The Spinach Serve

I'd been hiding behind the dumpster at the community center for twenty minutes, my iPhone clutched in a sweaty death grip. Mom had signed me up for the beginner padel clinic without asking, obviously not realizing that at fourteen, being the worst player in a group of strangers was basically social suicide.

"You coming in or what?" A girl with neon green hair leaned out the back door, grinning. "I'm Riley. That your cat?"

I looked down. Mittens had followed me, of course—my orange tabby who believed she was a dog and that public parks were her personal kingdom. She was currently batting a spinach leaf across the pavement like it was a toy mouse. The spinach had fallen out of my smoothie, the one I'd chugged in a panic hoping the green color would make me look athletic.

"She's... friendly," I said, as Mittens pounced on the leaf and slid straight into Riley's sandals.

"Cool cat. Come on, no one's actually good at padel. It's mostly just an excuse to hang out." Riley held the door. "Plus, you've got a genuine excuse if you suck—you can blame it on the spinach trauma."

My face burned. I'd walked around with green stuff in my teeth for half of lunch period once. It was legendary.

"You heard about that?"

"Dude, it's the stuff of myth." Riley winked. "But seriously, come in. Theo's teaching this trick shot, and I bet you could nail it. It's all wrist."

I followed her in, Mittens trotting after us like she owned the place. The other kids looked up—some familiar faces from school, some strangers. None of them were looking at me like I was lame. They were just... waiting.

Riley tossed me a racquet. The grip felt solid in my hand, like maybe this wasn't going to be a disaster.

"Watch," she said, as Mittens curled up on the bench and began grooming spinach off her paw. "Cat's got better form than most of us."

For the first time all day, my iPhone stayed in my pocket. I picked up a ball. I didn't check my notifications. I didn't worry about looking stupid. I just served.

And somewhere in the swing, between the wrist flick Riley had showed me and Mittens judging from the sidelines, I realized something: being the kid who brought a cat to padel practice was way better than being the kid who hid behind a dumpster.