Swing and a Miss

The baseball sat heavy in my palm, red seams digging into skin already slick with panic sweat. Practice field, 3 PM, the hottest Tuesday of July. And somewhere across the diamond, Maya was laughing at something Jordan said. Again.

"Focusing today, Leo?" Coach Miller's voice cut through my spiral.

I adjusted my cap, trying to look like someone who had their life together.

No cap, I absolutely didn't. My life was currently a group chat of chaos, and I'd been left on read by half my contacts — including Maya, who'd somehow gone from my lab partner to the only thing I thought about between periods.

At home, Buster — my ancient, perpetually confused golden retriever — was probably barking at squirrels like they were personal enemies. The good old days when my biggest problem was explaining to my dad that Buster had eaten his homework, not literally but metaphorically, because Buster was actually too lazy to eat anything that wasn't strategically dropped cheese.

"Leo! You're up!"

I stepped to the plate. The pitcher was Jake, varsity captain, Maya's ex, and currently the reason my palms were sweating like I'd just run a marathon in a parka.

First pitch: ball.

Second pitch: strike.

Third pitch: I swung so hard I practically spun myself into another dimension.

"Strike three! You're out, kid!"

I walked back to the dugout, face burning. Maya wasn't even watching. She was too busy being effortlessly perfect, her ponytail swinging like she'd personally invented coordinated movement.

Pulling out my iphone, I scrolled through notifications. Nothing from her since Friday.

"Rough practice?" It was Sarah, the only person who seemed to notice I existed when Maya wasn't around. She sat next to me, extending something orange and suspicious.

"What's this?"

"Papaya. My mom's on this tropical fruit kick. Try it — it's supposed to be life-changing."

I eyed it dubiously. "I don't know, Sarah. This looks like something that would judge me while I ate it."

"Just try it, drama queen."

I took a bite.

It wasn't bad. It wasn't amazing either. It was just... papaya.

"It tastes like... melon had a baby with a carrot," I said.

Sarah laughed. "That's the most you've said all week."

Something in her voice made me actually look at her. She wasn't effortlessly perfect like Maya. She had paint on her jeans from art club and her hair was doing its own thing and she was laughing like she didn't care who saw.

"So," she said, "since you're clearly not going to ask Maya to the dance, want to go grab food after practice? There's this food truck that supposedly has insane papaya smoothies."

Is this real? Was I being rizzed? By someone who actually talked to me?

"Bet," I said, like I wasn't internally screaming.

Buster was going to lose his mind when I got home late. But for the first time all summer, I didn't mind striking out.

Sometimes the best things aren't the ones you're swinging for.