Bearing the Weight

Maya's golden retriever, Buster, had been her emotional support dog since seventh grade, but even Buster couldn't fix what happened at lunch that day. The cafeteria incident had spread through school like wildfire, her iPhone blowing up with notifications she couldn't bear to check. "Everyone saw, Maya. You looked like a total loser," her so-called friends had whispered.

She'd volunteered to pitch for the charity baseball game—something way out of her comfort zone. Then she'd choked. Hard. The ball had sailed directly into the school mascot's head, knocking the giant bear costume clean off Mr. Henderson, the physics teacher who was definitely not supposed to be inside.

"That was absolute bull, Maya," Tyler had sneered, using the word like he always did when something was unfair, which apparently included her existence.

Now she sat on the edge of her bed, Buster resting his head on her knee, thumb hovering over her phone. Should she delete social media? Transfer schools? Move to Antarctica?

Buster nudged her hand with his wet nose, and something shifted. She thought about Mr. Henderson—how he'd just laughed, put the bear head back on, and kept walking. How her mom had said, "The only people who matter are the ones who show up when you're down."

Maya opened her contacts, scrolled past the fair-weather friends, and found Jasmine's number—the quiet girl from art class who'd actually asked if she was okay after the game.

"Wanna hang out?" she typed.

Two minutes later: "Absolutely. My place. I have snacks."

Maybe she'd struck out socially, but Maya was starting to realize something: the people worth having in your lineup aren't the ones who cheer when you hit home runs. They're the ones who stick around when you swing and miss.

Buster woofed like he agreed. Maya finally smiled, then posted a pic of the two of them on her Instagram story. Watch me bear this moment, she thought. I'm done playing it safe.