Goldfish at the Padel Court

Maya's thumb hovered over the send button, her iphone screen glowing in the dim light of her bedroom. The invite from the popular group sat there: Padel tournament this Saturday, bring snacks. She'd never played, but that wasn't the real problem. The real problem was that everyone knew her as the quiet girl who sat in the back of algebra, the one whose social media consisted entirely of reposted art quotes and photos of her goldfish, Finwick (yes, she named him that in seventh grade, no, she would not discuss it).

Saturday arrived with her stomach doing that awful fluttery thing that happened whenever she had to interact with more than three people at once. She stood outside the community center padel courts, clutching a Tupperware of fruit salad like it was a shield. Her mom had insisted she bring something, which was how she ended up chopping papaya and orange wedges at 7 AM while her little brother asked if she was nervous.

"Maya! You made it!" Chloe, the friendliest of the popular crowd, waved her over. "We need a fourth player."

"I've literally never held a racquet," Maya blurted.

"Perfect, neither has Tyler. You'll be terrible together."

Three hours later, Maya's arms felt like jelly and her hair had abandoned all hope. But she was laughing so hard her stomach hurt. Tyler had hit himself in the face with the racquet twice. Someone's papaya-orange fruit salad had become legendary after Tyler pretended to propose to it mid-game. Her iphone buzzed constantly in her bag—new group chat messages, inside jokes, someone asking if she wanted to hang out next weekend.

Later that night, Maya texted Finwick's latest photo to the group chat. Within seconds:

OMG HIS NAME IS FINWICK???

he's living his best life

nobody touch me i'm emotional about a fish

Maya grinned at her screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. She'd come for the padel tournament, stayed for the chaos, and left with something she hadn't expected: people who wanted to know her, goldfish obsession and all.