Orange Skies and Curveballs

The vitamin D supplements sat in my locker like a judgment I couldn't escape. Mom's idea, obviously — something about how indoor kids need artificial sunshine even when they spend half their lives at baseball practice.

"You ready for tryouts, Marcus?" Jackson slammed his locker shut, already decked out in his lucky everything. The guy had more rituals than a cult leader.

"Born ready," I lied, choking down the chalky vitamin with lukewarm fountain water.

Baseball tryouts at Jefferson High weren't just about making varsity. They were about survival. About proving you weren't the same quiet kid who'd spent freshman year getting lost in the hallways and eating lunch in the library like some social leper.

Coach Miller blew his whistle — that sound that haunted my nightmares.

"Alright, gentlemen. Let's see what you've got."

The orange sun beat down on the field, turning everything hazy and dreamlike. I adjusted my cap, sweat already trickling down my back. My turn.

First pitch: swing and a miss. Strike one.

Second pitch: weak grounder to second. Strike two.

I could feel it happening — that thing where your body forgets how to human. Twenty pairs of eyes watching, Jackson's included.

Then I saw her. New girl. Bright orange hoodie in ninety-degree weather because she was clearly chaotic like that. Sitting on the bleachers like she owned them, braiding purple streaks into her hair while everyone pretended not to stare.

She caught me looking and did this tiny salute thing.

Something unlocked. Third pitch came — fastball, outside corner — and I didn't think. I just swung.

CRACK.

The ball sailed over the left field fence. Perfect. Impossible. Mine.

"DAYUM," somebody yelled.

I jogged the bases, heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted out. The orange hoodie girl was actually watching now, grinning like she knew something I didn't.

Maybe that's what growing up feels like. Not some dramatic transformation, but these tiny moments where you surprise yourself. Where you stop being who everyone thinks you are and start being whoever you actually are.

Later, I found a note in my locker. No signature, just an orange gummy vitamin taped to a scrap of paper: "Nice swing. — H"

Some things are worth the awkwardness.