Riddles on the Court

The padel court at Camp Meriwether wasn't exactly where I pictured my social life ending, but there I was — holding a racquet like it was a foreign object I'd borrowed from someone cooler.

"You're gripping it wrong," Fox said, sliding past me in that effortless way that made my stomach do full-on gymnastics. "Like you're scared it'll bite."

I loosened my grip. Fox Harrington had been the crush of my entire eighth grade experience, and now here we were, week three of summer camp, and they'd finally noticed me. Only to critique my racquet skills.

The camp director — this brooding counselor everyone called "the Sphinx" because she never gave straight answers to anything — watched from the sidelines. She'd been assigned to our cabin for the camp's weekly riddle tournament. The prize: bragging rights and getting to pick first at the canteen for a month.

"Your move, Sphinx," someone shouted.

She smirked. "I have no riddles today. Your goldfish died three years ago, but you still keep the bowl on your nightstand. Why?"

The court went silent. That was ... specific. And creepy. And aimed directly at me.

Fox turned to look at me, really look at me, for the first time. "Wait, you still have —"

"It's not about the fish," I heard myself say, my voice weirdly steady. "It's about the bowl. About keeping something empty because you're not ready to fill it with something else yet."

The Sphinx raised an eyebrow. "Correct."

Fox's expression shifted. Not mocked, not confused — something else. Something that looked like recognition.

"That's actually kinda deep," Fox said. A pause. "Do you want to practice after dinner? Just us?"

The Sphinx winked at me as she walked away.

I adjusted my grip on the racquet. Maybe camp wasn't going to be so bad after all.