Summer of Fake It Till You Make It

The hat was two sizes too big—another thrift store find I thought would make me look mysterious and artsy. Instead, I just looked like I was wearing my dad's fishing gear. But I refused to take it off. Not at the country club where my mom had dragged me for the summer, and definitely not in front of the padel court.

"You coming?" Marcus called from the court, grinning with that easy confidence that made everything look effortless. His friends—the ones who'd spent every summer here since kindergarten—were already paired off, swinging their padel rackets like they were born holding them.

I'd never played padel in my life. Back home, we played basketball in the park with a chain-link net and ball that had lost most of its bounce. This was different. This was glass backboards and pristine courts and people who said "villa" instead of "house."

"Sure," I said, adjusting my hat. "Just warming up."

My first swing sent the ball flying into the adjacent court, where it landed squarely in someone's fruit bowl.

"My papaya!" a girl yelped.

The whole court went silent. I wanted to dissolve into the fancy rubberized flooring. But then she started laughing, and somehow that was worse than her being mad.

"Nice arm," she said, retrieving the now-bruised papaya. "You want it? It's probably got flavor now. Adventure fruit."

Her name was Sofia, and she was wearing actual designer sunglasses and eating papaya like it was totally normal. I inched my hat down lower, knowing my face was burning.

"I'm Mia," I mumbled.

"Well, Mia," Marcus called from the court, "you gonna stand there looking tragic or are you gonna finish the game?"

Sofia popped a piece of papaya in her mouth. "Ignore him. He thinks he owns the place because his dad's on the club board. I'm actually terrible at padel. Wanna lose together?"

Something shifted. Maybe it was the way she said it—so casual, like she wasn't inviting me into her world but into something better. Something real.

I took off the hat.

"Only if you share that papaya."

Sofia grinned. "Deal. But warning: it tastes like sweaty socks mixed with honey."

"Perfect," I said, stepping onto the court. "My favorite."