The Orange Soda Betrayal

I wasn't supposed to be at Tyler's pool party. Definitely wasn't supposed to be hiding behind the garden shed like some creeper, but my best friend Maya dared me. She said I needed to make a move before summer ended, before high school ripped us apart into different social universes.

The pool glowed with underwater lights, casting rippling blue patterns across everyone's faces. Tyler stood by the snack table, laughing at something I couldn't hear. I'd been crushing on him since seventh period English, when he'd compared my poem to something "actually decent" which was basically a confession of love in fourteen-year-old boy speak.

I adjusted my fake mustache. Maya said it would make me look mysterious, more like a spy from those movies her older brother watched. Instead, I felt like I was playing an elaborate prank on myself.

"You're actually doing this," Maya whispered from beside me. She held an orange soda in each hand, offered one. "Liquid courage."

The first sip went down wrong. I coughed, spraying orange droplets everywhere. Some landed on the white tablecloth by the dip bowls. Great. Now I'd contaminated the spinach artichoke dip with my nervousness.

"Smooth," Maya said. "Real smooth."

Tyler noticed us. Or noticed the orange soda spray painting the patio furniture. He started walking over, and my heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape my chest and swim back to the safety of the pool.

"Hey," he said. "You guys made it."

I froze. My fake mustache felt suddenly ridiculous, a scratchy admission that I was playing at being someone cooler than I actually was. Water dripped from his hair onto his shoulders. He smelled like chlorine and something else, maybe coconut shampoo.

"Yeah," I managed. "Just... hanging out."

His eyes flicked to my upper lip. Then back to my eyes. And he smiled, not like he was laughing at me but like he was in on the joke.

"Nice mustache," he said. "Very mysterious."

Something inside me softened. I reached up, peeled off the fake mustache, and let it drop onto the patio.

"It was scratchy anyway," I said.

"Better," Tyler said. "I like the real you better."

Maya nudged me so hard I almost fell into the pool. But I didn't. I just stood there, orange soda sticky on my fingers, feeling somehow seen for the first time all summer.

"Want to play chicken?" he asked.

And for the first time in months, I didn't overthink it. I just said yes.