He’s at the edge now, staring into the deep end. He rocks his arms back and forth, like he’s building momentum for an Olympic dive, bends at the waist like there’s treasure at the bottom and he means to find it.

“In the pool! In the pool!”

But then someone yells: “Q! No! No, Q!”

The chanting stops; everyone pivoting to see the culprit.

“Booooo,” a few kids shout. “You killing the vibe, man!”

And they’re looking at me. I’m the vibe killer.

“We’re not gonna let him drown,” someone says hella casually, the way you’d say we’re not gonna let him eat another taco.

I hustle around, grab Q’s arm. “Hey, man, maybe sit this one out?”

And no, I’m not expecting gratitude—it’s not like I saved his life; he might’ve been fine in the pool—but I’m definitely not prepared for rage.

I’ve never seen Q angry—not like this—not even when he should’ve been.

“Oh snap, we’ve got a Jauncy sighting, guys,” someone yells from the back of the yard.

A shiver moves down my spine. When’s the last time someone shouted Jauncy? When’s the last time someone said Jauncy?

And now a few more kids are yelling it.

The party host suddenly materializes beside us. “Guys, ohmigod, you gotta do a Jauncy at my party. Seriously, we need a Jauncy reunion!”

And now a new chant. “Jauncy, Jauncy, Jauncy . . .”

I ignore them, turn back to Q. “You’re okay?”

But Q’s boiling. “Yo, why’d you do that, man?”

“Why I’d do what?”

“That.” His voice cracks the slightest. His eyes are pink and watery, but it doesn’t mean tears; he could have beer in his eyes. Or sweat.

The Jauncy fervor’s dying rapidly behind us.

Which, good.

Jauncy’s the last thing I want to revive.

“Serious? C’mon, bro, you were dizzy. You could’ve cracked your head on the pool floor.”

“That was mine.”

“What was yours, Q?”

“Quincy.”

“What?”

“Friends call me Q,” he says. “Call me Quincy.”

And as he walks away, I’m a civil war: brain proud he’s standing up for himself. Heart wanting to run after him, ask what the hell’s wrong with you?

Pool at my back, I look out at the lake, all that water dyed in denim moonlight.

“Harpoon readied, our world-class marine biologist zeroes in on her target,” a voice narrates behind me. I turn around and I can’t help but laugh. Autumn, floating in the middle of the pool, arms posed as if aiming a speargun.

I shake my head. “I don’t think marine biologists use deadly weapons. Especially on animals.”

“Yeah, well.” She raises her arms, her right eye squinting as if peering through a scope. “This is a peaceful harpoon, designed to politely subdue, so we can tag and track water life.”