Goldfish Dreams at Third Base

I stood at the plate, the baseball bat feeling like a lead weight in my sweaty palms. The entire student body was watching, and I was about to prove, once and for all, that I did not belong anywhere near the diamond. Coach Miller had somehow convinced me to play, probably because he was desperate and I was the only one who hadn't already said no.

The social pyramid at Lincoln High was brutal jocks at the apex, theater kids forming the middle, and everyone else scattered at the bottom like debris. I was debris. But my lab partner Maya was watching from the bleachers, and suddenly I cared about hitting this stupid ball.

I swung. Missed. The sound of collective groans hit me like a physical force.

At least my goldfish Finnick would never judge me. He was basically my only real friend these days, floating in his bowl on my nightstand, listening to my rants about how much high school sucked without ever interrupting.

"You okay?" a voice said behind me. I turned to see the strangest sight—River Chen, the school's star pitcher, holding a cat. A very fluffy, very unimpressed-looking orange cat.

"This is Nacho," River said, scratching behind the cat's ears. "He keeps showing up at my house. My mom's allergic, so I'm basically cat-sitting against my will." They shrugged. "Anyway, you looked like you needed a rescue mission."

I stared. River Chen, standing there with a cat, saving me from my own humiliation. This was not in the brochure.

"I've been running from this moment since seventh grade," I admitted. "I'm terrible at sports. I'm only here because Maya's watching, and I maybe possibly want to impress her."

River's eyes lit up. "Maya? Theater Maya? She's been going on about some quiet guy in her bio class for weeks. You're that guy?"

My face burned. Meanwhile, Nacho the cat chose that moment to leap from River's arms and bolt across the field. Like, full-on sprinting toward third base like he owned the place.

The entire baseball game came to a halt. Thirty players stood frozen as this orange cat tore around the bases, tail streaming behind him like a fuzzy victory flag.

River and I looked at each other. Then we were both running, chasing Nacho, laughing so hard our sides hurt. We caught him at home plate, where he sat licking his paw with total indifference.

Behind us, the whole baseball field erupted in applause. Not for the game. For the cat who had suddenly become the most interesting thing to happen at Lincoln High in years.

Maya was cheering the loudest.

River handed me Nacho. "You should probably return him. I'll text you. We can trade the cat back and forth until we figure out whose he actually is."

Walking back with a cat tucked against my chest, I caught Maya's eye. She smiled. And for the first time, I didn't feel like debris at the bottom of some pyramid.

That night, I told Finnick everything. He did a little flip, which I chose to interpret as approval.