Serving Up Truth

The vitamin gummies sat on my nightstand like tiny orange accusations, their supposed life-changing powers still unused after two weeks. Mom swore they'd help with "adolescence overwhelm," which was her way of saying I'd been crying in my room too much since freshman year started.

"You need to put yourself out there, Maya," she'd said, pressing the bottle into my hand like it held the secret to popularity instead of B12 and whatever else.

Now, staring at the padel courts where everyone from school seemed to be, I understood her point. Which was saying something, because I'd rather die than admit my mom was right about anything.

"Maya! You came!"

Jasmine waved from the court, her orange headband blindingly bright against her dark hair. Jasmine, who somehow made everything look easy — honors classes, varsity tennis, existing in public without wanting to dissolve into the ground. We'd been lab partners last year, which meant we'd exchanged exactly three sentences total.

"Yeah, um," I said, clutching my borrowed racquet like it might bite. "Decided to try something new."

"Awesome! We need a fourth for mixed doubles." She gestured toward someone approaching from the parking lot, and my stomach did that horrible dropping thing.

Ryan Patel. THE Ryan Patel, who'd accidentally made eye contact with me in the hallway last week, causing me to walk directly into a trash can.

"This is Maya," Jasmine said, like we were friends who hung out all the time instead of awkward acquaintances. "She's playing with us."

"Cool," Ryan said, and his smile was actually genuine, not polite-like-he-wanted-to-be-somewhere-else. "I warn you though — I'm terrible at this. My sister made me come."

"Same," I blurted, then immediately regretted it. "I mean, not about the sister part. About being terrible. At this. Padel. Whatever."

Jasmine laughed, and for the first time all year, something inside me loosened.

We played terribly. Like, impressively bad. Ryan served directly into the net three times. I somehow managed to hit the ball backward. But somewhere between the second failed volley and my third spectacular miss, we started laughing. Actual, real laughter, not the fake kind I used at lunch when I didn't understand the joke.

"Your cat," Ryan said as we walked to the water fountain afterward. "The one in your Instagram bio. Is that an orange tabby?"

"Tofu? Yeah. He's kind of useless but he's my emotional support animal."

"I love that name. I have this theory that cat people are secretly the coolest people. They just don't advertise it."

I felt myself smiling, really smiling, something I hadn't done since before eighth grade became a masterclass in feeling wrong all the time.

"Hey," Ryan said, pulling out his phone. "We're doing a tournament next weekend if you want to join. Our team name is Trash Padel Club. No talent required, just willingness to be bad at something in public."

"I'm in," I said, and the words felt easy.

That night, I fed Tofu his treats and dumped the vitamin gummies into the trash. Some things you can't find in a bottle. Some things you have to serve up yourself.