Wettmelons

There was a beat of silence, filled by the lapping of water and the distant crackle of a bonfire.

Selene winced. The bet. A stupid argument about who could hold their breath longer while doing calculus in their heads. She’d lost. The price? She had to swim the length of the pool using only her elbows, screaming “WettMelons” at the top of her lungs.

Leo Castellano. He’d just moved to town, all sharp elbows and quiet eyes. He was floating on a simple blue ring, a book balanced on his chest, trying to read by the lantern light. WettMelons

“There’s always space,” Selene said, surprising herself. “You just have to be willing to look like a drowning duck for a minute.”

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. There was a beat of silence, filled by

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.

Selene looked around. At Maya, who was locked in an epic inflatable orca joust with a kid in a pirate ship. At the elderly woman doing gentle backstrokes, singing show tunes. At the chaos, the joy, the complete and utter weirdness. A stupid argument about who could hold their

“Welcome aboard,” she said, and splashed him.