Summers Don't Last Forever

I never thought I'd spend my sixteenth summer working a minimum wage job at Bear Creek Mini Golf, wearing a polyester polo that smelled like desperation and strawberry air freshener. But here I was, watching eighth graders in oversized hoodies attempt to navigate the windmill hole while my teammates were probably at baseball practice living their best lives without me.

Coach Miller's words still echoed in my head: 'You've got potential, kid, but you're too distracted. Figure out what matters.'

So I'd quit the team. My parents were thrilled, obviously. Nothing says 'responsible adult' like giving up your passion to stack golf balls for eight dollars an hour.

'Hey Bear!' Maya called from the ticket counter. She'd started calling me that after I'd literally carried a sobbing six-year-old who'd gotten his head stuck in the clown's mouth on hole three. 'Some kid just puked near the pyramid hole. You're up.'

The pyramid hole – hole seven, shaped like an Egyptian pyramid, complete with fake hieroglyphics that were definitely not accurate. My least favorite.

I grabbed the cleanup bucket and headed over, already mentally drafting my resignation letter. But then I saw it, tucked near the fake sphinx's paw – a baseball card. Not just any card, but a vintage 1952 Topps Mickey Mantle, the kind that could pay for college. Probably. Maybe. I'd seen enough YouTube videos about sports card hunting to know this was huge.

Someone had lost it here. Maybe years ago.

I picked it up, my fingers trembling. This was it. This was my sign. I could sell this card, buy my freedom from Bear Creek and disappointment, maybe even rejoin the team with something to show for it. A pyramid of success built on someone else's loss.

'Everything okay?' Maya asked, appearing beside me.

I looked at the card, then at her, then at the gaggle of middle schoolers watching me like I was about to do something interesting.

'Yeah,' I said, something tightening in my chest. 'Just... thinking.'

The card could've changed everything. Instead, I slid it into my pocket, made a mental note to post about it on the lost and found board, and finished cleaning up puke like a normal person.

Coach was right about one thing – I needed to figure out what mattered. Turns out, it wasn't baseball cards or proving people wrong. It was showing up. Even when you're the one cleaning up the mess.

'So,' Maya said, 'wanna get bubble tea after your shift? My treat.'

And just like that, summer didn't seem so terrible anymore.