Summer of Secret Lives

I felt like such a spy, lurking behind the maple tree in Maya's backyard, watching her and her friends laugh while they played padel. My phone buzzed — Mom, again. "Don't forget your vitamin D gummies!!" Great. Meanwhile, I was vitamin-deficient in coolness.

Maya spotted me. My stomach did that thing where it forgets how to be a stomach.

"Hey! You coming to play or what?"

I froze. I'd been watching them for three weeks, trying to memorize their slang and inside jokes, convinced that if I could just figure out their algorithm, I'd finally belong somewhere in this stupid new town.

"I... I don't know how," I mumbled.

"Bro, it's literally tennis but easier," said this guy with perfect hair. "Here."

He tossed me a racquet like it was nothing. Like I wasn't the weirdo who'd been borderline stalking them from behind foliage.

After the game, Maya's mom offered fruit. I'd never had papaya before — too fancy, too exotic for our budget. But there it was, bright orange and impossibly vibrant, and I took a bite because refusing would've made everything weirder.

"It's... different," I said, and they laughed, but not meanly. They laughed like I'd just said something mildly funny.

Later, as I walked home, I noticed the old cable line swinging from the telephone pole. Last week, I'd watched a YouTube tutorial on urban exploration — basically, legal spying — and suddenly I realized: I could've climbed up that pole and literally looked down into Maya's yard anytime I wanted. But I didn't need to anymore.

The vitamin gummies were still sitting on my nightstand when I got home, next to my phone with five unread texts from the new group chat. Maya had sent them: "who's down for padel tomorrow??"

I grabbed a gummy. I swallowed it without water. And for the first time all summer, I didn't feel like I was watching from the outside.