The Riddle at Court 4

Brook strapped on her padel racket with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. Court 4. The cool kids' court. Somehow she'd landed here after months of being invisible, thanks to Jordan deciding they were friend material now.

"You got this, Brook," Jordan called from across the net, all effortless confidence and expensive sneakers. Everyone was watching—Lena with her perfect spin serves, Marcus who'd already gotten his varsity letter, even old Mr. Henderson walking his dog past the chain-link fence like he hadn't been doing this same circuit since Brook was in diapers.

The dog—some golden retriever mix—paused and stared at her with what felt like judgment. Great, even the neighborhood pets knew she didn't belong.

"So," Lena said between volleys, all casual-like, "you coming to Tyler's party Friday?"

A test. A sphinx-level riddle disguised as small talk. Say yes and risk looking desperate for approval she hadn't earned. Say no and cement herself as uncool forever. Brook's cat, Miso, would've batted at this stupid social trap until it fell apart. Cats didn't play games.

The ball came at her—a perfect opportunity to dodge the question. Brook swung. Missed. The racket bounced off the plexiglass wall with a hollow CLUNK that echoed through all six courts.

"My bad," she muttered, face burning.

"It's cool," Jordan said, but there was this look exchanged between the others. That micro-expression that said everything and nothing at once. Brook knew that look. She'd worn it herself when someone new tried to sit at their lunch table last semester.

The golden retriever barked, like, *go home, kid, you're trying too hard.*

Brook straightened up. Something clicked—not the racket, something inside. Miso wouldn't have cared about being accepted. Miso would've knocked over all their fancy water bottles and demanded treats like she deserved them.

"Actually," Brook said, bouncing the ball, "I'm helping my sister move into her dorm Friday. She's starting at State."

It wasn't a lie. Her sister was starting college—just not until spring semester. But suddenly the truth felt negotiable, like tennis scorekeeping.

"Oh, nice," Lena said, and this time the look was different. "State's got a solid engineering program."

The ball came again. Brook didn't overthink it. She just swung, and this time—*thwack*—perfect.

"Anyway," she called across the net, grinning now, "rematch Tuesday? Bring your A-game."

Jordan laughed. "You're on."

As they packed up, Brook caught Mr. Henderson's eye. He gave her this little salute, like he'd seen everything and understood more than anyone. The dog wagged its tail.

Maybe fitting in wasn't about solving the riddle perfectly. Maybe it was about being brave enough to answer wrong and swing anyway.