The Summer I Sort of Died

The spinach smoothie sat in front of me like a green radioactive mistake.

"Drink up, champ," my dad said, way too cheerful for 7 AM on the first day of summer break. "It's your growth spurt fuel."

I stared at it. Last year, I'd been the smallest kid on the padel court, getting served by eighth graders who barely reached my shoulders. This summer, everything was supposed to be different. I was supposed to be different.

But instead of becoming someone new, I just felt like a zombie.

Three hours of sleep will do that to you.

"Your phone's dead again," Mom pointed out. I looked down at the frayed charging cable that I'd been meaning to replace since February. It only worked if I positioned it at exactly forty-five degrees and didn't breathe.

"It's fine," I muttered, though it wasn't fine. My phone was my lifeline. The group chat. The plans. HER.

Because that was the other thing: Maya was finally going to notice me this summer. That was the plan. The one I'd been replaying in my head since January.

The plan failed immediately.

At the community center, everyone was already there. Including Maya, looking effortless in a tank top and shorts, laughing at something Jake said. Jake, who'd grown six inches over winter break. Jake, whose serve could dent cars. Jake, who didn't need spinach smoothies to be.

Alright.

I picked up a racquet and stepped onto the padel court. The ball whizzed past my ear. Someone yelled something that might have been encouragement but sounded like a threat.

Then my little sister came bursting in, clutching Bear-Bear – that gross, chewed-up stuffed animal she'd had since she was two, the one missing an eye and an ear.

"MARCUSSS," she wailed. "Bear-Bear has an OWIE."

"Bear-Bear has been through a lot," I said, taking him. The stuffing was coming out of his side like he'd survived an explosion.

"Fix it," she demanded.

And the weirdest thing happened – Maya came over.

"Oh my god, Bear-Bear," she said. "I remember when you got that. Your birthday party at the zoo?"

She remembered my birthday party. In fourth grade.

"Yeah," I said, fumbling with Bear-Bear's stuffing. "He's been through some stuff."

Maya sat down beside me. "My bunny's missing a whole leg. My dad tried to fix it but he used this super obvious pink thread. It looks like Frankenstein's pet rabbit now."

We sat there fixing stuffed animals while everyone else played padel. And it was okay. Better than okay.

Later, I caught my reflection in a store window. Green smoothie mustache, dark circles under my eyes, holding my sister's disgusting stuffed bear. I looked like a zombie who'd been through a blender.

But for the first time in forever, I didn't feel like I needed to be someone else.

"Hey," Maya said as we left. "You want to come over tomorrow? We could watch movies. My parents got this new cable package with like a million channels."

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I'd like that."

And the spinach smoothie? It actually wasn't that bad.