Goldfish in the Infield

The social pyramid at Northwood High was brutal. Freshmans like me were basically the serfs, existing only to carry backpacks and suffer through awkward lunch periods. I'd learned to navigate it mostly invisible—until the day I walked into third period carrying Mason's water

"What's with the fishbowl, bro?" Derrick, the school's resident bull in both stature and temperament, loomed over my desk. His cronies snickered like they'd rehearsed it.

"It's a science project," I lied. "Marine biology."

The goldfish—Orange Julius, thanks for asking—swam in frantic circles. Just like my stomach.

"Weirdo," someone muttered.

I'd brought Julius because Mom was forgetting things lately. Doctor said it might be early-onset something, but she just kept calling me by my dead brother's name. Julius was the one thing that made her smile—she'd won him at a carnival years ago, back when she remembered everything. When she started leaving the tank empty, I'd secretly moved him to my room. Now he was my emotional support animal, even if he couldn't legally be certified.

Coach Rodriguez saved me from further interrogation by announcing baseball tryouts after school. Baseball—because apparently my freshman identity crisis needed a varsity sport layered on top. The baseball diamond was where the social pyramid either crumbled or solidified. Make the team, and you might actually exist.

"You trying out?" Derrick asked, and the scary part was he sounded almost interested.

"Maybe?"

"Do it. Freshman rarely make varsity, but Garcia's kid threw lightning last year. Could use another arm." Fist bump. I stood there paralyzed. Was this a trick?

Tryouts were a disaster. My throws sailed into the parking lot. I couldn't hit a beach ball. But I kept going back, something about the rhythm, the dirt, the way the game demanded you be present in a way I hadn't been since Mom started forgetting.

Two weeks in, Coach pulled me aside. "You're not varsity material, kid. But JV needs a backup outfielder. You want it or not?"

"Want it."

"Good. Oh, and nice work with Derrick."

"What?"

Coach shrugged. "His mom's got the same thing as yours. Early-onset. He's been taking it hard. The fish—give him credit. Most guys would've wrecked you for that. He didn't."

That evening, I sat on the front porch with Orange Julius swimming beside me. Mom came out, clear-eyed for once.

"Who's this?" she asked, smiling at the fishbowl.

"Orange Julius. He's a survivor."

"Good," she said. "We need more of those." And for the first time in months, she called me by my actual name.

The social pyramid still existed. I was still a freshman. But sometimes, lightning strikes in the infield, and you realize everyone's swimming in circles, just trying not to drown.