Stealing Home Under Palm Skies

The papaya sat on my kitchen counter like an alien artifact, its orange flesh glistening through plastic wrap. Mom's new phase: "exotic superfoods for your developing brain, Mason." Yeah, because what my fifteen-year-old life really needed was more awkward.

"Eat it, it's packed with vitamin C," she called from her home office, probably watching another wellness influencer who'd never been to a grocery store.

I grabbed my baseball glove instead. Today was tryouts. Not just any tryouts – freshman year, varsity-or-bust, the kind of day that determines whether you spend high school as a legend or that kid who sits near the trash cans at lunch.

My phone buzzed. Jordan: *u coming?*

Jordan'd been my best friend since we accidentally knocked over the same block tower in preschool. But lately, something felt different. Jordan was vibing with the popular crowd, trading in our late-night Fortnite sessions for whatever cool people did. Study? Talk about feelings? No clue.

The baseball field shimmered in heat waves, palm trees swaying like bored spectators along the fence line. This was Florida, where even the vegetation judged you.

Coach Miller blew his whistle. "Alright, show me what you got."

Jordan stood near first base, laughing with some juniors. Not even looking my way. My stomach did that thing where it simultaneously wanted to hurl and disappear.

"Batter up!"

I stepped to the plate. The pitch came – fast, outside. I swung anyway. Missed. Everyone saw. Of course they saw.

"Mason!" Coach yelled. "Eyes open!"

Jordan glanced over. For a second, I saw it – that look. Sorry, not sorry. Not anymore.

I struck out twice. Coach Miller shook his head. That was it. Four years of batting practice since age seven, and I'd blown it in twelve seconds.

Afterward, I sat behind the dugout, staring at a palm frond that'd fallen near my cleats.

"Yo."

Jordan stood there, hands in pockets. "You choked."

"Thanks, really needed that insight."

"No, like... you were overthinking." Jordan sat. "I do that too. Before games, I literally throw up. Every single time."

I stared. "What? You're Jordan Perfect-Swing Peterson."

"Fake it till you make it, bro." Jordan grinned, crooked and real. "Wanna come over? My mom's making papaya smoothies. They're actually disgusting."

"Tell me about it."

"We can fail at being healthy together. Then I'll help you fix your swing tomorrow. If that's... chill?"

The heat didn't feel so heavy anymore. The palms overhead didn't look like spectators anymore – just trees, doing their thing, same as us.

"Yeah," I said. "That's chill."