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.

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.

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

“It’s degrading,” Selene muttered, adjusting the strap of her second-hand one-piece.

“WETTMELONS!” she shrieked, the sound gurgling out of her. She told him about the bet, the calculus, the elbows

Selene’s face burned hotter than the bonfire. “That… yes. That was me.”

Kids used her float as a launching pad. Old Mr. Henderson, who never spoke to anyone, drifted past on a flamingo and tipped his captain’s hat at her. And then, he appeared. It was a quiet, rusty sound, like he

“I moved here three weeks ago,” he said. “I’ve been sitting in my room, thinking everyone already has their friends, their stories. That nobody leaves space for a new guy.”