Between Innings

The cafeteria at Northwood High smelled like regret and microwave lasagna, but there I was, holding a Tupperware container of **spinach** leaves like they were radioactive.

"You're actually doing the crunch thing?" Maya raised an eyebrow, her phone propped against her chocolate milk. "Since when do you eat rabbit food?"

"Since Jordan from the baseball team said he likes girls who take care of themselves." I stabbed a leaf with my fork. "And also, I'm trying this new thing where I don't hate myself constantly. Mixed motivations."

Maya snorted. "Bestie, Jordan thinks a balanced meal is Doritos with two different sodas. But if the **spinach** agenda gets you to talk to him, I support your journey."

That's when I saw him—Jordan, wearing his jersey like it was made of sunlight, walking toward our table. I choked on a leaf. Maya slapped my back way too hard.

"Hey." His voice was exactly like every coming-of-age movie promised. "You're coming to the game Friday, right?"

"Wouldn't miss it," I squeaked. "Love baseball. The sport. The... whole baseball situation."

Why did I say it like that? Why am I like this?

Friday arrived in a blur of anxiety emojis and outfit changes. Maya and I sat in the bleachers, surrounded by screaming students and the scent of cheap popcorn. The game was epic—bottom of the ninth, two outs, Jordan at bat.

He swung. Crack. The ball soared toward left field—directly at us.

I caught it.

I, who dropped my phone twice daily, who tripped over nothing, who had zero athletic coordination—caught the ball. The crowd went wild. Maya grabbed my shoulders and shook me.

After the game, Jordan found me by the snack stand. "That catch? Insane. You saved the game."

"Just lucky," I said, trying to play it cool while internally screaming.

"You want to hang out sometime? Maybe get **papaya** sorbet? There's that place downtown, my mom says they use real fruit."

"Papaya sorbet." I blinked. "That's so... random. I love random."

"Cool." He grinned. "You're not like other girls."

Later, as I recounted everything to Maya via FaceTime, she stopped me mid-sentence.

"Wait. He said you're not like other girls? That's the biggest red flag since the Trojan Horse. Run."

"But papaya sorbet sounds exotic though," I argued. "Like I'm someone who tries new things. Someone interesting."

"You ARE interesting. You caught a baseball at your first game ever. You don't need exotic fruit to prove it." Maya paused. "Also, papaya tastes like soap. You're welcome."

I stared at my ceiling, thinking about how I'd tried to change myself for a boy who probably thought 'exotic' meant 'from another aisle at Trader Joe's.' How I'd choked down spinach to impress someone who thought a compliment was comparing me to other girls.

The next day, I sat with Maya at lunch. No spinach. Just regular food, regular conversation, regular me.

"So," Maya said, sliding her phone toward me. "There's this new kid in chorus. Super awkward. terrible taste in music but somehow cool with it."

I looked at where she was pointing—a guy wearing a vintage band t-shirt, sitting alone and unbothered.

"I think I'll say hi," I said.

Maya grinned. "Now that's a plot twist I can get behind."