The Padel Court Spy

I'd become a professional at being invisible. Three weeks ago, Maya and I were practically joined at the hip, eating overpriced frozen yogurt and complaining about geometry tests like our lives depended on it. Then she discovered padel.

Now I'm crouched behind the chain-link fence like a total creeper, watching her laugh at something Jake—the gorgeous, tall Jake with hair that actually behaves—just said. My stomach does that awful twisting thing. This is what I've been reduced to: a spy in my own social circle, watching my former best friend live her best life without me.

The orange padel ball whizzes past Maya's racquet. She's wearing that ridiculous orange headband I gave her for her birthday last month, back when we were still us. Back when I thought orange was her color because she made everything look vibrant and alive. Now it just feels like she's mocking me from across the court.

"You again?"

I jump. It's Leo, the weird kid from my bio class who always sits in the back and smells faintly of peppermint.

"I'm not—"

"Spying?" He raises an eyebrow, pulling a crumpled paper bag from his backpack. "It's okay. I do it too. Sometimes."

He extends the bag toward me. "Goldfish? The snack, not actual fish. Though my sister's goldfish once survived for three years in a bowl that barely got cleaned. That fish had more resilience than my entire extended family."

I take a handful, mostly because my brain is still processing how we went from spying accusation to goldfish trivia in approximately three seconds.

"She's different now," I say, watching Maya high-five Jake. "Like, completely different person different."

"People aren't static," Leo says, chewing thoughtfully. "They're more like—" He gestures with the goldfish bag. "—processes. My mom says growth looks like betrayal from the inside."

That hits me in the chest. Growth looks like betrayal.

"You should come back next week," Leo says unexpectedly. "I have this theory about Jake's backhand. Also, I bring the cheddar goldfish, not that nasty pretzel kind."

I stare at him, then back at Maya, who's now wiping sweat from her forehead with her orange headband, grinning like she hasn't been sad a day in her life.

Maybe, I think, maybe growing up doesn't have to mean growing apart. Maybe it just means finding new people to sit on the sidelines with, eating goldfish and judging other people's form.

"Next week," I say. "But only if you promise to bring the cheddar kind."