Swallowing the Truth

I stood at the padel court, racket feeling like a foreign object in my sweaty grip. Jamie stood across the net, grinning like she hadn't just completely ditched me for the popular crowd three weeks ago.

"Ready to get crushed?" she called out, spinning on one heel like this was some kind of performance.

My stomach did that thing where it feels like a goldfish flopping around in a bowl too small for it. Since when did Jamie even play padel? Since when did anyone at Lincoln High play padel?

"Since when are you athletic?" I shot back, but it came out weak, barely audible over the thwack of balls from adjacent courts.

She shrugged. "New year, new me, you know?" Then her face softened, just a fraction. "Thought we could, like... reconnect."

The goldfish in my stomach started doing backflips. reconnect? After she'd left me sitting alone at lunch like I was invisible?

"Sure," I heard myself saying. "Let's play."

We played. I missed every shot. She didn't let a single ball past. But it wasn't about the score, not really. It was about how we used to spend hours talking about everything—how we both hated that our moms made us eat spinach because "it'll make you strong," how we promised we'd never be those people who abandoned their real friends for better seating arrangements in the cafeteria.

"Hey," Jamie said afterward as we sat on the bench, both exhausted. "Remember when we fed my goldfish that spinach smoothie because we thought it needed vegetables?"

I almost smiled. "It died, like, two days later."

"Okay, in my defense, we were eleven."

The sky was turning that weird orange color it gets before sunset, the kind that makes everything look cinematic and important. My phone buzzed in my pocket—probably my mom wondering where I was, probably asking if I'd eaten anything green today.

"Why'd you ask me to play?" I asked, looking at the court instead of her. "You have, like, way cooler friends now."

Jamie was quiet for a long time. "They're not cooler," she finally said. "They're just... louder. And sometimes I miss being quiet with someone who actually gets it."

The goldfish stopped flopping. Something else settled there instead—not comfortable exactly, but real.

"Your shot was terrible," I said, standing up.

"Your serve was worse," she countered, and for the first time in three weeks, something felt okay again.

"Same time next week?"

"Bring your A game," she said, but she was smiling, really smiling, not that performative thing she'd been doing all month.

"No promises," I called back, walking toward the orange-tinged parking lot. "But I'll be there."