Riddles in the Dugout

Maya dragged herself through third period feeling like a straight-up zombie. Three AP classes, two hours of sleep, and now Ms. Henderson was pacing by the whiteboard like some ancient sphinx, dropping riddles about cellular respiration that made zero sense.

"Energy cannot be created or destroyed," Ms. Henderson announced. "But it can be transformed. Like how ATP becomes..." She paused, dramatically. "Anyone?"

Maya's brain was running on fumes and desperation. She'd mainlined some sketchy vitamin supplement she bought at the gas station—"Berry Blast" flavored, promised "maximum focus"—but mostly it just tasted like artificial sadness.

"ATP becomes..." someone whispered.

"ADP," Maya muttered, then immediately wished she hadn't.

Ms. Henderson swiveled. "Correct. And what process replenishes our ATP?"

Another riddle. Maya hated riddles.

After school, she found Jordan by the baseball field, tossing a ball against the backstop. *Thwack. Thwack.* Rhythmic, hypnotic. Better than riddles.

"You look dead," Jordan said, which was weirdly comforting.

"Feel dead. That vitamin stuff gave me the jitters and zero actual energy."

"Because you're not supposed to chug the whole bottle, Maya."

She sank onto the dugout bench. "Ms. H called on me twice. I felt like I was facing a sphinx every time. One wrong answer and I get eaten alive."

Jordan laughed. "You're being dramatic."

"Am I? First period, Tommy barges into homeroom like a bull in a china shop, yelling about how we're all gonna be zombies by graduation if we don't 'live in the moment.' Then fourth period, I catch Lila and Sophia making fun of my hair in the bathroom. And I haven't slept more than four hours since... I don't even remember."

Jordan stopped throwing the ball. "You know what's funny?"

"What?"

"You're so worried about getting everything right that you don't see what's actually happening." Jordan tossed her the baseball. "Lila made fun of your hair because she's been copying your style for weeks. Tommy's loud because he's terrified nobody notices him. And you're not a zombie, Maya. You're just tired."

She held the ball, rough leather against her palms. "So what? I just... keep going?"

"Yeah. But maybe next time, don't chug the whole vitamin bottle. And get some sleep, seriously."

The baseball field smelled like cut grass and possibility. For the first time all day, Maya didn't feel like answering riddles. She just threw the ball back.

"Thwack."