The Summer I Learned to Float

I landed my first real job at the community pool, which basically meant I'd get to stand around looking bored in a neon red tank top while retirees did water aerobics to oldies playlists. Not exactly how sixteen-year-old me imagined spending July, but whatever. I needed cash for actual concert tickets, not just the Instagram flex of pretending I went.

The cable guy showed up on day three, which honestly should've been my first clue that this job would be weird. He was fixing the pool's sound system while Mr. Henderson droned on about his baseball glory days—back when he could've gone pro if not for his "trick knee." I'd heard this story approximately forty-seven times already that week.

"You throw like a girl," I muttered to myself, mostly because I couldn't say it to his face. That's the thing about being the only teenager on staff. You absorb so many microaggressions you start thinking the F-word is actually "feeling left out."

Then the cable guy—Marcus, according to his name tag—asked if I wanted to learn to actually swim instead of just hovering in the shallow end like a mermaid with trust issues.

"I know how to swim," I said, defensive.

"Cool," Marcus said, not even looking up from his wires. "Then why's your form more terrified toddler than actual human?"

Fair.

So I started staying late after my shift, letting this random cable guy teach me how to not look like I was drowning while fully alive. And yeah, my family thought it was weird that I kept "forgetting" my house key and having to wait for rides, but whatever. They didn't need to know I was slowly conquering my near-drowning experience from third grade, the one I'd never actually talked about because emotional vulnerability wasn't exactly celebrated in our household.

The day before summer ended, Marcus told me about his daughter who'd come out as trans last year. How he'd messed up pronouns for like six months straight but kept trying anyway, how some things take practice and some things just click, and the difference between being awkward and being actual trash.

"The only thing you can't learn," he said, "is how to show up for people. Either you do or you don't."

I went back to school in September with chlorine in my hair and the ability to swim actual laps without hyperventilating. Also with the knowledge that sometimes people—sometimes the most random people—will help you carry the stuff you can't bear alone. That first concert tickets money still sits in my nightstand drawer. Some things matter more than bands you'll forget in three years anyway.