Papaya Summer Zombies

The heat radiating off the baseball field made everything shimmer like we'd stepped into some alternate dimension. I wiped sweat from my forehead, squinting at Marcus—my former best friend, now basically a stranger since middle school ruined everything. We used to be inseparable. Now we couldn't even make eye contact without weird electric tension buzzing between us.

"You gonna pitch or what?" he called, smacking his glove. That new swagger he'd developed over summer break made my stomach twist. Since when did Marcus care about being cool? Since when did he stop caring about me?

I threw the papaya I'd been clutching toward the dugout. Mom had packed it, claiming it'd help with my 'growing phase.' The thing practically screamed I didn't belong here, with all the cool kids who'd brought Gatorade and protein bars.

"Yo, whose weird fruit is that?" Tanner appeared behind me, his shadow stretching across the mound. The school's biggest terror, a total bull in every social interaction, somehow always knew exactly which buttons to push. "Your mom still packing your lunches, Martinez? You look like you're about to cry."

Laughter rippled through the group. My face burned hotter than the asphalt.

"Leave him alone," Marcus said, not even turning around. "At least he brought something."

Small mercies, I guess. But something about how he said it—not looking at me, not really defending me—hurt more than if he'd said nothing.

That's when it hit me: Marcus wasn't being my friend anymore. He was just not being a jerk. There's a difference. And somehow that stung worse.

I felt like a zombie going through the motions of a normal life. Baseball practice, even though I hated every second and only joined because Dad said sports would "build character." Pretending Marcus and I were still tight when we hadn't had a real conversation in months. Acting like I knew who I was supposed to be.

"Let's go!" Coach's whistle pierced the humid air. "Batting practice, now!"

Marcus grabbed a bat from the rack. I grabbed one too. For three years, we'd talked about everything—video games, girls we were too scared to approach, which zombie apocalypse weapon we'd choose. Now we stood six feet apart in silence so thick I could practically touch it.

First pitch. Marcus smashed it into left field. Everyone cheered. Whatever. I stepped up, heart hammering. The papaya sat in the dugout like colorful judgment.

First pitch came high and inside. I didn't flinch.

Second pitch, I connected. Solid. The ball sailed toward the fence, and for a second, everything else fell away. No Marcus-shaped awkwardness. No Tanner being a jerk. Just the perfect crack of bat meeting ball.

"DAYUM!" Even Tanner looked impressed. "Since when can you hit like that?"

Marcus jogged over as I headed back. "You've been practicing."

"Yeah."

He paused. "We should hang out this weekend. Play some zombie mode? Like old times?"

I looked at my papaya, suddenly not so embarrassing anymore. "Sure. But I'm bringing snacks this time. And I promise they'll be normal."