Sweaty Palms and Smash Hits

Maya's palms were sweating so much she could practically start her own water park. She stood at the edge of the padel court, clutching the rented racquet like it was a foreign object she'd never figure out how to use.

"You got this, May!" Jake called from across the net, his grin so bright it was annoying. Of course he'd be good at padel—he was good at everything. Meanwhile, Maya had spent her entire life successfully avoiding anything involving balls, coordination, or people watching her attempt either.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Probably the group chat blowing up about tonight's party. The one she'd been debating going to for, like, three weeks. Social situations were basically just swimming in the deep end without knowing if anyone would notice if you drowned.

"Serve!" someone yelled.

Maya tossed the ball up, missed completely, and nearly whacked herself in the forehead. The entire court erupted in laughter—including her. Something about looking like a total loser in front of nineteen people made her realize perfection wasn't worth the stress she'd been carrying all freshman year.

"Again," she said, surprising herself.

By game three, she was diving for balls, hair a disaster, lipstick long gone. When she finally smashed a winner past Jake's outstretched racquet, the team rushed her like she'd won the Olympics.

"WHERE has that been all day?" Jake yelled, actually impressed.

Later, Maya stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror—frizzy hair, smudged mascara, grass stains on her new shorts. And for the first time in forever, she didn't want to fix anything.

Her palm pressed against her phone screen as she typed into the group chat: "I'm in tonight."

Sometimes the best way to stop drowning was just to jump in the deep end.