Carnival Gold and stolen Bases

Marcus stood on the pitcher's mound, sweat already prickling his hairline. Gym class baseball. Again. The leather glove felt foreign on his left hand, like he was wearing someone else's skin.

"You gonna throw it or marry it, Miller?" yelled Tyler from home plate, grinning like the absolute troll he was. The entire class snickered. Tyler had been giving Marcus grief since seventh grade when Marcus accidentally called him "Taylor" in front of everyone. Some grudges were immortal, like cockroaches or that one song that wouldn't die.

Marcus wound up and threw. The baseball sailed somewhere toward the fence—definitely not near the plate. More laughter. His face burned. He'd been dealing with this all year, ever since his dad got transferred and they moved to this school where everyone already had their friend groups carved in stone.

Later that afternoon, Marcus sat on his bed staring at his new goldfish, Neon. He'd won it at the spring carnival—some random act of bravery when he'd finally agreed to step up to the booth after three girls from his English class kept egging him on. "Live a little, Marcus," one had said. Her name was Riley. She had hair that changed colors monthly and currently featured streaks of accidental green.

Neon swam in endless circles, trapped in a bowl that was way too small. The fish seemed kind of dramatic about it, honestly.

"I feel you, buddy," Marcus told him. "You're just swimming. Not like you asked to be born a fish."

His phone buzzed. Riley: practice tonight for the spring fling assembly?? u should try out for the variety show

Marcus stared at the message. No. Absolutely not. He'd rather literally fight a bull. Like, an actual bull with horns and bad intentions.

But then he remembered how it had felt to actually win something. How Riley and her friends had cheered when the carnival guy handed him the plastic bag with Neon inside. How for like five seconds, he hadn't been the new kid or the quiet kid. Just Marcus, who happened to have suspiciously good carnival game luck.

His fingers moved before his brain could stop them. what kind of act?

Three hours later, Marcus was standing in the school auditorium, running through a stand-up routine he'd secretly been writing in his notes app for months. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped the mic. But then he saw Riley in the front row, grinning with those green-streaked bangs, giving him a thumbs up.

"So," Marcus began, voice cracking slightly. "Who else feels like they're the main character in a coming-of-age movie that nobody bothered to watch?"

Someone laughed. Then someone else. And suddenly, Marcus wasn't thinking about baseball or Tyler or the endless cycle of embarrassment. He was just running with it, actually, finally, feeling like himself.