Bear Witness to Summer

My dad calls me Bear, ever since I was little and lumbered around the house with my stubby legs and fuzzy curls. Now fifteen, the nickname sticks like gum to a shoe, especially on the baseball field where I play right field—the position for people who can't hit, can't catch, but can definitely dream.

"You got this, Bear," Maya whispers, elbowing me as we stretch before gym class. "Just don't think about it."

Easy for her to say. Maya's hair cascades down her back like something from a shampoo commercial, while mine's this awkward in-between stage from when I tried to dye it blue myself and ended up with this weird gray-green situation that my mom says makes me look like I'm suffering from vitamin deficiency. Which is why I now religiously take those neon orange gummy vitamins every morning, like they're somehow going to fix everything that's wrong with me.

The real problem isn't my hair or my vitamins or even that I strike out literally every time I'm at bat. The problem is that I've become something of a spy. I can't help it. During fifth period, I sit diagonally across from Jordan—Maya's older brother who graduated last year—and I've mapped out his entire schedule like I'm conducting surveillance. I know when he gets coffee (7:45 AM, exactly), when he walks his dog (never, his mom does it), and when he's probably scrolling through his phone at red lights.

It's creepy. I know it's creepy. But I can't stop.

"You're staring again," Maya says at lunch, sliding her tray onto the table. "Jordan's not even here."

I flush. "I wasn't—"

"You were totally spying. You're like, obsessed." She pops a grape in her mouth. "Just talk to him already."

But that's the thing—what would I even say? Hey, I know you get coffee at 7:45 AM and I think about your forearms way more than is probably healthy?

That afternoon at baseball practice, Coach pulls me aside. "Bear, you're overthinking it. You're bearing down too hard." He laughs at his own pun. I don't. "Just relax. Let it happen."

But that's never been my strength. Relaxing. Letting things happen.

Until it does.

I'm walking home from practice, still in my uniform, hair helmet-matted with sweat, when Jordan's truck pulls up beside me. He rolls down the window.

"Hey Bear," he says, like he's been waiting for the perfect moment to use my nickname. "You want a ride?"

I stand there clutching my backpack with my vitamin bottle rattling inside, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break out. "Sure."

He leans over and pushes the door open. I climb in, and his truck smells like coffee and the ocean. My hair is a disaster. I'm sweaty. I'm still wearing my baseball cleats.

"Your hair's cool," he says, pulling away from the curb. "Did you dye it?"

"Tried to," I manage. "It didn't really work."

"Nah, it works." He glances over. "It looks like you're not trying too hard. Like you just don't care what anyone thinks."

I stare at him. Is that what it looks like? Because that's not how it feels at all.

"That's what I want," Jordan says, turning onto my street. "To not care what anyone thinks. You're brave, Bear."

He drops me off at my driveway, and I watch his truck pull away, my hand pressed to my chest where my heart is finally slowing down. Maybe tomorrow I'll actually dye my hair properly. Maybe tomorrow I'll stop spying from the sidelines. Or maybe I'll just keep showing up, bearing whatever comes next, one vitamin gummy and one baseball practice at a time.