Strikeout Season

The baseball field smelled like cut grass and awkward teenage desperation. I stood near the cable fence separating the bleachers from the field, nursing a warm soda and trying to look like I belonged.

"You're not running away this time," Maya said, appearing beside me with that terrifying grin. "You're actually staying for the whole game."

"I'm not running," I protested, though we both knew I'd been dodging Tyler since that incident at the skate park last week. "I'm strategically positioned."

"Uh-huh." Maya's smirk could've powered the whole stadium. "Tyler's pitching today. Just saying."

Of course he was. Tyler bear-hugged everyone like he was trying to squeeze the existence out of them, and somehow it worked. Girls swooned. Guys wanted to be his best friend. I just wanted to disappear into the cat-shaped cloud drifting overhead.

"Hey," Maya's voice softened. "Tyler's not that bad."

"You didn't have to watch him make fun of my attempt at a kickflip."

"He was flirting with you, you absolute walnut."

The game started. Tyler's first pitch sent someone back to the dugout looking personally victimized. The crowd went wild.

"See?" Maya nudged me. "He's good at baseball. That counts for something."

"Great. Maybe he'll sign my sadness with a Sharpie."

Tyler looked our way between innings. My stomach did that embarrassing flutter thing. I turned to Maya.

"Okay, what if I talk to him after the game? Non-romantic. Just... normal conversation?"

Maya's eyes widened like I'd just suggested we rob a bank. "FINALLY. Yes. The growth we're witnessing today."

The cable fence pressed against my back. I watched Tyler bear down on the next batter, all focus and fierce concentration. Maybe Maya was right. Maybe I'd been running from the wrong thing.

Later, after the game, I'd find Tyler by the concession stand. I'd say something normal. Maybe compliment his baseball skills. Maybe just say hi.

And if my cat back home could see me now, she'd definitely approve. Probably.

But right now, I just needed to survive the next two innings without passing out from nerves.

Small steps, right?