The Padel Court Protocol

The summer before sophomore year, my parents dragged us to the Grand Palm Resort, where I spent most days hiding in our suite, doom-scrolling on my iPhone. Then I saw him — Lucas, the padel instructor with sun-streaked hair and a smile that made my stomach do cartwheels.

"You should join the clinic," my mom said, practically pushing me toward the courts. "It's basically tennis, but cooler."

Cooler meant wearing shorts that showed my pale knees and swinging a racquet like I was fighting off bees. But Lucas was teaching the intermediate group, so I signed up. Bad idea.

The first day, I tripped over my own feet, sent a ball flying into the snack bar, and got hit in the forehead with a serve. Everyone laughed. Not the cute, awkward laugh — the brutal, junior high laugh that echoes in your nightmares.

"You okay?" Lucas asked afterward, all genuine concern while I died inside.

"Fine," I squeaked. "Just... adjusting."

That evening, I sat by the resort pool, eating alone. The papaya in my fruit salad looked suspicious, like something that might judge me for my lack of athletic ability. I poked it with my fork.

"Mind if I join?" Lucas stood there, holding his padel bag and somehow making it look good.

We talked for two hours. About music, about how much he hated math, about how his parents expected him to get a tennis scholarship when he really wanted to study marine biology. My phone buzzed repeatedly — my friends demanding stories, my mom wondering where I was — but I ignored it. The charging cable lay forgotten in my room.

"You know," Lucas said, "you're actually not terrible at padel. You just need confidence."

"That's literally not true," I laughed. "I'm terrible at basically everything athletic."

"So? I'm terrible at chemistry. We can't all be good at everything."

The next day, I went back to the clinic. Still tripped. Still hit balls into orbit. But when Lucas's cousin made a snarky comment about my form, I shot back, "Yeah, well at least I don't need a calculator to figure out my own age."

Silence. Then Lucas's cousin started laughing. "Okay, that was actually good."

By the end of summer, I hadn't fallen in love or become athletic or figured out my whole life. But I'd made friends who liked me for being awkwardly funny instead of just awkward. I'd learned that palm trees look best when you're watching sunset with people who get your jokes. And I'd discovered that sometimes the worst moments — the ones that make you want to hide in your room forever — are just the setup for something better.

Also, papaya actually grows on you. Eventually.