Court Side Hunger

The country club padel courts smelled like expensive sunscreen and desperation. I watched from behind the snack bar counter, blending fruit smoothies for kids whose allowances exceeded my entire summer paycheck.

"You look like a zombie," Marcus said, sliding onto the stool. His hair was wet from swimming, chlorine sharp in the air between us.

"Summer school will do that to you," I muttered, pouring papaya chunks into the blender. The fruit looked weirdly alien, bright orange flesh with black seeds that nobody actually ate.

He was watching the padel players through the window. The popular kids — the ones whose parents actually belonged here, not just worked here. Maya was out there, laughing in her white skirt, racquet swinging like she owned everything.

"You should ask her," Marcus said, like he could read my mind. We'd been having this conversation since June. "Before summer ends. Before senior year happens and everything gets weird."

I pressed the blender button. The noise swallowed my response.

Outside, Maya missed a shot. Her partner — some lacrosse bro — rolled his eyes, and something in my chest tightened. That's how it always went. She apologized even though it wasn't her fault. She laughed it off even though he was being a jerk.

"Watch this," I said, pouring the smoothie into a cup. I grabbed a handful of papaya seeds from the cutting board and slipped them into the blender cup.

"What are you—"

"Watch."

I carried the smoothie to the window where the lacrosse bro had ordered ten minutes ago. Set it on the counter.

He grabbed it between sets, chugging half while Maya sat on the bench, redoing her ponytail. He spat papaya seeds everywhere. looked like he was coughing up his soul.

Maya laughed so hard she fell off the bench.

The boy stormed out. Maya came to the window, still grinning. "What did you do?"

"It's healthy," I said. "Superfood."

She ordered a smoothie. She sat with me for an hour while Marcus covered my shift. We talked about everything — about how fake everything felt, about how tired we were of performing, about how neither of us actually liked padel or the people who played it.

"I'm glad you did that," she said before leaving. "You're not like them."

The water in the pool glittered behind her as she walked away. I thought maybe Marcus was right. Maybe senior year wouldn't be so weird after all.