Green Between My Teeth

Maya's palms were sweating so much she could barely grip the bat. Freshman year, varsity baseball tryouts, and the one girl on the field — no pressure or anything. She'd been running toward this moment since middle school, back when kids still thought it was cute that a girl wanted to pitch. Now they just looked at her like she was about to embarrass herself.

She should've known better than to eat that spinach wrap from the cafeteria before tryouts. Her stomach churned, and not just from nerves. The coach called her name, and she stepped up to the plate, forcing herself to breathe. Just hit the ball. Just make contact. Don't throw up on home plate.

The first pitch came — a fastball, high and outside. Swing and a miss. Someone snickered in the dugout. Of course. The second pitch: curveball, low. She checked her swing, barely. Coach Jenkins nodded, like that was something to be proud of.

Third pitch. Maya connected. Solid contact. She dropped the bat and started running, legs pumping, cleats digging into the dirt. First base, rounding second — she could make it to third easily. But then she saw it. Everyone saw it. The varsity captain, Tyler, doubled over laughing. The assistant coach trying not to smile.

She slid into third base, her legs covered in dirt, and looked up to see the entire team pointing at her. That's when she remembered: the spinach wrap. She'd checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror earlier — nothing. But somewhere between the bathroom and the field, a massive chunk of green had decided to camp between her front teeth. A glowing green beacon of social suicide.

Tyler jogged over, still grinning. "Yo, rookie, you got a little something..." He gestured at his own teeth, failing completely at not laughing.

Maya's face burned. She could feel it radiating off her cheeks like actual heat. This was it. The moment she became "Spinach Girl" forever. No one would remember she hit a triple. They'd just remember the green gap-tooth freshman.

But then Tyler's expression changed. "Honestly? That was a solid hit." He extended his hand to help her up. "And Coach Jenkins has been talking about you all week. Says you throw harder than half the juniors."

Maya blinked. He pulled her up, dusting off her shoulder like it was nothing. "Thanks," she managed, still wanting to die.

"Don't sweat it," Tyler said, already jogging back to position. "Everyone's got an initiation story. At least yours didn't involve your pants falling down like mine did last year."

Maya stood at third base, dirt-streaked and spinach-decorated, something light and unfamiliar blooming in her chest. Maybe, just maybe, she was going to be okay.