Poolside Protocol

My backwards cap was basically a security blanket at this point. Pulling the brim low, I slunk toward the edge of the pool where Jordan's older brother Marcus held court like he owned the place. Country club summers were weird like that—one minute you're cannonballing into the deep end, the next you're navigating social minefields in your best friend's backyard.

"Yo, newbie!" Marcus gestured at the padel court behind us. "You play?"

I'd never even held a racquet, but denying Marcus felt like admitting defeat before the game started. His friends were watching, all height and confidence and expensive swimsuits. My iPhone buzzed in my pocket—a lifeline I'd already checked twelve times in ten minutes. Typical. The one time actual human interaction happened, my digital safety net started blowing up.

"Yeah, totally," I lied, voice cracking slightly. Smooth.

Jordan shot me that look—the one that said, we both know you're about to embarrass yourself, but I got you.

The bull, as Marcus's crew called him, tossed me a racquet. His posture screamed country club royalty, even in flip-flops. First game of padel, and I was already sweating through my t-shirt. Summerhumidity was no joke.

Three embarrassing rallies later, I'd somehow managed to score. Pure luck, but I'd take it. Marcus nodded, almost impressed. My hat had slipped sideways, but I didn't fix it. Something about the moment felt okay—messy, unpolished, but mine.

"Not bad," he said, and suddenly the poolside hierarchy didn't feel so rigid after all.

That night, scrolling through pics Jordan had posted—me mid-serve, grinning like an idiot—I realized growing up was mostly about showing up. Hat crooked or straight, racquet in hand or empty-handed. The worst bullies lived in your head anyway.