Riddles on the Court

The papaya sat on the kitchen counter, bright orange like a traffic light telling me to STOP overthinking everything. Mom had bought it from the specialty market, another attempt to connect me with my heritage through fruit I didn't ask for.

"You try out for the team yet?" Jordan leaned against my locker, baseball cap backwards like he'd been born that way. Everyone played baseball at Oak Ridge. It was practically a law.

"Actually," I adjusted my backpack strap, "I'm trying out for padel."

Jordan's face did that thing where someone pretends they know what you're talking about but they definitely don't. "Cool, cool. Is that like... lacrosse?"

"It's tennis meets squash meets anxiety," I said, which wasn't helpful. But how do you explain that you'd spent all summer watching padel tutorials at 3 AM, hypnotized by the glass walls and the way the ball didn't die when it hit them? How do you explain that baseball felt like performing in someone else's skin?

The tryouts were held at the new courts behind the rec center. Coach Martinez—a former pro with eyes that missed nothing—watched me warm up. I was the only one not wearing expensive gear. My shoes were from the discount bin, my racquet borrowed from the lost-and-found.

"You're overthinking," she said, like she could see the sphinx-sized riddle in my head: Who am I allowed to be? The baseball player everyone expected? The weird kid who got excited about paddle sports? The daughter who couldn't even pronounce papaya right the first three times?

"Hit it like you mean it," Coach said.

I did. The ball cracked against the glass, a satisfying sound that echoed through the court. Again. Again. Each shot felt like claiming something I hadn't known I could own.

"You're in," Coach said, not looking up from her clipboard. "Practice starts Tuesday."

That night, I finally tried the papaya. It was sweet and strange and nothing like I expected. Some things, I realized, you have to taste for yourself.