The Summer I Learned to Swing

I was totally gonna fake a stomachache to get out of the padel tournament. Like, who even is this sport? It's tennis's weird cousin that nobody talks about at family reunions.

'You're not gonna bail, right?' Marcus asked, wiping sweat from his forehead with the edge of his t-shirt. 'We're actually kinda crushing it.'

I looked down at my racquet. Somehow, someway, we'd made it to the semifinals of this weird summer camp tournament I'd only signed up for because my parents said I needed 'structured social interaction.' Whatever that means.

'I'm good,' I lied, immediately regretting everything.

That morning, I'd been caught in the most awkward moment of my life. I'd FaceTimed my best friend back home, and my parents' ancient cable connection kept cutting out right as I was explaining how I'd almost hooked up with that guy from the arts & crafts cabin. The call froze mid-sentence, leaving me talking to a pixelated version of myself while my little sister's face peeped into the frame, holding my old stuffed bear—Mr. Bubbles, whom I'd SWORN I'd packed at the very bottom of my bag where no one could see him.

'Is that your bear from when you were five?' she'd asked, her voice cracking through the terrible connection. 'Mom said you'd probably grown out of him.'

The whole cabin had heard. Marcus included.

But now, watching him actually believe I could help us win this thing, something shifted. Maybe it was the weird papaya I'd tried at breakfast—my first time tasting it, and I'd actually kinda liked it, despite the weird texture. Maybe it was that my sister had FaceTime-dropped Mr. Bubbles off at home, so he was safe.

Or maybe I was just done running away from stuff.

'Match point!' the counselor yelled from the sidelines.

I looked at Marcus. He nodded at me, this tiny, almost invisible nod that said I got this. And for the first time all summer, I didn't want to fake sick or hide or be anyone but myself.

I stepped toward the net, racquet raised.

Game on.