Papaya Smoothie Disaster

The papaya smoothie exploded everywhere. Of course. Because that's what happens when you're already five minutes late for baseball practice and your dad's cat — who insists on following you everywhere — jumps onto the counter right as you're blending.

"Mr. Whiskers!" I groaned, grabbing a towel. The orange tabby just stared at me, completely unbothered, while bright pink smoothie dripped from the countertop. My phone buzzed. Jenna.

'You coming? Coach is doing lineup today'

Of course he was. This was it — my shot at starting varsity as a sophomore. The one thing that could actually make me cool at Northwood High. And here I was, mopping up papaya while my cat watched like he paid for tickets.

I threw on my jersey and sprinted to the field, the summer heat already hitting ninety degrees. My palms were sweating — yeah, typical — but also, I hadn't told anyone about the panic attacks. The ones that hit right before important games. The ones that made me feel like I couldn't breathe, like I was swimming upstream against a current I couldn't fight.

Coach Rivera saw me jogging in. "Bustamante, you're up."

My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. Show them what you got. But then my phone slipped from my pocket and pinged against the pavement. A text from my mom:

'Dad and I are proud of you no matter what ❤️'

And suddenly I was back to last summer, when I came out to them. When I stood in our living room, palms sweating, terrified they'd look at me different. They didn't. But the world would, right? The team would, definitely.

Coach called my name again. My teammates were watching. I picked up my bat, walked to the plate. Grounded myself. Remembered what my therapist said: You're allowed to take up space.

First pitch. I didn't swing.

Second pitch. Same.

Third pitch — a fastball right down the middle. I connected. Hard. The ball sailed over the left field fence, and something inside me unlocked. Mr. Whiskers would've been impressed.

Later, Jenna sat beside me in the dugout. "Nice hit, rookie."

"Thanks."

"You know," she said, "my brother has panic attacks before games too. Says breathing helps."

I looked at her, really looked at her. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Also, you have pink smoothie on your chin."

I wiped it off, and we both laughed. Maybe being cool wasn't the point. Maybe the point was showing up, papaya disasters and all.