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.
“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice a low current.
A few heads turned. A cluster of middle schoolers pointed. The lifeguard, a guy with sunglasses so cool they looked illegal, cracked a smile. It was horrifying. It was liberating. WettMelons
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.
She reached the other side, gasping, victorious. Maya was already there, howling. Taking a breath that felt like borrowing courage
“It’s degrading,” Selene muttered, adjusting the strap of her second-hand one-piece.
“You did it!” Maya yanked her into a hug. “You absolute maniac.” “Sorry,” he murmured, his voice a low current
“WettMelons.”
That night, the town held its annual Moonlight Float. Inflatables of every shape and size bobbed on the dark water, strung with battery-operated lanterns. Selene clung to a lopsided watermelon float—a chipped, inflatable relic Maya had dubbed “The WettMelon.”
She was the only one not in the water.
It was silly. It was magical.