When Zombies Serve Papaya

I looked like a zombie. Literally. The Halloween makeup tutorial I'd followed at 2 AM had seemed foolproof, but now I just looked exhausted. Which, honestly, I was.

"You're going to be great," Maya said, double-knotting the drawstring of my running shorts. We were at the community center, where she'd somehow convinced me to join her padel clinic. Padel, because apparently tennis wasn't enough of a struggle for my coordination.

"I'm going to die," I said.

"You're not gonna die. You're gonna dominate."

My phone buzzed. A text from my mom: Your cat knocked over the papaya we bought. Kitchen counter is now a crime scene.

I groaned. "Classic Mr. Whiskers."

"Your cat has beef with tropical fruit?"

"He has beef with everything that's not his food bowl."

The instructor called us over. His nametag read COACH RODRIGUEZ. He had the kind of easy confidence that made me want to simultaneously impress him and hide.

"Alright, everyone, partner up!"

Maya was already across the court, waving her racket at me. I wiped my sweaty palms on my shorts and walked over.

"We got this," she said, but I noticed her hand was shaking a little too.

The first ball came at me, and I whiffed completely. Racket hit air. I stumbled forward, nearly faceplanting.

"Nice form, zombie boy," someone called. The whole court laughed.

I felt my face burn. But then Maya was there, stepping in front of me.

"Again," she said to me, loud enough for everyone to hear. "You're gonna hit this next one."

She tossed the ball up, perfect and easy. I adjusted my grip, palms still slippery but steady now. I thought about Mr. Whiskers knocking over that papaya, how he didn't care that he'd made a mess. He just shook it off and kept being his chaotic self.

I swung. The ball connected with a satisfying THWACK and sailed over the net, landing right in the corner.

"YEAH!" Maya screamed, grabbing my hand and jumping up and down. "DID YOU SEE THAT?"

Coach Rodriguez nodded approvingly. "Natural form."

After class, we sat on a bench outside, palms finally steady, legs exhausted in the best way. The papaya incident had wait-listed itself in my brain, replaced by something else: the way Maya had stood up for me, the way my racket had felt in my hands when I stopped overthinking it.

"Same time next week?" she asked.

"Absolutely," I said, and meant it. The zombie makeup was still streaked across my face, but I'd never felt more alive.