Wettmelons

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.

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

“WettMelons.”

She reached the other side, gasping, victorious. Maya was already there, howling. WettMelons

“WETTMELONS!” she shrieked, the sound gurgling out of her.

He splashed back.

It was silly. It was magical.

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.

“No problem,” Selene squeaked.

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. Selene looked around

He smiled. A real one. Then, he did something unexpected. He pushed off his blue ring, let it drift away, and grabbed the edge of her chipped watermelon.

“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.”