Cover Agent at the Plate

Marcus stood in the outfield, squinting against the glare. Another baseball practice, another lie. His dad had dropped him off with that proud look, the one that said 'My son, the athlete.' Marcus pocketed the orange chewable vitamin his mom insisted would 'boost his focus' and swallowed it dry. Focus. Right.

The real action started after practice, when he'd sneak into the back office of the food court and slip into his employee uniform. Technically, he was a busboy at Sbarro. But in his head, Marcus was a spy—a deep-cover operative infiltrating the social hierarchy of Northwood High.

He cataloged everything: who sat with whom, who broke up with whom (Julian and Sophie, donezo), who was secretly failing algebra. It was bear-worthy work. Seriously, sometimes the drama felt like a literal bear sitting on his chest, heavy and suffocating. But someone had to document the truth.

'Hey, Marcus.'

He jumped. Lena, from his English class, slid into the booth he was bussing. 'You busy?'

'Never,' he said, though he was definitely on the clock. 'What's up?'

'I know what you're doing.' She leaned in, voice dropping. 'The notes. You're basically the school's private investigator.'

Marcus's stomach did something unhinged. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

Lena smiled, and it was this thing—real, not performative. 'It's cool. I want in. Partnership?'

He thought about the baseball glove gathering dust in his bag. The way his dad's voice echoed in his head: 'You're a natural, son.' The way he wasn't.

'Maybe,' Marcus said. 'But I can't pay you much.'

'Payment in gossip,' she said. 'And I saw what Kyle did to Mr. Henderson's car.'

He grinned. 'You're hired.'

That night, Marcus's dad asked how practice went. Marcus thought about the truth—how he'd quit the team three weeks ago, how he'd spent the afternoon investigating a cheating scandal instead of fielding fly balls.

'Great,' he said. 'Really great.'

The vitamin gummies sat untouched in his backpack. Some things you had to swallow. Some things you spit out. And some things—like finding your place in a world that wanted you to be someone else—you just had to figure out as you went.