Fox at the Plate

Marcus choked down the orange-flavored vitamin gummy, his mom's latest attempt to make him grow. "It's got everything a teenage boy needs," she'd said, as if a chewable bear could fix being five-foot-nothing in a school where varsity starters looked like they shaved twice a day.

He grabbed his baseball gear and slipped out the door at 6 AM. Coach had emailed the team about optional batting practice—code for "if you want to actually play this season, show up."

The field was deserted except for one figure in the batter's box. Marcus froze. It was Chloe, the girl who sat behind him in history, wearing sweatpants and a faded middle school camp tee. She crushed a line drive into the chain-link fence, then another, like it was nothing.

"You gonna stare or you gonna hit?" She didn't turn around.

Marcus stepped into the box, suddenly aware of how his hands shook. First swing—whiff. Second swing—weak grounder. He could feel Chloe watching, probably trying not to laugh.

"You're thinking too much," she said, finally facing him. "My dad says you gotta be like a fox. Quick. Wild. Don't let your head get in the way of your instincts."

"A fox?"

"Yeah. Foxes don't stand there overthinking. They just move." She tossed him a ball. "Try again. But don't think. Just swing."

He did. And somehow—*crack*—the ball sailed into the outfield. Not a home run, but solid contact.

"There you go, Fox Boy." She grinned, actually grinned, and Marcus felt something weird happen in his chest that had nothing to do with vitamins or baseball or anything else he'd been obsessing over.

"You coming tomorrow?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

"Maybe." She picked up her bat. "If you promise not to choke on those vitamin gummies before you get here."

Marcus walked home in the golden morning light, his gear banging against his side, not caring that he'd barely slept or that he'd probably be sore tomorrow. For the first time in forever, something about growing up actually felt like it might be okay.