When the Bull Served Papaya

The summer I turned fifteen, my mom got us memberships at Canyon Creek Country Club—her way of saying 'we've made it' after her promotion. Meanwhile, I was just trying not to drown in the polo-shirt sea.

'Try padel,' she'd said. 'It's like tennis but cooler.' Spoiler: it wasn't cooler. It was tennis's annoying little brother that wouldn't shut up about how indie it was.

The first day on the court, I served the ball straight into the fence. Three times. This guy Jake—upperclassman, varsity jacket even in July—watched from the sidelines, smirking like he'd personally invented athletic ability.

'Bro, that was tragic,' he called out. 'You running away or what?'

My face burned. I wanted to vanish into the expensive potted plants.

But then the weirdest thing happened. Jake walked over, picked up my racquet, and said, 'You're gripping it like you're scared of it. Here.' He spent twenty minutes fixing my stance, actually teaching me instead of roasting me.

Turned out Jake wasn't the bull I'd pinned him as. He was just a guy who talked too much when he was nervous.

Weeks passed. I got decent at padel. Jake and I started hanging out. One afternoon, we're at the club's smoothie bar, and I ordered something random off the menu—a papaya ginger blast because the name sounded like a Pokemon move.

Jake stared at it. 'What is that, a fruit salad in a cup?'

'Try it,' I said. 'Unless you're scared.'

He took a sip, made a face like he'd bitten into a lemon, then grinned. 'Okay, that's actually not mid. Don't tell anyone I said that.'

We ended up spending the rest of summer running between the padel courts and the smoothie bar, talking about everything except the fact that come September, he'd be a senior and I'd be back to being a nobody sophomore. Some things didn't need saying.

On the last day, Jake handed me his varsity jacket—temporarily, he said, while he 'ran' to the bathroom. I wore it for exactly forty-seven seconds, feeling like I'd finally crossed some invisible line into the world where people like Jake lived. The world where papaya smoothies weren't weird and I wasn't constantly waiting for someone to call me out for not belonging.

He came back, took the jacket, and didn't say anything about my ridiculous smile.

'Next summer,' he said. 'Padel rematch. You're going down.'

'You wish,' I shot back, already knowing I'd be counting down the days.

Sometimes the bull you're scared of is just another kid who's tired of playing his part too.