Mixed Doubles & Mixed Signals

The vitamin gummies tasted like artificial strawberry and insecurity. Mom had pushed the bottle into my hands that morning, her eyes doing that thing where she tried to mask her panic about me starting sophomore year at yet another new school.

"For your immune system, mija. And your brain."

Right. Because gummy bears were definitely going to help me navigate the social hierarchy of Crestwood Academy, where everyone apparently owned horses and had internships at their parents' tech companies.

I spotted it immediately—the padel courts. Glowing under afternoon sun like holy ground. Padle was basically tennis's cooler, more chaotic younger cousin. The sport of choice for the popular crew at my last school, too. Some things never changed.

A golden retriever chased a ball near the fence, tongue flopping happily, completely unaware that it was violating the cool kids' territory. The dog—Barnaby, according to his collar—reminded me of myself. Just trying to catch something, everyone watching, bound to trip over own paws.

"You play?"

I jumped. A guy stood there, padel racket resting on his shoulder, curls everywhere, smile doing something dangerous to my pulse. Ethan, I'd heard his name whispered in homeroom.

"Used to," I said, which was technically true. I'd watched enough TikTok tutorials to know the basics.

"We need a fourth for mixed doubles. You in?"

This was it. The moment. Say something cool, something effortless.

"I'm literally down for whatever."

WHAT. WHO SAYS THAT.

But Ethan just grinned. "Solid. You're paired with me."

On court, something shifted. The racket felt right in my hand—muscle memory from those pandemic afternoons hitting against the garage wall. I returned a serve, then another. Ethan's eyebrows went up.

"Okay then, secret weapon."

His sister, watching from the bench, yelled, "She's cracked!"

I was. Cracked. For the first time all day, I wasn't the new girl. I was just someone who could send a ball screaming down the line, who could laugh when I missed, who could smack helmets with a boy who made my stomach do actual gymnastics.

Later, walking Barnaby back to his owner (turns out the dog belonged to Ethan's neighbor), I realized something. Maybe the sphinx's riddle wasn't about becoming someone new. It was about finding the parts of yourself that already existed, the ones you packed without knowing, waiting for the right court to unfold on.

"Same time tomorrow?" Ethan asked.

"Bet."