The Spy at Murphy's Pool

I'd been spying on Connor Murphy for three weeks straight.

Not like creepy spying—just strategic intelligence gathering. I needed proof before I confronted him. Connor, the self-proclaimed king of sophomore year, had been spreading rumors about me since I turned down his invitation to homecoming. "She's stuck up," "She thinks she's better than everyone," the usual BS.

My plan: catch him in a lie so massive even his followers would have to admit he was full of bull.

The opportunity came at Maya's pool party last Friday. Half the school was there, including Connor, who'd spent the entire afternoon holding court on the patio like he owned it. I lurked near the snack table, watching, waiting.

Then I saw it.

Connor's phone buzzed. He laughed and showed the screen to his friends. "Check this out—Zach's cousin works at the movie theater. He can get us in free to anything, plus unlimited snacks."

I knew Zach's cousin. I'd literally just been at the theater with Zach's cousin yesterday, who'd complained about how broke he was and how he'd never give away free stuff.

This was it.

I marched over to where Connor was holding court, my heart hammering against my ribs. The pool glittered blue behind him, and someone's little sister was splashing in the shallow end, completely oblivious to the social warfare happening on dry land.

"Hey Connor," I said, voice steady despite my racing pulse. "Zach's cousin said he's never even met you."

Connor froze. His friends went quiet.

"What?" he finally managed.

"You heard me. Also?" I raised my voice so everyone could hear. "You don't have backstage passes to the Chloe Riley concert. Your uncle doesn't work at her label. And you didn't spend last summer 'traveling through Europe'—you worked at your dad's car dealership. I checked your Instagram archive."

The silence stretched.

Then Maya's little brother yelled "CANNONBALL" and jumped into the pool, sending water spraying everywhere, including all over Connor's carefully curated outfit.

Everyone burst out laughing.

Connor's face turned bright red. He sputtered something I couldn't make out and stormed toward the gate.

Maya handed me a towel. "You've been spying on him, haven't you?"

"Maybe," I said, grinning. "But someone had to call his bluff."

"His bull," she corrected.

"His bull," I agreed.

That night, three different people DM'd me: thanks for finally saying what everyone else was thinking.

Sometimes being the spy isn't about keeping secrets. It's about knowing when to expose them.