Papaya Sunday at the Plate

The baseball dugout smelled like sweaty teenagers and cheap bubblegum. I sat on the bench, my stomach doing gymnastics, clutching my phone. Three new notifications. All from him.

"You coming to the party tonight?"

I stared at the text like it might somehow answer itself. Marcus had finally noticed me existed, and my brain was glitching. This was supposed to be my moment—varsity baseball, starting lineup, my chance to prove I wasn't just the quiet girl who blended into lockers. Instead, I was overthinking a text like my life depended on it.

"Baker! You're up!" Coach hollered.

I grabbed my helmet and jogged to the plate. The crowd noise faded into background static. My hands shook around the bat. My grandma's voice echoed in my head: *Mija, you're stronger than you know.* She'd always made me eat papaya before big games, said it gave me power. The fruit tasted like sweaty socks but I'd eaten it anyway, because that's what you do when you're fifteen and your grandmother is your whole world.

Now she was gone, and I was just a girl with a bat and zero confidence.

The pitcher wound up. The ball came fast and wild—way outside. I swung anyway, looking like a complete amateur. Someone in the stands laughed. My face burned.

*Strike one!*

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Probably Maya asking where I was. Probably Marcus wondering why I hadn't replied.

*Strike two!*

Then something shifted. The sky opened up—not literally, but inside my chest. Like lightning, clarity struck: I'd spent sixteen months waiting for Marcus to see me, but I'd never really asked myself what I wanted. Did I even like him? Or did I just like that someone popular finally noticed the girl who ate papaya before games and read poetry during lunch?

The third pitch came. Perfect. Right down the middle.

I didn't overthink it. Didn't wonder what Marcus would think or Maya would say or anyone would post about later. I just swung. Connected. The sound was pure—this crisp *thwack* that echoed through the whole stadium.

The ball sailed over the fence. A home run. My first ever.

The crowd went wild. My teammates rushed me, helmet flying off, hair everywhere. In that moment, phone still buzzing in my pocket, I realized something important: I could be the girl who hit home runs AND the girl who liked weird fruit AND the girl who'd figure out who she was on her own timeline.

Lightning had struck, and somehow, I was the one holding the bat.