The Pool Party

The Pool Party

 

When Tommy’s mother invites the neaborhood bullies to a pool party,

a dangerous game of power and passion unfolds‽

 

R.R. Ryan

 

© Copyright 2026 by R.R. Ryan

 

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 

The Pool Party

Chapter One:

The Grand Delusion

 

When my father left Mom and me when I was five years old, we were all alone in the world. Can’t even remember him. Mother hit the Powerball jackpot one month before I graduated high school. We kept it secret, telling no one. She set up a trust fund with a monthly income, and a money management company invested the lion’s share of 500 million.

 

After the money came, we moved away from our Kansas City home and relocated to California, settling in a not-so-nice area of Los Angeles. Smackdab on the line of demarcation between the have some and the have-nots. The reasoning was that no one would guess we had money. That would keep us safe in the lower-middle-class white area.

 

Making it clear to her, I wasn’t going to college, but agreed to a trade school. This, too, was a cover. After all, we had to fit in and be like all the other underachievers. At summer trade school, I managed to piss off some local boys. The truth was, the creeps picked on me. While I didn’t complain, Mom saw them and sussed out that the group didn’t like me.

 

Bless our souls, that was when she hatched a plan to win them over.

 

Then, she told me to invite them over for a pool party. Because my mother is one sexy woman, I’ve always had friends who like to hang around. No, they weren’t really my friends, but everyone treated me well, so they’d be able hang around her.

 

Certainly, she figured the same thing would work here in Calli.

 

Nothing but a beige box housing the two of us, transplanted from the Midwest and with a lonely avocado tree, our house sat on the corner of a California subdivision. The front door was a bright blue. I remember thinking it was the most interesting thing about the place. After the fourth house tour, Mom had pointed at the door and said...

 

“It’s a pop of personality, Tommy, you’ll see.”

 

For some reason, she had this idea that this color was an antidote to anything...loneliness, boredom, and death.

 

When I got home from summer classes, I let my backpack slide to the floor and left it where it landed. The first thing you noticed in the new house was how soundless it was. The floors didn’t creak. The HVAC system, so modern you couldn’t even hear it, kept the air at a steady sixty-nine degrees. Only the ceiling fans made noise, gently chopping up the silence.

 

Catching my reflection in the wall-mounted TV, I slouched past the living room. Hanging like wet noodles over my eyes, my hair, too long for my lack of manliness. I adjusted it, half-heartedly.

 

“Tommy? That you?” Mom’s voice came from the kitchen, already sugar-rushed with anticipation.

 

While I hovered by the archway, Mom was unpacking groceries on the marble island. Humming along to Taylor Swift on her phone. Often sporting the latest rotation of her workout leggings and cropped t-shirts that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. But today she went for classic suburban camouflage. A sun-bleached Lakers tee, pastel bike shorts, and white sneakers that never met a puddle.

 

When she caught me eyeballing her, Mommy lit up.

 

“Oh, honey, you’re home! Picked up those yogurt things you like.” She grinned, which reminded me of one time Mommy rescued a puppy.

 

Glancing at the spread: single-serve parfaits, kombucha in pretentious glass bottles, a pile of oranges.

 

“Thanks,” I said.

 

Immediately, Mom went into nurture mode.

 

“Rough day?”

 

“It was fine.” Dropping onto a barstool, molded from some synthetic polymer designed to imitate wood, but it didn’t fool anyone.

 

“Did you talk to anyone?” She leaned on the counter, chin propped in her palm.

 

“Some people.” Opening a yogurt, I dug in, ignoring the weird flavor that came with “added protein.”

 

“‘At’s my boy!” She beamed. With the practiced nonchalance of someone who spent years in therapy, she added, “Make any friends?”

 

With that, I scoffed, which made her smile more. “Not really. Everyone’s got their own groups. It’s whatever.”

 

Mom had an arsenal of positive affirmations for these moments, but today she went off-script.

 

“You know what? There were a bunch of boys your age hanging out at the park on my run this morning. Well, they seemed nice! We should invite them over. I could grill burgers and start a volleyball game. What do you think?”

 

“What?” Nearly choking on a chunk of granola.

 

Shrugging, as if this were a normal suggestion, she continued.

 

“Listen here, you’re a catch, Tommy. You need a chance to meet the right people. I’ll set it up. We can—”

 

“Mom, no.” Scraping the yogurt cup with my spoon, I fixated on the noise. “That’s… that’s weird. I’m sure you’re talking about those boys who don’t like me.”

 

The smile faltered for the briefest second before she rebounded, stronger than ever. “Why is that weird? It’s what people do here. Come on, it’ll be fun, I promise.”

 

Shaking my head, she was already spinning it into a plan. I witnessed her buzz around the kitchen, putting away groceries with the speed and determination of someone trying to outrun bad news. The kitchen was the showpiece of the house, all brushed steel and LED strip lights. The realtor had called the fridge a “statement piece.” Guessing if your statement was “I won the lottery and immediately Googled ‘what do rich people buy,’” it checked out.

 

Mom circled back, a container of strawberries in one hand and a knife in the other. “Did I tell you I met one of the neighbor boys? Big guy, strong handshake. Jake, I think.”

 

“Yeah, I’ve met him.” Setting down my spoon.

 

As if this were proof that her plan had legs, Mommy perked up.

 

“Oh, good! Was he nice?”

 

For a second, I thought about the encounter. One morning, Jake intercepted me at the mailbox, his smile more of a challenge than a greeting. Looking me up and down, he called me “sport.” The painful truth was, his handshake was more of an orthopedic test than a greeting of friendship. The kind of guy who bench-pressed people for a laugh, and nagged about how little you weighed.

 

“Let’s say he was… intense.” All the while, remembering my cracked knuckles and nearly crushed fingers.

 

Mom sliced off the tops of the strawberries. Having done such thirty-thousand times, her motions were smooth as if cutting butter.

 

“Intense is good! You need friends with drive. Who else was there?”

 

I shrugged.

 

“Some other guys. Didn’t catch their names.”

 

She lined the strawberries in a perfect row, red tips facing me. “Invite them. If you don’t, I will.” There was a flash in her eyes, part maternal and something else—competitive?

 

I could tell this was already a done deal. Once Mom locked onto a project, the only way out was through. The kitchen, with its gleaming countertops and minimalist fruit bowls, felt like a laboratory, and I was the experiment.

 

Mom must’ve picked up on my defeat, because her voice softened. “Honey, I understand it’s hard. But it’ll be better if you give it a try. Trust me, I’m a professional.”

 

“At what, exactly?” I tried to sound sarcastic, but it came out thin, a bit whiny.

 

“Optimism.” Mom grinned and flicked a strawberry slice at me. It bounced off my wrist and onto the counter, leaving a tiny smear.

 

“You’re such a dork.” I wiped it off and smirked, despite myself.

 

“That’s not what your father used to say.”

 

“Sorry, you miss him, right?” The words hung in the air, heavier than the appliance catalog aesthetic. peering at me, Mom’s eyes green and too bright.

 

“No, I don’t. Don’t even remember him.” I shrugged again, but this time it hurt.

 

Mom washed her hands and dried them on a towel that was nicer than any towel we’d owned back in Indiana.

 

“We’ve got a chance to start over, Tommy. Most people don’t have that. We should make it count, shouldn’t we?”

 

I wanted to argue, but the truth was I didn’t have a better plan.

 

She started arranging the strawberries on a plate with the care of someone entering a food contest.

 

“I’ll text Jake’s mom, find out if they’re around this weekend.” She pulled out her phone, thumbs moving at hyperspeed. “What do you want for dinner? We could order sushi, or—”

 

“Sushi’s fine.” Honestly, I didn’t like sushi, but I liked the way her face lit up when I made out to be adventurous.

 

She leaned over and kissed the top of my head, which was embarrassing and also kind of nice.

 

“You’re a good sport,” she whispered.

 

While I finished my yogurt in silence, staring out the window at the blue sky and the rows of palm trees, all of them lined up like they were waiting for instructions. The kitchen was filled with the smell of fruit and the sound of Mom humming, a beat off from the song. I wondered what Jake would say if he caught us like this.

 

Eventually, Mom slid the strawberry plate in front of me and said, “Everything’s going to be okay, Tommy. You’ll see. I don’t want to be the rich people who live behind bars, in a gated community, fearful someone will take it all away from us. Trust me, mommy knows best.”

 

Truth was, I didn’t believe her, but I smiled anyway.

 

The next morning, the sunlight came in through the kitchen windows at a surgical angle, dissecting the surfaces it touched. I sat at the island with my phone, pretending to do something meaningful while Mom loaded the dishwasher. She was humming again, off-key, and occasionally making little “tsk” sounds whenever she found a speck of dirt on a supposedly clean plate.

 

“I texted Jake’s mom last night. She said the boys would love to come over. So, burgers and volleyball? Or should we buy a pizza, too?”

 

I poked at my phone and didn’t answer right away. My stomach felt like it was being kneaded by some invisible fist. I kept thinking about the “condition.” Jake’s smirk. The way he’d said it, like he was daring me to rat him out. I didn’t want to talk about it, but I knew if I didn’t, it would be worse.

 

Mom started listing off side dishes, her hands moving faster as she got more excited. “Perhaps I’ll make that avocado salad. Or, oh! What if I did those frozen watermelon skewers—”

 

I cut her off. “Mom.”

 

She stopped mid-skewer. “Yeah, sweetie?”

 

For a moment, I stared at the countertop, which was so spotless the marble reflected my face like a funhouse mirror. “There’s kind of… a thing I should tell you about the, uh, party.”

 

She put down the knife and gave me her full attention. “What’s up?”

 

My mouth went dry. “Jake said, like, if he and the other guys come over…you should wear a bikini.”

 

For a second, I thought she hadn’t heard me. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Her eyes widened and narrowed. For sure, she was trying to decide if I was joking.

 

“I mean, you don’t have to,” I said, voice cracking, “but that’s what he said.”

 

She blinked. “Why would Jake say that?”

 

I shrugged. “I dunno. Sure as shit, Jake thinks it’s funny.”

 

She laughed, the kind of laugh you give when you want to erase a sentence from reality. “Well, that’s a new one. I haven’t even met the kid.”

 

“He said you seemed ‘fit for a mom.’ He and the other guys were talking about it.” I regretted the words instantly, but it felt better than keeping them inside.

 

Mom’s jaw tensed. “Unbelievable. The nerve.”

 

I nodded. “Yeah. So, don’t invite ‘em.”

 

She moved around the island, hands on her hips. “Tommy, do you want these boys as friends?”

 

I hesitated. “Not really.”

 

“Are you sure?” She cocked her head, green eyes searching for something in my face. “Sometimes people push boundaries for a reaction. It doesn’t mean they’re bad kids.”

 

“Or they’re assholes.” Muttering it, but so quietly I wasn’t sure she heard.

 

She sat next to me, the seat creaking under her sudden weight. “Look, honey, you want to fit in. I also recognize what it’s like when people think you’re different. But we can’t let people like Jake decide how we live. If I put on a bikini and those boys feel awkward, it’ll teach them something.”

 

I stared at her. “Or they’ll laugh about it for the rest of their lives.”

 

She smiled, but it was a tired smile. “Might be. Or could it be they’ll let go, and you’ll have friends?”

 

There was a pause, the silence between us dense with all the things we weren’t saying. I picked at the corner of my phone case. “So, you’re really going to do it?”

 

She thought about it, really thought about it, chewing on her bottom lip the way she always did when she was fighting herself. “Why not? I used to wear bikinis all the time. It’s not a big deal.”

 

“It’s kind of a big deal,” I said, and my face went hot.

 

She reached over and put her hand on mine. “If it helps you, Tommy, I’ll do it. Nothing those boys say will hurt me. You understand that, right?”

 

I nodded, but I wasn’t sure I believed it.

 

She stood up, energetic again, and started stacking plates into the cupboard with a little more force than before. “Anyway, if they’re coming over, we’ll need more snacks. You think chips or pretzels? What do guys eat these days?”

 

I shrugged. “Both?”

 

“Both, it is.” She winked. “I’ll get the best dip.”

 

We spent the rest of the morning making a shopping list. I let Mom do most of the talking. When she mentioned the party, or Jake, or the bikini, a weird mix of embarrassment and, if I’m being honest, curiosity took hold. I’d seen Mommy in a bikini before, but I’d never wanted to think about what others thought. But now the image of her and them ogling sat in my brain like a splinter, sharp and impossible to ignore.

 

After lunch, Mom went to her room to try on swimwear “just in case.” I wandered outside, the sun so bright I had to squint through my eyelashes. Across the street, Jake and two other guys were kicking a soccer ball around. Jake waved, pantomimed a cannonball into an imaginary pool.

 

I turned away and faked checking the mail.

 

When I came back inside, Mom was standing in front of the full-length mirror by the laundry room, holding two bikinis against her chest. One was blue with white stripes, the other black and shiny. She glanced over her shoulder at me.

 

“Which one?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light.

 

I shrugged, again. “The blue one, I guess.”

 

She smiled, a real one this time. “Wonderful choice. Less, you know… aggressive.”

 

I nodded and went to my room, where I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I wondered what Jake would say, or do, when he laid eyes on her. And what I’d do if he tried something. Hopefully, it was all a prank, and they wouldn’t even show up.

 

I closed my eyes and tried to picture the party, but all I focused on was Mom’s smile, stretched too wide, trying to convince both of us that all was going to be okay. The day moved on, hour by hour, the minutes weighed down by the anticipation of what was coming.

 

After a while, I tried to lose myself in video games. But the controller kept slipping in my moist palms, and all the explosions and synth-heavy music seemed weird, buzzing in my head. Outside, the sun was relentless. Turning the pool in the backyard into something blinding, white, and blue, and so sharp you might cut your eyes.