Papaya palms and seventh inning

Maya's palms were sweating so much she could practically water plants with them. Not ideal when you're gripping a baseball bat for the first time in front of the entire varsity team.

"You got this, rookie," said Jordan, the senior shortstop who'd somehow become her unlikely mentor this week. "Just don't think about it."

Easy for him to say. He wasn't the only sophomore trying out for varsity. He wasn't the girl whose mom had packed papaya chunks in her lunch every single day of freshman year, earning her the nickname "Exotic Fruit Girl" that still followed her around like a stuck song.

The papaya incident wasn't even the worst part. That honor belonged to the time she'd tripped over her own feet during gym class baseball and face-planted in front of everyone. Hence the current situation: trying out for the team she'd publicly humiliated herself in front of exactly one year ago.

Her phone buzzed in her back pocket. Probably her group chat wondering where she was. Probably her best friend Chen asking if she was bailing again.

"Batter up!" the coach yelled.

Maya stepped up to the plate. The pitching machine whirred. Her palms slipped on the bat.

The first pitch came. Swing and a miss. Laughter from somewhere behind her.

Second pitch. Another miss. More laughter.

Third pitch. Maya closed her eyes. She could almost taste that papaya her mom used to pack—sweet, weird, something nobody else understood but that was somehow perfect. She thought about how she'd started bringing it to lunch again this week, unapologetically. She thought about how Chen had tried a piece yesterday and admitted it wasn't terrible.

She opened her eyes. The ball came.

CRACK.

It sailed into the outfield. Past everyone's reach.

Jordan whooped. The coach nodded. Maya stood there, sweaty palms and all, feeling something shift inside her. Maybe tomorrow she'd bring papaya for the whole team. Let them laugh. She'd be too busy hitting home runs to care.