What the Sphinx Knows

My hair had never betrayed me until three days before freshman year. I woke up, looked in the mirror, and there it was — a cowlick the size of Texas, sticking straight up like it had its own personality. Mom said it'd settle. It didn't. By day one, I was already the new kid with the science experiment on his head.

Then came padel practice. I'd played back in Oregon, but this was California — where everyone played like they were training for the Olympics. The coach paired me with Sasha, who looked like she ate nervous freshmen for breakfast. Her dark ponytail swung like a weapon as she smashed balls I couldn't even track.

"You bear left," she'd snapped after my third missed shot. "I've got right. Simple."

I couldn't tell if she was flirting or threatening me. Either way, I couldn't focus. My hair kept falling in my eyes, and I was pretty sure the entire team was placing bets on when I'd face-plant.

After practice, I found her sitting on the bench behind the courts, with this massive orange cat curled beside her like it owned the place. The cat watched me with eyes that looked way too knowing, like some sphinx from mythology class waiting to judge my worthiness.

"His name's Buster," she said, surprising me. "He's a judgmental sphinx, but he grows on you."

I sat down, careful not to disturb the cat. "I'm not great at this whole 'being cool' thing."

She laughed, and it sounded real. "Nobody is. We're all just pretending." She scratched behind Buster's ears. "Your hair's not that bad. It has character."

"Character?"

"Yeah. It says, 'I don't care what you think.' That's powerful." She stood up, grabbed her bag. "Same time tomorrow? Try not to bear the weight of the world on every shot. Just play."

I walked home with hair still refusing to cooperate, somehow lighter than before. Maybe freshman year wouldn't be so bad after all.