Summer's Riddle

Tyler adjusted his cap, sweat pooling at the hairline. Trying out for the travel baseball team wasn't supposed to feel like swallowing broken glass, but here he was.

"You're up, kid," Coach Miller said. His voice sounded like gravel in a blender. The team called him "the bear" behind his back — massive, gruff, but weirdly protective of his cubs.

Tyler stepped to the plate. His first swing missed by three inches. His second went foul. Strike two. The bull in the cheap seats behind home plate — some varsity jerk named Kyle — wouldn't shut up.

"Rookie's choking!" Kyle hollered. Tyler's face burned. He gripped the bat until his knuckles went white.

"Hey."

Tyler glanced left. A girl sat on the bleachers, reading a paperback. Something about her made Kyle shut up. Maybe it was the sphinx-like way she watched everything, said nothing, knew everything. Lena. She'd transferred in sophomore year and moved through the halls like she had somewhere better to be.

"Your stance's too tight," she said, not looking up from her book. "You're swinging like you're afraid of missing. Swing like you mean to hit something."

Something in Tyler's chest unclenched.

Third pitch. He didn't think. He just swung.

CRACK.

The ball sailed over the left field fence. Kyle's jaw hit the floor. Coach Miller actually nodded. Lena turned a page like nothing happened.

But the real test came Friday at Emma's pool party. Tyler stood by the deep end in swim trunks that felt three sizes too small. Someone yelled "CANNONBALL" and suddenly Tyler was shoved backward.

He hit the water clawing at nothing. The chlorine stung his eyes. He couldn't find bottom. His lungs screamed.

Then hands grabbed him. Hauled him up, sputtering, to the surface.

"You okay?" Lena's face hovered above his, water dripping from her hair like wet ink. She'd jumped in after him. No hesitation. No performance.

"Yeah." He coughed. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Good." She smiled — actually smiled — and it was like watching the sun come up. "Because you looked like you were about to say something to me before you went under."

Tyler blinked. He had. He'd been working up the courage all summer.

"I was gonna ask," he said, treading water, "if maybe you wanted to come to my game Thursday. If you don't have better sphinx riddles to solve or whatever."

She laughed, and it sounded like the best sound he'd heard all summer.

"I'll be there. But you better not choke."

"Scout's honor."

"You're not a Scout, Tyler."

"Details."

Behind them, Kyle yelled something about chicken fights and Tyler's previous terror felt like someone else's life. Sometimes the scariest moments — the strikeout, the deep end, the talking to the girl — were just the beginning.