Breaking Point

The padel court smelled like expensive disappointment and coconut sunscreen. I adjusted my grip on the racket, palms sweating through my wristbands as Brianna filmed the entire thing on her iPhone.

"You're swinging like a grandma, Z," she called out, not even looking up from her screen. "This is why you're single."

Some friend.

We were at the Palm Beach Country Club because Brianna's dad knew a guy who knew a guy, and suddenly she was obsessed with becoming an influencer. My job was to be her awkward sidekick—the one who tripped over things so she could look graceful by comparison. I hadn't realized this until last week when I overheard her telling someone at lunch that I was "basically a prop."

I missed the ball. Again.

"You're actually hopeless," Brianna said, finally lowering her phone. "Maybe just stick to being behind the camera."

That's when I heard it—the low, guttural sound that made every hair on my arms stand up.

A bull had escaped from somewhere nearby and was now staring at us through the chain-link fence, massive and impossibly still. Its eyes locked with mine, and something in its gaze felt weirdly understanding. Like it knew exactly what it was like to be the biggest thing in the room and still have everyone act like you didn't matter.

"Oh my GOD," Brianna shrieked, dropping her iPhone on the court. The screen shattered. "That thing is going to KILL us."

The bull snorted, turned away, and lumbered toward the golf course.

My hands stopped shaking. I picked up Brianna's phone—cracked screen, perfect lighting still captured in the burst photos she'd taken.

"Your screen is busted," I said, handing it back.

"You could've warned me!" She snatched it, already planning her dramatic retelling for TikTok. "This is SO going in the story."

I walked off the court, leaving my racket behind.

"Where are you GOING?" she demanded.

"Home."

"We're in the MIDDLE of content!"

I didn't turn around. Behind me, Brianna's voice faded as she found someone else to perform for. Some club employee probably. Someone new to prop up her story.

The parking lot felt like freedom. I pulled out my own phone and texted my actual friends—the ones who showed up to my debate competitions even though they didn't understand half the arguments. The ones who knew I hated coconut anything and brought chocolate anyway.

Wanna hang out?

Three responses popped up instantly.

Yeah! Where?

I thought about the bull—how it had just walked away like it knew something we didn't. Like it knew that sometimes the scariest thing isn't the massive creature staring you down.

It's the people who pretend they're on your side.

My phone buzzed again. Marco, who'd sat next to me in chemistry since freshman year: Party at my house. Parents are gone. Bring snacks.

I smiled, starting my car. The padel racket could stay. Brianna could stay. I had actual people waiting.