Lightning at Third Base

The humidity wrapped around me like a wet blanket as I stood at third base, my fresh-blue hair plastering itself to my forehead. Coach Miller had said the dye would "wash out eventually," but two weeks into summer league, I was still the guy with hair that screamed "I'm trying too hard."

"You gonna stand there all day or actually swing the bat?" Ryan called from the dugout. His hair was perfect, naturally messy in the way that made everyone forget he'd failed sophomore English.

I ignored him, digging my cleat into the dirt. This was supposed to be my summer of reinvention. New hair, new confidence, new version of me who didn't spend every Friday night alone in his room watching baseball documentaries and overthinking everything.

"Storm's coming!" someone yelled.

I looked up. Dark clouds swallowed the sky, and then—CRACK. Lightning splintered the air, so close I could taste ozone. The field emptied instantly, everyone scrambling toward the locker room, but I stood frozen, watching the sky tear itself apart.

"You coming?"

I turned to find Maya standing there, her swim team duffel slung over her shoulder. She lived two houses down and had somehow become Instagram-famous for posting pictures of her cat dressed in tiny hats. We'd been in kindergarten together but hadn't spoken in years.

"In a sec," I said.

"Cool." She didn't leave. "My cat Batiste gave me that look today. Like he knows something I don't."

"You still dress him up?"

"Only on special occasions." She grinned. "He hates it, but he tolerates it because I'm the one who opens the tuna cans."

The second lightning strike hit closer, and rain started falling, fat drops that felt like they were thrown from the sky. Maya didn't run. Neither did I.

"You know what's weird?" she said, squinting against the rain. "I've been swimming every day since I was six, but I still feel like I'm drowning half the time. Like there's all this pressure to be someone I'm not, and I can't keep my head above it."

I looked at my blue-haired reflection in a puddle forming near my cleat. "Yeah," I said. "I get that."

"Your hair's pretty cool, though," she said. "Better than pretending to be someone you're not."

Ryan yelled from the dugout, "Maya! You coming? My mom can give us a ride!"

She looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time in years. "Walking home's better. You coming?"

The storm kept breaking overhead, but the panic I'd carried all summer suddenly felt lighter. "Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I'm coming."