Bull Market on Palm Court

The summer I turned fifteen, my parents decided the bull market would never end and bought a padel club. "Great investment," Dad said, high-fiving Mom in their matching Palm Beach outfits.

I got stuck working the court - which meant watching rich kids fail at returns and secretly crushing on Jake, the seventeen-year-old who smelled like coconut sunscreen and trouble.

"Your stance is all wrong," he said, approaching me as I was literally running the vacuum across the indoor court. "You're too stiff."

I froze. My palms were sweating.

That's when Coach Ramirez - aka "The Bull" for his intensity - burst in. "Maya! Why aren't you watching the front desk?"

"Sorry, just cleaning up," I said, but my voice cracked. Classic.

"The bear got you?" Jake whispered, grinning.

"What?"

"Bear market. When everything's down." He winked. "My dad's a day trader, talks about it constantly. Bull market up, bear market down."

My parents fought about bull and bear markets every night now. Our padel club was bleeding money, and I could hear them through my bedroom wall.

That Friday, Coach Bull pushed me too far in front of everyone. "You call that a serve? My grandmother serves better!"

Something snapped. I grabbed my bag and started running. Out the club, down palm-lined streets, past the fancy houses whose mortgages were probably underwater. I ran until my lungs burned and my legs shook.

I ended up at the community beach, where I found Jake sitting alone, watching the sunset over the water.

"Rough day?" he asked.

"I don't want to be the bull," I said, sitting beside him. "Or the bear. I don't even like padel."

"So what do you want?"

"I don't know." I looked at my palm, tracing the lifeline like maybe it held answers. "But I'm done bearing everyone's expectations."

Jake took my hand - the one with the sweaty palm - and interlaced our fingers. "Good. Because the real you is way more interesting."

We sat there as the sky turned purple, neither of us running anywhere anymore.