Swing and a Miss

The papaya sat on my breakfast plate like an alien artifact. Orange, slimy, speckled with black seeds that looked like something you'd scrape off a shoe. Meanwhile, across the pool house, the cool kids were already gathering at the padel courts—rackets in hand, crop tops and linen shirts, looking like they'd stepped out of a TikTok I'd never get invited to.

"You gonna stare at it all day or actually eat it?" Jordan asked, dropping into the chair across from me. He was wearing those expensive sunglasses everyone had, the ones with the tiny logo that screamed 'my parents have money.' "It's literally just fruit, Mia."

"I know what it is," I lied. "I'm just... savoring."

He laughed. "You're so weird. We're playing padel at noon. You should come."

My stomach did that thing where it simultaneously dropped and soared. Padel—this tennis-paddle hybrid that everyone at Palm Springs Resort seemed obsessed with. I'd been watching them from my balcony all week, pretending to read while actually memorizing how they moved, how they laughed, how they belonged. The way a girl named Riley served, palm open toward the sky like she was catching sunshine. The way Jordan made everything look effortless, like breathing.

"I don't have a racket," I said, which was true. Also: I didn't know the rules. Also: I was terrified.

"We have extras." He stood up. "Be there. Seriously."

He walked away, and I finally tried the papaya. It was... fine. Sweet, kind of musky, not life-changing. But I ate it all because Jordan had noticed me. Jordan had INVITED me.

At noon, I showed up at the courts, wearing my oldest athletic clothes because everything else felt like trying too hard. Riley handed me a racket without even looking at me—just assumed I belonged there. That simple gesture almost made me cry.

"So," she said, bouncing on her toes, palm balanced on her racket handle like a pro. "You ever play?"

"Nope," I said, and the word hung there, naked and awkward. "Never."

"Cool," she said. And then, shocking me: "Me neither, last summer. It's not that deep."

We played. I was terrible—I missed balls, tripped over my own feet, hit it backwards once. But someone ordered papaya smoothies from the cabana, and Riley made a joke about how fruit salad was the real winner today, and for the first time all week, I laughed. Actually laughed, not the fake laugh I'd been using like armor.

Later, Jordan high-fived me—my palm stung from the impact, but I didn't care. "Same time tomorrow?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. "Tomorrow."

And just like that, the alien fruit on my plate started to taste like something I could get used to.