Thunder on the Court

My mom's obsessed with these neon orange **vitamin** gummies she swears will "unlock my potential." Potentially embarrass me, more like. But I choke them down every morning because, well, freshman year at Northwood High was already a disaster without adding "refuses mother's love" to my résumé of failures.

The social hierarchy here operates on one axis: **padel**. The tennis-squash hybrid that every rich kid's been playing since birth. I'd never held a racquet until two weeks ago when Maya—the sophomore who sits behind me in bio, wears vintage band tees, and has this laugh that dismantles my entire nervous system—invited me to hang with her group at the courts.

"Just for fun," she'd said. But nothing's ever "just for fun" when you're the only kid wearing Walmart athletic wear while everyone else is decked out in professional gear worth more than my college fund.

So here I am, Saturday morning, choking down my daily dose of neon-orange shame, heading to what's basically social suicide in racquet form.

The first game goes exactly as expected. I'm fumbling, missing easy returns, my face burning hotter with every失误. Maya's on my team, being frustratingly patient about my incompetence.

"You've got this," she whispers during a break, and my stomach does this full gymnastics routine.

Then it happens—this weird energy surge. Suddenly my reflexes are sharp. I'm returning shots I should miss. I'm actually, somehow, not terrible. The vitamin gummies? No way. That's ridiculous. I'm just... warmed up.

We're tied at match point when the sky opens up. A massive **lightning** strike crackles so close everyone jumps. The tournament's delayed. We're huddled under the covered area, shoulder to shoulder, while rain hammers the court.

"You're actually really good," Maya says, like she means it. "First time?"

"Yeah," I manage. "My mom thinks her vitamins are magic."

She laughs—that laugh—and everything tilts.

"Maybe she's right."

The storm passes. We go back out. We don't even win, but something shifts. Her number's in my phone by sunset. I'm still taking those stupid gummies every morning. Not because I think they work, but because now they remind me of rain and second chances and the way electricity feels when it's not just in the sky.