Orange Afternoon

The orange locker stood out like a neon sign in the hallway of Jefferson High—my locker now, third day of being the new kid. I traced the chipped paint with my thumb, wondering how many students had stood exactly here, feeling like a goldfish in a bowl, everyone watching, waiting for them to do something interesting.

"Hey, Baseball Guy."

I turned around. It was Chloe, the girl who sat behind me in homeroom. She leaned against the neighboring locker, a padel racquet sticking out of her backpack.

"It's Leo, actually." I adjusted my backpack strap, trying to look casual. The baseball glove tucked inside felt like it was burning through the fabric. My dad had insisted I join the team—said it was how he made friends when he was my age. So far, it'd mostly meant sitting on the bench while everyone else formed inside jokes I'd never understand.

"Right, Leo." She grinned. "You coming to the courts after school?"

"What courts?"

"Padel courts. Behind the gym. Some of us play on Fridays." She pushed off the locker. "Unless you're too busy being Baseball Guy."

Something about the way she said it—like she knew the glove was just pretend—made my chest feel lighter.

"I'm not busy."

An hour later, I stood on a blue court I didn't know existed, holding a racquet I'd never touched. Chloe passed me a ball. Orange, like the sunset spilling across the sky behind her.

"Ever played?" she asked.

"No."

"Perfect. I hate teaching people who think they know everything."

We played until our arms ached. I missed more than I hit, but for the first time since moving here, I wasn't thinking about fitting in or being interesting or whether the guys on the baseball team would ever talk to me. I was just hitting balls, laughing when they sailed into the fence, watching Chloe's orange hair catch the light as she spun for a backhand.

"You're actually not terrible," she said as we walked toward the parking lot.

"High praise coming from someone who's been playing for three years."

"Two years, actually. And I was terrible when I started." She stopped walking. "Hey, Baseball Guy—Leo—you should come back next Friday."

The goldfish feeling was gone.

"Yeah," I said. "I will."

The orange sunset painted everything gold as I headed home, baseball glove still in my backpack, unused, but somehow that didn't matter anymore.