Summer Storm at Home Plate

Mateo's fingers went numb gripping the **baseball** bat. Sixteen years old and suddenly he couldn't remember how to swing. Not that it mattered—the bleachers were empty except for his cousin Sofia, who was absolutely no help whatsoever.

"You're thinking too hard," she called out. "Just hit the thing, Papi."

Easy for her to say. Sofia wasn't the one whose curly **hair** had decided today was the day to defy gravity, creating a halo of frizz that made him look like a science experiment gone wrong. Not exactly the vibe you wanted when you were trying to look normal for the first time in three months.

Not that anyone was watching. Except maybe Jenna from chemistry was walking past the field with her friends, and suddenly Mateo's **palm** was sweating so much his grip was basically nonexistent. Great. Fantastic. This was fine.

The sky turned that weird purple-gray color that meant **lightning** was about to make everything extremely dramatic. Because of course. Because the universe clearly thought today needed more cinematic tension.

"Storm's coming!" Sofia yelled, already grabbing her backpack. "Abuela made **papaya** batido, by the way. She left it in the cooler."

Mateo froze. The papaya drink—the one his grandmother made with condensed milk and cinnamon, the one that smelled like childhood summers and family dinners and everything that made him different from kids whose abuelas didn't drop off tropical fruit drinks at baseball practice.

Jenna was still walking past. She waved.

Mateo's brain short-circuited. He managed to hit the ball—mostly by accident—and watched it arc toward the parking lot as the first raindrop splashed his nose.

"Nice," Sofia said, grinning like she knew exactly what she was doing. "Now come on. That papaya's not gonna drink itself."

Lightning cracked across the sky. Mateo ran for cover, grinning like an idiot. Maybe the frizz didn't matter. Maybe the papaya didn't have to be embarrassing. Maybe tomorrow he'd actually talk to Jenna.

But first—batido time.