Could talk curveballs and batting averages for hours. But ask him to cannonball into a pool with the most popular girl in sophomore year? Nope. Brain turned to mush.

Then Taylor—that senior who'd graduated and somehow still showed up at these things—tossed an orange slice toward Marcus. "Catch."

Marcus fumbled, the citrus hitting his chest and bouncing into the pool with an unceremonial plop.

"Whoops," Taylor said, not sounding sorry at all. "Someone's gotta get that. Chlorine's already messed up enough chemicals without adding decomposing fruit to the mix."

Everyone was watching now. This was it. The moment. Either he stayed awkward forever or he—

Marcus jumped.

The water swallowed him whole, cool and shocking and somehow freeing. He opened his eyes, chlorine stinging, and spotted the orange slices floating like miniature sunbeams in the filtered blue. He grabbed one, kicked upward, and broke the surface gasping.

Jessica was right there. "Nice form, Baseball Boy." She grinned, and something in her expression softened. "Wanna play chicken? You can be on my team."

Marcus treaded water, orange still in hand, and for the first time all night, his chest felt light. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'd like that."