Palm Lines and Perfect Games

The baseball diamond stretched before me like a promise I couldn't keep. Eighth grade, and everyone expected me to follow in my brother's cleat-steps. Tyler had been the pitcher who threw perfect games and dated the cheerleaders. Me? I kept accidentally **running** into the wrong dugout.

"You're up, kid," Coach Miller yelled, and my stomach did that thing where it forgot how to exist.

I reached into my pocket and my fingers brushed against my **iPhone**—the lifeline to Maya, who'd been blowing up my phone all morning. *u coming 2 the party tonite?* *hello???* *dont be lame*

The truth was, I didn't want to go. Parties meant loud music and solo cups and people asking what I was "going to do with my life," as if fifteen-year-olds were supposed to have that figured out. What I wanted to do was sit on my roof and watch the stars and maybe hold someone's hand without my palms sweating through the moment.

Speaking of **palm**s—mine were currently sliding off the bat. I adjusted my grip, dust still coating my skin like glitter from a craft project gone wrong.

The pitcher wound up. Some sophomore named Liam who already had a chin hair. His fastball came at me like it had personal business. I swung—*CRACK*—and watched it soar toward the fence. My feet were already **running**, dust kicking up behind me like smoke signals. First base. Second. Third. I slid home just as the catcher's mitt came down, safe by a fingernail.

"YEAH KID!" Tyler's voice carried from the bleachers. My brother was actually proud. This should've been the moment.

Instead, I lay there in the red dirt, staring up at the sky, thinking about how Maya would definitely want me at her party now. The **water** boy from the other team offered me a paper cup. I sat up, accepting it, my reflection rippling in the **water**—sweat-streaked face, dirt-smudged cheeks, eyes that looked like they were finally seeing something real.

"You okay?" the water boy asked. His nametag said SAM.

"Yeah," I said, and something in my chest shifted. "Actually, yeah."

I pulled out my phone. Maya's texts waited. I typed back: *cant make it. got other plans.*

Sam was still standing there, offering his hand. His **palm** was warm when I took it, and he didn't mention the dirt.

"Cool hit," he said.

"Thanks," I said, and somewhere in the space between the baseball diamond and the bleachers, between who everyone thought I was and who I actually was, I found something better than perfect. I found myself, sweaty and authentic and exactly enough.