The Summer I Swallowed

I stood at the baseline of the padel court, my borrowed racket feeling like a foreign object in my hands. The country club summer program had been my mom's idea—something about "expanding my horizons" and "making connections." Meanwhile, my dad was probably at the municipal baseball field, coaching his travel team in his stained mesh shorts and that hat he'd worn since I was eight.

"You're gripping it too tight, bro," said Chase, whose family actually owned a membership here. He smirked, tossing a ball up and serving it effortlessly against the back wall. It ricocheted with that satisfying thwok sound I couldn't seem to replicate.

"I'm used to baseball," I muttered, watching the ball bounce past me. "Different swing."

"Baseball?" Chase laughed, like I'd just revealed I collected stamps. "That's cute. Real sports use walls."

The worst part was that Maya was watching from the sidelines, her phone in hand, probably documenting my awkwardness for her Instagram story. She'd been giving me these looks all week—half amused, half something else I couldn't read.

After my third embarrassing serve attempt, I pretended I needed water. The clubhouse fountain wasn't working, so I headed toward the pool area, where I could drown my humiliation in actual water.

Maya appeared beside me at the edge of the pool. "You know Chase is only showing off because his dad's making him try out for varsity tennis."

I almost choked on my water. "For real?"

"He's terrified." She kicked off her slides and sat on the edge, feet dangling in the water. "So are you, if we're being honest."

The sun glinted off the pool's surface. Something about her being so honest made me feel less fake.

"My dad coaches baseball," I said. "I've spent every summer since I was six at dusty fields with cheap Gatorade and kids who call everyone 'dude.' This place? It's like being on a different planet."

Maya laughed. "Tell me about it. My parents are making me do junior lifeguard certification. I can barely swim a lap without hyperventilating."

"Wait, seriously?"

"Cross my heart." She splashed some water at me. "Want to know why I was watching you play padel?"

My stomach did that thing where it forgets how to be an organ. "Why?"

"Because you're the only one here who doesn't act like everything's a competition. Chase and his crew? They're keeping score of everything. Who's richer, who's better at sports, who got more DMs from random girls." She paused. "You're just... real."

I looked at my reflection in the water—stupid borrowed polo shirt, hair that refused to behave, the whole performance I'd been putting on for three weeks.

"Real," I repeated. "I've been pretending to know how to play padel for twenty-one days."

"Exactly." She stood up, water dripping from her feet. "Tomorrow, I'm teaching you to actually hit the ball. In exchange, you're helping me with my swimming anxiety. Deal?"

"Deal."

That night, I called my dad. "Can you bring my glove tomorrow? I think I might need to remind myself who I actually am."

He was quiet for a second. "You okay, kid?"

"Yeah," I said, and for the first time all summer, it wasn't a lie. "I think I finally am.".