Spinach Straight to Cable

My dad had been saying it since I was twelve: ''You throw like a girl,'' like that was the worst thing in the world. The irony? I WAS a girl, and I could probably throw a baseball harder than half the boys in my eighth period gym class.

''Cameron, focus!'' Coach Miller's voice cut through my thoughts. I stood at the plate, bat dragging, knowing I was about to strike out for the third time this inning. The baseball spun toward me, impossibly fast, and I swung—missing completely.

''Told you,'' my ex-best friend Maya whispered from the bench. ''Baseball is so not your thing.'' She'd said the same thing when I came out as non-binary last month. ''So what are you NOW?'' Like my identity was some hobby I could quit.

After practice, I dragged myself to my shift at Spin City—the worst job ever. My role: removing spinach from customer salads because apparently nobody under forty eats the stuff. I spent three hours every day scraping slimy leaves into the compost while my coworkers vaped in the break room.

''Hey, Spinach Girl,'' the cable guy said, sliding into the booth. He'd been coming in for weeks—dark curls, jacket that said RODRIGUEZ CABLE SERVICES. ''Usual? Spinach salad, hold the spinach?''

I rolled my eyes. ''Very original.'' But something about his easy smile made me actually want to talk. ''What's it like, working for your dad's company?''

He shrugged. ''Free cable. My friends come over to watch PPV wrestling events. It's basically social currency.'' He leaned closer. ''You know, I could hook you up with the premium package. Employee discount.'' My stomach did this weird flutter thing.

Maybe I said yes because I was lonely. Maybe because Maya had found new friends who didn't question everything about her. Or maybe because Santiago Rodriguez had really nice hands and listened when I talked about how much I hated baseball, how my parents kept calling me their daughter even after I told them my name was Cam, how I didn't know who I was supposed to be.

Three days later, he showed up at our door with a cable box. My parents were thrilled—free installation! They chatted while he worked, and I leaned against the doorframe, watching his sure movements. When our eyes met, he winked.

Later that night, I flipped through channels, landing on a documentary about urban farming. Spinach was a superfood, they said. Packed with iron. Made you stronger.

The next morning, I put spinach on everything. Bagel? Spinach cream cheese. Smoothie? Throw in a handful. When my dad asked why, I said, ''Making changes. Trying new things.'' He looked confused.

At baseball practice that afternoon, something shifted. I stopped caring about impressing Coach Miller or proving anything to Maya. I swung the bat and connected—solid contact. The ball sailed over the fence. My teammates stared.

''Damn, Cam,'' Santiago said from the bleachers. He'd come to watch me play. ''That's what I'm talking about.''

I grinned. ''Guess all that spinach finally kicked in.'' And maybe it was the spinach. Or maybe it was finally feeling like myself for the first time in forever. Either way, I was done throwing like anyone but me.