Thunder Lake Summer

The air at Camp Wabanaki tasted like impending storm, the kind that makes the hair on your arms stand up like you've been rubbed with a balloon. Maya stood at the end of the dock, toes curled around weathered wood, watching the sky turn that particular bruised purple that means everyone's about to get soaked.

"You gonna jump or just stand there looking like you're solving the meaning of life?"

It was Leo—the new counselor with the annoying grin and the way of looking at her like she was simultaneously the coolest and most awkward person he'd ever met. Behind him, the rest of the campers were already in the **water**, screaming and splashing like their dignity depended on it.

"I'm mentally preparing," Maya said, which was code for I'm terrified and you know it.

He laughed. "You've been up here for twenty minutes. The **lightning** is literally five miles away. I can see the flash from here."

That's when it happened—the moment that would live in infamy in Maya's brain for approximately forever. Counselor Jen came tearing down the hill, clipboard in hand, shouting something about the zip line. But in her haste, she didn't see the root. She went flying, arms pinwheeling like a confused windmill, and crashed directly into Leo.

They went down in a tangle of limbs and clipboard, and somehow—nobody would ever quite figure out the physics—they managed to knock over the entire rack of life jackets. Dozen bright orange vests went rolling everywhere like escaped pumpkins.

For three seconds, absolute silence.

Then Leo scrambled up, face red as a tomato, and said, "Well. That was the most **bull** thing I've ever seen, and I once watched a kid try to eat a whole pizza in one bite."

Someone giggled. Then someone else. Then everyone was losing it, including Maya, and suddenly she was laughing so hard she couldn't breathe. Leo caught her eye from where he stood, dripping lake water and dignity, and shrugged with that stupid grin.

"You coming in or what?"

Maya realized she'd been holding her breath for actual weeks, maybe since the start of summer when her mom said she needed to "put herself out there" and signed her up for camp in the first place. She'd been trying to **bear** the weight of expectation, of being the new girl, of not knowing how to talk to boys without dissolving into pure awkward.

She jumped.

The lake swallowed her whole—cold shock and sudden freedom. When she surfaced, gasping and pushing wet hair from her eyes, Leo was there, treading water, looking like this was exactly where he'd planned to be.

"Took you long enough," he said.

"Shut up," she said back, but she was smiling.

Over the trees, thunder finally broke, a low rumble that vibrated in her chest. They'd have to get out soon. But for now, floating under darkening skies with orange life jackets scattered like fallen leaves across the dock and everyone still recovering from the comedy of errors, Maya felt something shift inside her—like lightning, but the good kind. The kind that stays.

She'd jumped. She'd survived. And tomorrow she'd probably have to tell this story approximately a hundred times.

Funny how life works sometimes.