Three Seconds of Air

The goldfish—whose name was technically Captain Finbeard but whom I just called Fish—stared at me through the glass with what looked like judgment. Probably because I was having a full-blown existential crisis at 10:47 PM on a Tuesday.

"Okay, here's the situation," I whispered, pressing my forehead against the cool tank. "My mom's making me join the padel team because apparently 'socialization' is something normal teenagers do, but I don't even know what padel IS."

Fish did a slow, pitying blink.

"And also," I continued, "I might be kind of in love with Maya, but she's literally the most popular girl in tenth grade and I'm... well, I'm currently having a conversation with a fish."

Fish swam away. Point taken.

The next morning, I found myself at the padel courts, wearing my older brother's old baseball cleats because I'd refused to buy actual padel shoes. Padel turned out to be tennis's weird cousin who studied abroad and came back with a Scandinavian accent. The court had walls. Why did it have walls?

"You're holding the racket like it's a weapon," said a voice behind me.

I turned around and there was Maya, wearing actual professional padel attire and looking effortlessly gorgeous in that way that makes you hate yourself a little.

"It IS a weapon," I said, then immediately wanted to die. "I mean—"

She laughed, and it was this genuine, surprised sound that made my chest do something embarrassing. "Fair. But you're standing like you're waiting for a baseball pitch. This is different. You have to be ready to move sideways, not just forward."

"Baseball," I said intelligently.

"You play?"

"Used to. Before I..." I shrugged. "Before I decided being invisible was safer."

Something shifted in her expression. Understanding.

Then I heard it—a familiar jingling sound.

"No," I said. "No, no, no."

My cat, Pancake, came BOLTING onto the padel court like she'd been training for this moment her entire life. Someone must have left the front door open. Now, normally Pancake moved with the energy of a depressed sloth, but apparently the smell of outdoor freedom had transformed her into Usain Bolt.

"Is that...?" Maya started.

"My cat. Yes. Her name is Pancake. I don't make the rules."

Pancake was now running laps around the padel court, weaving through people's legs, living her absolute best life. I chased her, dying inside, while half the team watched and Maya—bless her—was trying so hard not to laugh that she was turning purple.

I finally tackled Pancake (gently) near the fence, where she'd stopped to investigate a particularly interesting leaf. As I scooped her up, she let out this tiny, offended meow.

"That," I said to Maya, "was the most embarrassing moment of my life."

"Really?" She tilted her head. "Because I thought it was kind of amazing."

"...Excuse me?"

"You just ran after your cat in front of everyone without hesitating," she said. "That's... actually pretty brave."

She was smiling, but not like she was making fun of me. Like she meant it.

"Also," she added, "I've had that exact same goldfish for three years. His name is Captain Finbeard."

I stared at her.

"Wait—"

"You talk to him when you're stressed," she said. "Don't even try to deny it."

I closed my eyes. "You heard me? Through his tank?"

"My bedroom's right above yours. The walls are thin."

I was going to melt into the pavement. This was it. This was how I ended.

"But," she continued, "I also heard you practicing for this. Your speech about how you were going to 'fake it till you make it' and 'believe in yourself' even though you were terrified."

I opened my eyes. She was looking at me differently now.

"So," she said, handing me a padel racket, "wanna show me your baseball swing? Bet you can translate it to padel."

Pancake purred in my arms. Somewhere, a fish was probably judging me.

But for the first time in forever, I didn't feel like running away.