Goldfish at Home Plate

Maya stood by the palm tree, clutching her solo cup like it was a life raft. The Florida heat pressed down on her shoulders, heavy as her mother's disappointed voice when Maya said she didn't want to come to this party.

"You need to make friends, Maya. You're the new girl. Put yourself out there."

So here she was, putting herself out there. Which mostly meant standing alone by the decorative palm tree while everyone else splashed in the pool.

She watched Jake from her English class, the one with the easy laugh and perfectly messy dark hair, standing waist-deep in the water. He was holding a bright yellow wiffle ball bat like he knew what he was doing. A bunch of guys and girls were sloshing around the shallow end, turning the pool into some kind of impromptu baseball stadium.

"Maya!" Jake called, waving the bat. "Come on! We need a pitcher!"

Her heart did that stupid fluttery thing it always did when he looked at her. She shook her head, forced a smile. "I'm good!"

"Don't be lame!" someone shouted. The group laughed, not mean, just expectant.

Maya's throat tightened. She'd moved three times in two years. Each time, she'd learned: don't get attached, don't hope, don't try too hard. Just like the goldfish she'd won at the carnival back in Ohio – kept it in a bowl on her nightstand, fed it every day, watched it swim in tiny, desperate circles. And when her dad said they were moving again, the goldfish went to her cousin. Last she heard, it had died three weeks later.

Some things just couldn't survive being uprooted over and over.

"Yo, Maya! Jake's not gonna pitch to himself!"

She kicked herself internally. Why did teenagers have to make everything so loud?

Before she could overthink it, Maya set her cup down on a patio table and walked toward the pool. The water glinted at her – cool blue and inviting and absolutely terrifying. She'd taken lessons as a kid, back when they'd stayed in one place long enough. But it had been years.

Jake grinned as she stepped into the shallow end. The water rose past her ankles, then her calves, shocking cold against her sun-warmed skin. "There she is. Pitcher's mound is... wherever you're standing."

Someone tossed her the ball. It was wet and slippery in her hands.

"Alright," she said, surprised by how steady her voice came out. "But I'm not responsible for any home runs."

Her first pitch went wild, splashing into the deep end. The group groaned.

"My bad!" Maya called, fighting the urge to retreat to her palm tree sanctuary.

"Reset it!" Jake said, still smiling. "You got this."

Her second pitch was better. Jake connected with a satisfying thwack, sending the ball flying into the neighbor's yard. Everyone cheered. Maya felt something loosening in her chest, the tight knot of anxiety unwinding just a little.

Then came the third pitch.

Maya wound up, focused, and threw everything she had into it. The ball sailed true – straight into the waiting wiffle ball bat – and Jake swung with perfect form. The ball ricocheted off his bat, bounced off the diving board, and came screaming back toward Maya's head.

She ducked. Too late.

The ball hit her shoulder with enough force to knock her backward. Her feet slipped on the pool's rubbery bottom, and suddenly she was falling – not into shallow water, but toward the deep end, where the bottom dropped away and her feet couldn't find purchase.

She went under.

The world went silent and muffled and blue. For a second, she just drifted, suspended. Then instinct kicked in. She kicked her legs, clawed her way toward the surface, broke through gasping.

"Whoa!" Jake was already there, reaching out. "You okay?"

Maya wiped water from her eyes, finding herself swimming toward the pool edge, then treading water in the deep end. Her hair was plastered to her face, her makeup definitely ruined, her cutoff t-shirt soaked and clinging to her skin like second skin. She looked like a drowned rat.

She looked like everyone else.

"Yeah," she said, surprised to find she meant it. "Yeah, I'm good."

"That was legendary," Jake said, grinning. "You literally took one for the team."

"That's me," Maya said, kicking lazily to stay afloat. "Team player."

For the first time since moving to Florida, she didn't feel like the new girl standing by the palm tree. She was just Maya, wet and messy and laughing along with everyone else. The goldfish memory didn't sting so much anymore. Some things did survive being uprooted, if you learned to keep swimming.