When the Ball Drops

Maya felt like a zombie walking into her first day at Oak Ridge High. Three hours of sleep + anxiety triple-shot = actual walking dead. Her old friends back in Miami felt light years away, and this Colorado suburb felt like a different planet.

"You joining the club meeting?" A girl with perfect curls and a Stanford sweatshirt appeared beside her at lunch. "We're all going to play padel after school. You should come!"

Padel. Whatever that was. Maya nodded like she totally knew what they were talking about, because that's what you do when you're the new kid and you'd literally rather die than ask.

"My mom packs these weird snacks," the girl continued, pulling out a Tupperware. "Something called papaya. Wanna try?"

Maya's stomach did this weird flip thing. Papaya. Her abuela used to cut it fresh for breakfast, squeezing lime over the top while telling stories about Cuba in the 60s. She hadn't had papaya since the move—since everything fell apart last spring.

"Actually," Maya said, her voice stronger than she felt, "papaya's bomb with Tajín. Do you have any?"

The girl's eyes went wide, like this was the most brilliant thing she'd ever heard. "No way. That sounds fire."

Something shifted. Maya wasn't just the new girl anymore, doing the zombie nod-along-to-everything routine. She was sharing something real. Something from home.

After school, she learned that padel was like tennis meets squash, and she kind of loved it. She missed every shot, laughed so hard her stomach hurt, and when Tara (that was the girl's name) produced Tajín from her backpack like it was contraband, they sprinkled it over the papaya together.

"You're honestly not like, terrible at this," Tara said as they walked home. "For a zombie, anyway."

Maya smiled for the first time all day. "Yeah, well. Even zombies need hobbies."