The Baseball Diamond Code

I felt like a total spy, crouched behind the bleachers with my hoodie pulled low. Just another shadow at the Riverside High baseball field, watching Maya practice her swing. Again.

The mascot—a giant, dopey-looking bear named Buster—loomed over the dugout, its frozen grin mocking my entire existence. I'd been coming here for two weeks, lurking like I was some kind of undercover agent, when really I was just a sixteen-year-old who couldn't figure out how to say "hi."

"Hey!"

I jumped so hard I nearly face-planted into the dirt. Maya stood there, batting helmet tilting sideways, actually looking at me. Not through me. AT me.

"You're the sphinx," she said, catching her breath.

"Uh, what?"

"The Sphinx." She gestured to the library across the street, where our English class had studied mythology last month. "You sit there every day, all mysterious, like you're guarding some ancient secret."

My face burned. I wasn't guarding secrets. I was guarding a massive crush.

"I'm just... watching. The game."

Maya grinned. "The game ended an hour ago." She tossed me her extra helmet. "Wanna hit?"

So there I was, standing at home plate with Maya watching, feeling like every neuron in my brain had misfired simultaneously. I swung at everything, missed everything, and somehow managed to hit exactly one ball—a pathetic grounder that rolled three feet.

But Maya was cheering like I'd knocked it into orbit.

"Tomorrow," she said, "same time? Unless you have more important spy business."

I didn't. I absolutely didn't.

"Tomorrow," I agreed.

Walking home, I realized something: the bear mascot wasn't mocking me anymore. And neither was the universe. Sometimes the scariest riddles solve themselves when you finally stop hiding and start swinging.