Orange Slice Summers

The orange slice stuck to the side of my glass like a desperate hangnail. I was fifteen, standing at the edge of the padel court while everyone else moved with this terrifying, practiced ease. Their sneakers squeaked against the synthetic grass, coordinating in ways mine never would.

"Vitamin D deficiency, my ass," I muttered, watching some senior serve with the kind of confidence that comes from having never been told you're awkward.

My mom had literally forced me here. Freshman year, new school, new social order. According to her, joining the country club's junior padel league was exactly what I needed to "come out of my shell." Which was rich, coming from someone who still said "yolo" unironically.

The ball skidded past me. Again.

"You good, new girl?" This was Chase, the kind of pretty that made my stomach do actual gymnastics. He held out a water bottle, condensation dripping down the plastic like he'd ordered it from a catalog.

"Yeah, just — my vitamins are making me weird," I said, because why stop embarrassing myself when I was on such a roll.

Chase laughed. Not mean-laughed. Actual laughed. "Dude, same. My mom's got me on this whole supplement kick, says it'll help with 'growth spurts.'" He did air quotes. Everything. "I think it's just expensive pee."

I almost choked. Chase — golden-boy, captain-of-everything Chase — was talking about pee vitamins with me.

"Wanna hit some?" he asked, nodding at the court.

The thing about teenage awkwardness? It's temporary. The panic, the feeling that everyone's watching and judging? That's just your brain lying to you. By the end of summer, I wasn't some padel prodigy or whatever. But I could hit a mean backhand, and I'd learned that the coolest people were usually just as weird as I was.

The orange slice had finally slipped down my glass. I took a sip, watched Chase miss an easy shot, and laughed. Maybe I'd be okay here after all.