Lightning at the Padel Courts

The goldfish had lived for three years. Three years of Maya's life—through middle school braces, her first TikTok account, the pandemic remote learning. Now Bubbles was floating sideways at the top of the bowl, and Maya was crying at 7 AM before first period.

"It's just a fish, Maya," her mom said, but what she meant was: you're being dramatic.

What Maya couldn't explain—the thing tightening her chest—was that Bubbles had been there when everything else fell apart. When her parents started separating. When her friends group split down the middle over that Snapchat rumor. When she felt like the only person in freshman year who hadn't been kissed yet.

Now she was at the padel courts because Tyler from AP Bio was there. Tyler with his hair that fell over his eyes when he laughed, Tyler who'd liked her Instagram post last night (she'd checked three times).

"You playing?" Tyler called, holding a padel racket. His friends were behind him, messing around with tennis balls.

Maya's throat went dry. She'd played padel exactly twice in her life, both times at summer camp three years ago. But Tyler was looking at her like he actually wanted her to say yes.

"Sure," she said, and immediately regretted it. Her gym clothes were in her backpack, still sweaty from yesterday's workout, and she was not ready to be seen in athletic clothing by Tyler from AP Bio.

The sky was darkening. Storm coming. Perfect.

They started playing, and it was—objectively—terrible. Maya missed the ball. She served into the net. Tyler's friends were watching, snickering, and she wanted to evaporate.

Then lightning cracked across the sky, close enough that the hair on her arms stood up.

"We should go," Tyler said, but he was smiling.

"Yeah, good call," she said, but neither of them moved.

Rain started, big fat drops, and suddenly they were both laughing—really laughing, Maya with her terrible serve and Tyler with his exaggerated dive for a ball that was already out. The other guys scattered for the covered pavilion, but Maya and Tyler just stood there getting soaked, and it was the most alive she'd felt in months.

"Your fish," Tyler said suddenly, like he'd been holding it in. "The one you posted about. I'm sorry."

Maya froze. How did he know—right, her Instagram story. She'd posted a picture of Bubbles from last year, back when he was still swimming in happy circles. She'd forgotten it was up.

"Thanks," she said. "He was—I mean, it's stupid, but he was there through everything."

"It's not stupid," Tyler said. "I cried when my dog died last summer. Like, really cried. My brother roasted me for a week."

They stood there as rain plastered their hair to their faces, Maya feeling something crack open inside her—something about grief and connection and how maybe she wasn't as alone as she'd thought.

"Want to get food?" Tyler asked. "There's a place down the street. We can dry off."

"Yes," Maya said, and then, because she couldn't help it: "But if you make fun of my padel skills, I'm leaving."

Tyler laughed, and it wasn't at her. "Deal. But for the record? You're better than my brother."

Walking away from the courts, Maya thought about Bubbles, about how he'd lived his whole life in a tiny bowl, swimming the same circles, and she thought about how she'd been doing the same thing—stuck, scared, waiting for something to happen. The storm had broken the heat. Maybe she could break out of her own circles too.

Maybe, just maybe, she was finally starting.