Wet Dog Summer

I wasn't trying to be a creep, but apparently watching your crush from behind a parked Honda Civic while walking a bulldog named Buford qualifies as creepy behavior. Who knew?

Buford, my neighbor's dog, tugged at the leash like he sensed my social anxiety. Or maybe he just really wanted to get to that fire hydrant. I'd been dog-sitting all week to earn concert ticket money, but the universe had other plans.

Across the street, Jake and his friends were setting up for what looked like the party of the century. Stereo equipment, coolers, and—my stomach did that thing—enough water balloons to flood the neighborhood. They'd already filled the inflatable pool in Jake's front yard, the water glinting under the July sun like liquid gold invitation.

"That's bull," Maya said, appearing beside me like she'd apparated from thin air. Buford jumped, nearly taking me down with him.

Maya Chen. The girl who'd sat behind me in bio since freshman year, whose existence I barely acknowledged until this exact moment.

"What?" I straightened my glasses, feeling my face burn hotter than the asphalt.

Maya pointed at Jake's setup. "They're not even invited half those people. Just posting about it to make FOMO hit different." She pulled sunglasses from her backpack. "Classic gatekeeping. You going?"

I laughed. "Right. Like I'd be on that guest list. I'm just doing spy work from here. For science."

Maya's eyebrows shot up. "Spy work? For what? Analyzing Jake's arm muscles or calculating the optimal water balloon trajectory?"

"Both. Obviously."

She cracked a smile. "Smooth." Then, "Wanna crash it?"

"Excuse me?"

"Jake's party?" Buford chose that moment to sneeze, spraying us both. Maya wiped her arm, unfazed. "I have ice cream money. You have a bull in a bulldog body. We're basically unstoppable."

I looked at Jake's party—everyone laughing, music starting up, the cool kids already wet and perfect. Then at Maya, who was absolutely correct about the gatekeeping situation.

"Buford likes water," I heard myself say.

"Then it's settled." She grinned, turning toward the party. "Operation Wet Dog is a go."

And just like that, the girl I'd barely noticed freshman year became the person who taught me that sometimes the best way to stop spying on the life you want is to just walk into it. Even if you're covered in bulldog slobber and carrying more emotional baggage than fit in a backpack.

Buford approved. He was already pulling toward the party like he owned the place.