When the Lightning Hit

I looked like a total zombie. Three hours of sleep AP chem marathon will do that to you. But Maya wanted to practice padel before the regional tournament, and I wasn't about to bail on my doubles partner.

"You good, Em?" Maya asked, bouncing on her toes at the baseline. Her energy was infuriating.

"Peachy," I lied, adjusting my grip on the racket.

The court was packed. That's the thing about our school's social pyramid — the athletes at the top, everyone else watching from below. And here we were, two juniors trying to climb our way up through a racquet sport nobody's even heard of.

First point: I whiffed completely. Racket hit air. Maya's sister Vanessa, watching from the sidelines, cracked up.

"That's gotta be a new sport," she called. "Air padel."

"Shut up, Nessa," I muttered, cheeks burning. Vanessa was a senior, varsity captain, basically royalty. I was just the exhausted girl who couldn't decide if she wanted to be a scientist or an athlete or maybe just sleep for a week.

Then something shifted. Maybe my brain finally woke up. Maybe it was hearing Jake's voice from the fence — he was watching. Me. The guy I'd been lowkey crushing on since September was actually watching me play.

My next serve ripped down the line. In. Second serve, perfect placement. Maya's eyes went wide.

"Since when do you have a backhand like that?" she whispered between points.

Since I realized I didn't have to be just one thing. Since I figured out that the whole social pyramid thing is BS anyway.

We won the practice match 6-2. Jake high-fived me at the net. His hand was warm, and for a second, everything blurred at the edges like someone had taken a flash photo in my brain. Lightning-struck, that's what Maya would call it. The feeling of everything and nothing making sense at once.

"Same time tomorrow?" Maya asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah," I said, and meant it. "Same time tomorrow."

Maybe being a tired, confused, slightly dramatic teenager wasn't so bad after all. Sometimes, when you least expect it, you figure out who you're becoming — one backhand at a time.