The Bear in the Room

The problem with swimming competitively since age seven is that everyone thinks you're part fish. They don't see the kid who still sleeps with the stuffed bear his dead grandmother gave him. They don't see the massive target on your back.

So when Maya—new girl, sophomore, literally gorgeous—invited me to play padel after school, I should've said I had practice. But Maya smiled and suddenly I was committing social suicide.

Padel court. Wednesday. The universe testing me.

I showed up in my swimsuit because, lol, time management. Maya's cousin Zara was there too—varsity tennis, scary good, probably smelled my fear.

"You play barefoot?" Zara asked, gesturing at my feet.

"It's how I roll," I said smoothly, while internally screaming.

The first ten minutes were humiliation in motion. I kept swinging at air. Maya laughed, but like, actually laughed, not mean-laughed. Then Zara crushed a ball toward my face and my swimmer instincts kicked in—I dove, rolled, and popped up ready to stroke.

"Dude," Maya said. "You just swam on land."

"That's not a thing," I said, but my face was burning.

Then it happened—my phone slid out of my pocket, screen showing my lock screen: me, age six, hugging the bear.

Dead silence.

"Is that..." Zara started.

"His name is Barnaby," I said, because at this point, what did dignity matter anymore? "He was my grandma's. He's seen some things."

Maya picked up my phone, studied the photo. "My brother has a stuffed dog. He's seventeen."

"Really?"

"He calls him Kevin."

We sat on the court for an hour, swapping embarrassing stories. Zara once cried at a petting zoo. Maya tried to cut her own bangs in seventh grade. It turned out that none of us had it figured out—that everyone was faking confidence while secretly feeling like a awkward kid holding onto something that made them feel safe.

We're playing padel again next Wednesday. I'm bringing extra racquets. Maya might bring Barnaby.

Okay, maybe not that last part. Baby steps.