Halfway down the lane, her arms screaming, she felt something give. Not her muscles. The heavy curtain of self-consciousness she’d worn all summer, the one that told her she was too gangly, too quiet, too much in some ways and not enough in others. She laughed, a real, bubbling laugh that filled her mouth with chlorine.
Taking a breath that felt like borrowing courage from a future, braver version of herself, Selene lowered into the water. The cold was a shock, a baptism. She pushed off the wall, elbows flailing like a wounded duck.
She told him about the bet, the calculus, the elbows. She expected a sneer. Instead, he laughed. It was a quiet, rusty sound, like he hadn’t used it in a while. WettMelons
“You did it!” Maya yanked her into a hug. “You absolute maniac.”
“There’s always space,” Selene said, surprising herself. “You just have to be willing to look like a drowning duck for a minute.” Halfway down the lane, her arms screaming, she
Selene looked at his hopeful, nervous face—the same face she’d worn at the edge of the pool that afternoon. She thought of the word that had been a curse, then a battle cry, and now, maybe, an invitation.
And there, under the lantern-lit sky, on a beat-up float shaped like a fruit, two teenagers who’d been too afraid to jump in finally started to swim. She laughed, a real, bubbling laugh that filled
“WETTMELONS!” she yelled again, this time with gusto.