The Summer of Padel & Papaya

The membership card burned in my pocket like a bad secret. Mom's new boyfriend had gotten us into Pinecrest Club for the summer, and suddenly I was supposed to care about **pool** etiquette and whether my shorts were past the appropriate length. Which, apparently, they weren't.

"You're staring again," said Riley, appearing beside me at the edge of the tennis courts. She had this way of materializing out of nowhere, like she'd been watching and waiting for the right moment.

"I'm not staring," I lied. "I'm observing. There's a difference."

"You're totally staring at the **padel** court like it's alien technology." She grinned, all teeth and mischief. "It's basically tennis mixed with squash, but with way cuter outfits. Want me to teach you?"

I should've said no. I was the new girl, the scholarship kid at a club where everyone's parents owned something called "holding companies." But Riley had these eyes that dared you to say yes to things you'd normally talk yourself out of.

"My **baseball** swing is gonna translate perfectly, I'm sure," I said, and she laughed so hard she snorted.

Turned out padel was nothing like baseball. My first serve hit the net with such impressive awkwardness that a group of guys in pastel polos actually stopped their conversation to watch. But Riley kept teaching me, kept feeding me balls like I wasn't hopelessly uncoordinated, kept acting like we were in on some joke nobody else got.

Two weeks later, we're sitting on the pool deck eating the most confusing lunch ever. She'd somehow convinced the kitchen to make **papaya** boats with lime and chili, and I was taking cautious bites while she watched like a proud scientist.

"It's basically nature's **vitamin**," she said when I made a face. "Your skin is gonna glow so hard, thank me later."

"It tastes like somebody made a fruit mad," I said, but I took another bite anyway because she was watching and that seemed like the thing to do.

That summer, I learned that some things don't translate. Baseball instincts don't help with padel. Being the new girl doesn't get easier just because someone nice talks to you. But sometimes you eat weird fruit with lime and chili because the person across from you has a laugh that makes you want to try things you swore you wouldn't.

The membership card in my pocket still felt like a bad secret. But Riley waving from the padel court, shouting my name like I belonged there? That part, weirdly, didn't feel fake at all.