Lightning in the Ninth

The pyramid of energy drinks shimmered under the concession stand lights — twelve rows of blue and silver cans, rising toward the ceiling like some kind of teenage monument to sleep deprivation. Maya adjusted her visor, trying to look like she totally belonged at the baseball stadium, like she hadn't spent twenty minutes convincing herself that agreeing to work the summer league championship game was a good idea.

"You good?" mouthed Tyra from the next register, looking ready to bail any second.

Maya nodded, even though her stomach was doing that thing where it felt like she'd swallowed a whole container of sparklers. Senior year was three weeks away. Three weeks until she'd have to decide whether to cave and sign up for debate club because that's where everyone said the "good colleges" looked, or finally admit she'd rather spend her afternoons reading manga in her room.

The game dragged on. Maya watched between customers — boys she'd had classes with since sixth grade swinging bats, their faces fierce and focused. Sometimes she forgot they were the same people who spent study hall making paper footballs and whispering about who hooked up with whom at Jake's party last weekend.

The sky turned that weird greenish color that meant trouble. Coach blew the whistle. Everyone scattered.

And then it hit — the first crack of lightning, so close the air tasted like ozone.

Maya and Tyra ended up huddled under the awning with two of the players: Marcus, who'd sat behind her in AP Euro and spent every period kicking her chair, and this freshman kid nobody knew yet.

"Bro, did you see that pitch?" Marcus was saying, gesturing wildly. "I was gonna crush it if the storm hadn't completely jinxed me."

The freshman, whose nametag read CAM, shook his head. "That was a slider. You were totally fooled."

"Bet I could hit it right now," Marcus said. "Maya, you got anything to drink? The heat's killing me."

She grabbed a Blue Riot from the lower tier of the pyramid, the cold damp can slick against her palm. When she handed it to him, their fingers brushed and something weird happened — not sparks, exactly, but this moment where the world felt different, like she was seeing everything from somewhere slightly above herself.

"Thanks," Marcus said. And then: "Hey, you coming to the bonfire tonight? After the storm clears?"

The question hung there, electric and terrifying, like the lightning still flashing across the sky. A pyramid of decisions suddenly loomed in front of her — social expectations, the version of herself she was supposed to be, and the one she actually wanted. Baseball hat hair and anxiety and all.

"Yeah," she heard herself say. "Yeah, I think I am."

The rain started coming down in sheets, washing away the humidity, and Maya realized she'd been holding her breath all summer.