Salad Days Strikeout

Marcus stood in the cafeteria line, clutching his Tupperware like a lifeline. Inside sat a pathetic wilted spinach salad—his mom's idea of "fuel for the big day." Today was baseball tryouts, and Marcus was already sweating.

"Yo, Marcus! You gonna choke down that rabbit food again?" Jordan called from the jock table. The whole team laughed. Marcus forced a smile, his face burning hotter than the sun blazing through the windows.

He'd transferred here two months ago when his dad got stationed overseas. New school. New friends. New lies. Marcus wasn't actually vegetarian—he was just broke. His lunch money went toward saving for the gaming laptop he'd been dreaming about since seventh grade. But now he was trapped in his own stupid deception.

"Whatever," Marcus mumbled, speed-walking to his usual spot by the window.

Outside, he could see the baseball field. The team was already out there, running drills. Marcus's stomach did that thing it always did before something important—the thing where it felt like there was a cat clawing its way up his throat.

He'd been playing baseball since he could walk. His old team back home had called him "Rocket" for his pitching arm. Here? Nobody knew. Jordan and the seniors ruled the diamond, and freshmen like Marcus were supposed to be seen, not heard.

Unless you could throw heat.

Marcus grabbed his backpack and headed to the field early. He needed to warm up, find his groove before the eyes were on him.

The school's stray cat—a calico everyone called Pickles—lounged near the dugout. Marcus knelt to scratch behind her ears. "You got it easy, cat," he muttered. "Nobody's watching you fail."

His water bottle sat on the bench. He'd filled it at the fountain, but it looked gross. Cloudy. Whatever. He needed to hydrate.

The coaches arrived. Coach blew his whistle. "Alright, listen up! Today we're looking for arms. You want a jersey? Show me what you got."

Marcus's heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to escape his chest. His name was called fifth.

He walked to the mound, his cleats digging into the dirt. The seniors watched from the fence. Jordan crossed his arms, looking unimpressed.

Marcus kicked the rubber. He wound up and fired.

Strike. Perfect.

Second pitch: another strike.

Third pitch—

His stomach lurched. The cloudy water? The wilted spinach? Whatever it was, it wasn't staying down. Marcus turned and gagged, spilling water all over his jersey as he barely made it to the grass before everything came up.

Dead silence.

Then laughter. Not mean laughter—just... confused laughter. But to Marcus, it sounded like the whole world was crumbling.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. That was it. He was done. Never getting on this team. Never living this down.

"Hey," a voice said.

Marcus looked up. It was Jordan.

"Food poisoning from the cafeteria, right?" Jordan said, grimacing. "Happened to me last month. That spinach? Death trap."

Marcus blinked. "Yeah. Exactly."

"Coach!" Jordan shouted. "Kid's sick. Can he come back tomorrow?"

Coach sighed. "Fine. Marcus, be here at 3 PM sharp. Don't eat lunch first."

The team chuckled, but different this time. Not mean. Just... normal.

Jordan tossed him a Gatorade from the bench. "You got an arm, freshman. But your stomach's weak. We'll work on it."

Marcus caught it. For the first time in two months, he could breathe.

"Thanks," he said.

"Don't thank me yet," Jordan grinned, jogging back to the field. "You still gotta make the cut. And nobody's cutting you any slack just because you can't handle cafeteria spinach."

Marcus laughed, actually laughed. Maybe being new wasn't about being perfect. Maybe it was about finding people who got it—even if it meant puking in front of them first.

Pickles the cat rubbed against his leg. Marcus scratched her head.

"Yeah," he whispered. "I got this."