The Bear in My Backpack

The spinach smoothie was supposed to be my secret weapon. Mom swore it would make me faster, stronger, more likely to survive varsity baseball tryouts. Instead, it just made my backpack smell like a wet garden every time I opened it.

"Dude, what died in there?" Tyler asked, dropping onto the bench next to me. His cleats were already tied, perfect and professional. Mine were still in the bag because I couldn't find the courage to put them on.

"Green smoothie," I muttered, wishing I could disappear. "For... energy."

Tyler laughed, but not meanly. That was the thing about him—he was effortlessly cool without trying. Meanwhile, I was still sleeping with Barnaby, the stuffed bear I'd had since I was four, and I was absolutely terrified that someone would find out. I'd shoved him deep in my backpack this morning, beneath my uniform and the spinach-scented disaster.

Coach blew the whistle. "Positions!"

My heart hammered as I grabbed my glove. This was it—my chance to finally prove I belonged. I'd played summer league forever, but varsity was different. Varsity was where you became someone.

First pitch came straight at me. I caught it cleanly. Okay, good start.

"Nice catch, Marcus!" someone yelled. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

Then came the batting practice. I stepped up, knees shaking, and everything went wrong. Swing and miss. Swing and miss. I could feel everyone watching, could hear the whispers. When I finally connected, the ball dribbled off the bat—straight back at the pitcher.

Humiliation burned my face. I grabbed my backpack and bolted to the bathroom, needing somewhere to hide.

And that's when it happened. I unzipped my bag to grab my water bottle, and Barnaby fell out.onto the dirty locker room floor. Right in front of Tyler.

I froze. This was it. Social suicide.

Tyler picked up Barnaby, brushed off his fur, and handed him back. "Cool bear. My little sister has one like it."

"I sleep with him," I blurted out, because apparently I was committed to maximum embarrassment today. "For anxiety. It's stupid."

Tyler shrugged. "Whatever works, man. I chew my fingernails until they bleed. You want to know something?" He lowered his voice. "I've never hit a home run in my life. Not even in practice."

"But you're Tyler. You're amazing at baseball."

"Doesn't mean I don't overthink everything." He gestured at my backpack. "That smoothie actually smell decent?"

I hesitated. "Want to try some?"

"Nah." He grinned. "But I'll catch for you during extra practice if you want."

Something loosened in my chest. Maybe that's what growing up really meant—not becoming perfect, but finding people who didn't expect you to be.

"Thanks," I said, zipping Barnaby safely back inside. "And yeah, the smoothie's actually pretty good."

"We'll see," Tyler said, heading back to the field. "We'll see."