(Sample post: the people and events in this story are made up for display purposes.)
We moved suburbs right before Year 9, so I started at a new school. The hardest part of week one wasn’t classes. It was lunch. Everyone already had their spots and their people. I’d do a lap of the oval with my lunchbox, then end up on the library steps pretending to scroll my phone.
In week two I saw a poster: “Badminton Club — beginners welcome, racquets provided.” I’d hit around with my dad a few times as a kid, so I figured I’d be fine. At my first session I served ten times. Nine went into the net. One flew over the fence onto the basketball court.
The girl across from me, Priya, didn’t laugh. She walked over and said, “You’re gripping it like an ice cream you’re scared of dropping.” She showed me how to loosen my wrist. My serve was still terrible by the end, but we walked to the front gate together.
After that, every Thursday before training we’d eat lunch outside the gym. She brought her mum’s samosas, I brought dumplings, and by week three we were swapping. She called dumplings “little hugs you can eat.” I called samosas “spicy triangles.” Pretty soon two more club members joined our Thursday lunch crew.
At the end of term the club ran a friendly tournament. Priya and I played doubles and got knocked out in round one. Not a pretty score. But in that game I hit one clean serve that just kissed the top of the net and dropped in. Priya screamed louder than if we’d won the whole thing.
I barely remember how awkward those first weeks felt now. If you’re the new kid somewhere: you don’t have to be good at something to join a club. Sometimes a serve into the net is how a friendship starts.