Serving Up Embarrassment

I'm literally going to die. That's not even hyperbole. I'm going to perish right here on Court 4, surrounded by people who actually know how to play this sport, while my mom shouts pointers from the sidelines like she's some kind of padel prodigy.

The outfit situation alone is a crisis. Everyone's wearing those aesthetic matching sets – cute skirts, coordinated tops, expensive sneakers that have probably never touched grass. Meanwhile, I'm in my brother's old basketball shorts (they're MAROON, why did I think maroon would blend in?) and a shirt that says "Lemonade Stand" in faded letters.

"Just hit it like tennis, mijo!" Mom yells, causing absolutely everyone to turn and stare at the court's most clueless participant.

I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

And then I see HIM.

Alejandro. The Alejandro. The one I've had a crush on since seventh grade Spanish, when he helped me pick up my dropped pencil and our fingers brushed for exactly 0.3 seconds. He's walking past with his friends, holding an orange Gatorade, looking like he belongs in a sports commercial.

This is it. This is how it ends.

"You've got this!" calls Coach Riley, who's definitely being paid to say that.

My partner, this tiny freshman named Zara who's somehow already better than me, gives me this look. Just... this look. Like she knows. Like everyone knows.

The ball comes flying over the net. I swing, I miss entirely, and somehow manage to hit myself in the shin with my own racquet.

"That's... that's a strategy, right?" I whisper to Zara, willing myself to dissolve into the atmosphere.

She shrugs. "A bold move. Very unexpected."

Later, sitting on the bench with my dignity in shreds, my mom hands me an orange slice from her cooler like everything is completely fine.

"You'll get better! Everyone starts somewhere!"

"Mom," I say, my voice cracking. "Alejandro saw me hit myself with my own racquet."

She pauses. "Well, at least you'll be memorable?"

I take the orange slice because I have nothing left to lose. And somewhere across the courts, I hear Alejandro laugh at something his friend said – probably not about me, probably about something completely normal – but my face burns anyway.

At least I didn't trip. Small victories.

Zara sits down beside me. "Same time next week?"

I look at my maroon shorts, think about Alejandro's Gatorade, consider the absolute nightmare of today's performance.

"Obviously," I say. "Can't leave you hanging out there alone."

And for some reason, that's the moment I stop wanting to disappear.