Orange Papaya Summer

Marcus dragged himself to baseball practice feeling like a straight-up zombie. Finals week had turned his brain into mush, and the fact that his crush Jasmine would be watching from the bleachers today wasn't helping. Not cool.

"You good, bro?" asked Tyrell, spinning a baseball on his finger. "You look dead."

"Living that zombie life," Marcus muttered, adjusting his orange Marlins cap—the same one Jasmine had complimented last week. That hat wasn't coming off his head.

Coach blew the whistle. "Batting practice! Marcus, you're up."

Marcus stepped to the plate, his heart racing. First pitch—strike. Second pitch—ball. He could feel Jasmine watching, could practically hear her and her friends whispering. Third pitch came fastball, and Marcus connected solid. The ball sailed toward the fence.

"YESSS!" Tyrell yelled, dapping him up. "That's what I'm talking about!"

But Marcus's stomach dropped. The ball had crashed into someone's papaya tree beyond the outfield. Papayas scattered everywhere like orange grenades exploding.

"Aw, nah," Tyrell groaned. "That's Mrs. Hernandez's tree. She's gonna be salty."

Coach sighed. "Cleanup duty, boys."

As they gathered the bruised fruit, Mrs. Hernandez came out with her walker, shaking her head. But instead of being mad, she smiled at Marcus's orange hat.

"You have quite the swing, mijo," she said, pressing a perfect papaya into his hands. "Bring some next time you're hungry."

That afternoon, Marcus sat with Jasmine at the park, sharing sliced papaya. His zombie feelings had vanished, replaced by something way better.

"This is actually fire," Jasmine said, laughing. "And nice hit today, by the way."

Marcus grinned, his orange cap still perfect. Being a zombie wasn't so bad when you had baseball, papaya, and moments like this.