Fox Courts and Papaya Nights

The papaya sat in my lunchbox, tropical and suspicious, like I was trying too hard to be interesting. Which I was. It was week three of summer padel camp, and I still couldn't make conversation without accidentally mentioning my allergy to bees or my mom's obsession with essential oils.

"You gonna eat that?" Fox asked, sliding onto the bench beside me. Everyone called her Fox because she had this copper hair and these eyes that noticed everything. She'd been watching me all week, I could feel it.

"You can have it," I said, pushing the container toward her. "My mom bought it because it's 'exotic.' I think she's trying to make me more interesting."

Fox laughed - actually laughed, not the fake laugh she gave everyone else. "You're interesting enough, Maya. You don't need tropical fruit to help with that."

My face burned. She'd been paying attention.

"Why padel?" she asked, peeling the papaya with her fingers. "You hate it. I've seen you."

I shrugged. "My dad thinks it'll help me 'make connections.' His words. Also, I'm kind of a zombie at most sports, so he figured this one was low-stakes enough that I wouldn't embarrass myself."

"You don't look like a zombie to me." Fox licked papaya juice from her thumb. "You look like someone who'd rather be anywhere but here."

"Is there a difference?"

"Maybe." She tilted her head. "What would you rather be doing?"

"Writing," I said before I could stop myself. "Stories. About people who say the right thing and don't trip over their own feet and whose moms don't pack exotic fruit in their lunchboxes."

Fox smiled. A real one. "That's actually cool. Not the lame version of cool where everyone pretends to like the same music. The real kind."

The camp director blew his whistle. "Last game of the day! Pair up!"

"Be my partner?" Fox asked, standing up and offering me her hand.

"I'll probably miss every shot."

"Good." She pulled me up. "Then we can lose dramatically and spend the whole time talking about your stories instead. My water bottle's full, and I've got three hours of energy to burn."

"Three hours?"

"I lied to my dad about when camp ends," she said, grabbing her racquet. "He thinks I'm making 'healthy social choices.' I'm actually just here for the air conditioning and people who don't suck."

We walked onto the court together under the blazing sun, and for the first time all summer, I didn't feel like the girl who couldn't make conversation. I felt like someone Fox had chosen to hang out with.

"Hey," she said as she served. "If we lose badly enough, maybe your dad will pull you out of camp."

"And then what?"

"Then you can write your stories," Fox called back as the ball sailed past my racquet, "and I'll be your first reader. Deal?"

The papaya forgotten on the bench, the water bottles sweating in the heat, I finally served the ball back.

"Deal."