Sweaty Palms at Home Plate

Marcus's palms were sweating. Again. He rubbed them against his jeans, studying the dirt around home plate like it held the secrets to talking to girls without sounding like a complete dork.

"You're up, Martinez!" Coach yelled.

He stepped into the batter's box, baseball bat gripped tight. Third inning, bases loaded, and somehow the only thing he could think about was Jenna's smile yesterday when she'd laughed at his terrible joke about algebra. She'd actually touched his arm—his arm!—and his brain had short-circuited like a overloaded circuit.

The pitcher wound up. Fastball. Marcus swung and missed. So hard his sneakers squeaked.

"Strike one!"

His teammates were watching. Jenna was watching from the bleachers, probably wondering why he'd suddenly forgotten how to hit a baseball. Great. This is exactly what his freshman year needed.

Second pitch: curveball. He tapped it weakly toward third base. Out.

But it didn't matter, because after the game, Jenna was waiting by the dugout. She held up a clear plastic bag filled with water, a tiny orange goldfish swimming inside.

"Won it at the carnival," she said, grinning. "My mom said I can't keep it. You want it?"

His palms were sweating again. He wanted to say something smooth, something that would make her laugh like she did yesterday. Instead he heard himself say, "I don't have a bowl."

"That's the point," she said. "It's an adventure fish. Come on, live a little."

She pressed the bag into his hand, her fingers brushing his. For three seconds, Marcus held a goldfish and Jenna's attention, and suddenly baseball didn't seem so scary anymore.

"I'll name it Home Plate," he blurted. "Because it's round and I always miss it."

Jenna laughed, and Marcus forgot all about striking out.