Fruitfly Outfield

Maya's phone buzzed during third period. Group chat explosion: someone had posted papayaemoji at Jackson's locker—code for crash the baseball team's end-of-year party. She wasn't invited, obviously, but that hadn't stopped her from lurking like a total spy on every Instagram story, zooming in on red solo cups and calculating escape routes.

"You're going, right?" Tisha whisper-yelled across algebra. Maya's stomach did that thing where it forgot how to digestion. "He asked about you yesterday after practice."

Jackson. The guy with the stupid perfect hair and the even stupider perfect swing, who somehow made varsity as a sophomore and still had time to volunteer at the animal shelter. Maya had been carrying around a relic of her middle school emo phase—a tiny beaded bear keychain that Jackson had given her when she dropped her pencil case in seventh grade. Pathetic? Maybe. Still clutching it like a lifeline? Absolutely.

Her existential crisis was interrupted by her phone blowing up again. Zombie party theme. Of course. Because nothing says emotional repression like fake blood and brain tissue artfully arranged on snack plates.

The party was exactly the kind of disaster Maya had orchestrated in her head eighteen times. There was Jackson, looking unfairly good even with gray face paint, surrounded by people whose social batteries never died. Maya stood by the papaya—her contribution, because apparently her mom thought "exotic fruit" screamed cool teenager—and tried to look like she belonged.

Then Jackson walked over. "Hey." His voice did that thing where it vibrated in her chest. "Thanks for coming."

"Figured I'd zombie-up for the night," Maya said, because her brain had short-circuited and her mouth was operating on autopilot.

Jackson laughed, actually laughed, and Maya's seventeen years of overthinking came to a screeching halt. "You're not a zombie, Maya. You're the only person here who's actually alive."

She looked around the room at all the people performing cool, performing zombies, performing anything but themselves. Maybe papayaemoji had been exactly what she needed—not an invitation to crash, but permission to show up anyway.

"Want to get some air?" Jackson asked. "Before we all start eating brains or whatever."

Maya's hand brushed the bear keychain in her pocket. She'd come prepared for monsters. She hadn't expected to find something real.