Riddles at the Padel Court

The sun blazing overhead, I stood frozen at the edge of the **padel** court, clutching my rented racquet like it was some kind of alien weapon. My cousin Elena had dragged me here, swearing this was where all the cool kids hung out on Saturday afternoons. She was already laughing with some guy across the court, effortless in her bright **orange** tank top, while I stood there in my faded band tee feeling like a total NPC.

"Hey! You gonna stand there all day or actually play?" A guy in sunglasses waved me over. His name was Raf, and he had this easy confidence I'd been trying to fake since middle school. "I'm guessing you're Elena's cousin from the States?"

I nodded, mortified that my reputation preceded me. "Yeah. I'm, uh, terrible at this. Just so you know."

"No worries." He grinned. "I once served a ball straight into my own face."

Maybe this wouldn't be a total disaster.

But then came the after-party at Chloe's house, and that's when things went sideways. Someone had brought exotic fruit from the market, and Chloe's mom was pressing everyone to try this **papaya** smoothie that looked like something from a swamp. "It's delicious!" she insisted, and next thing I knew, I'd agreed to try it to prove I wasn't some uncultured American.

The smoothie was actually fine. The problem came later, when I was talking to Raf — actually talking to him, my brain marginally functioning — and he frowned, leaning closer. "You've got something..."

**Spinach**. From the spinach artichoke dip I'd somehow convinced myself was a good idea to eat. In my teeth. Front and center like a neon sign announcing my social death.

I wanted to dissolve into the expensive rug. But then Raf did something unexpected. He didn't laugh or look away with that secondhand embarrassment that hurts worse than anything. Instead, he handed me a mirror and said, "Last week at Maya's party, I spent forty minutes talking to her brother with my shirt inside out."

He showed me the tag still visible at his collar.

We both cracked up, and suddenly he wasn't this untouchable **sphinx** of social perfection anymore. He was just a guy who put his shirt on wrong sometimes.

"Want to get out of here?" he asked. "There's this gelato place..."

I grabbed my backpack, heart doing that terrifying fluttery thing, and followed him out the door. Some afternoons, you think you know exactly how something's gonna go. Then life serves up something completely different — and sometimes, against all odds, it's actually better.