Orange Sphinx at Home Plate

I felt like a total spy, crouched behind the bleachers with my heart doing gymnastics. My baseball cap pulled low, orange hoodie bunched up—classic camouflage. Not that anyone was looking. They were all watching *him*.

The Sphinx.

That's what everyone called Leo—silent, mysterious, with this half-smile that made you question everything. He stood at home plate, bat loose, looking like he knew something the rest of us didn't. My iphone buzzed in my pocket. Probably my friends asking where I'd disappeared to during the seventh inning stretch.

Again.

I'd been "disappearing" a lot lately. Spending entire parties in bathrooms. Leaving lunch early to "study." The truth? My brain was just too loud sometimes, like fifty radio stations playing at once, and quiet places were the only escape. That, and I was pretty sure I was the only queer kid at school who hadn't come out yet, which is a special kind of terrifying when you're fifteen.

Leo hit the ball. CRACK.

Everyone cheered. I didn't cheer. I just watched this guy who made existing look so effortless, while I was over here turning "holding it together" into an extreme sport.

Then he looked right at me.

Behind the bleachers. Not exactly hiding spot of the year. His eyes locked with mine, and for three seconds, everything stopped. The Sphinx cracked a real smile—goofy, lopsided, nothing like his usual mysterious vibe. Then he pointed at his own orange baseball cap. Same color as my hoodie.

He'd noticed me. He'd noticed *me*.

My phone buzzed again. I ignored it. Some things are more important than group chats. Like figuring out if the quiet boy with the riddle-smile might just be another spy in the orange club.