The Bear in the Batter's Box

The chlorine stung my eyes as I hauled myself out of the pool, water dripping from my hair like I was some kind of rejected mermaid. Across the deck, Tyler from the baseball team was laughing at something Jenna said, and I swear my **iPhone** burned a hole through my towel where I'd stashed it. Three unread texts from Mom. Zero from Tyler.

"Earth to Maya," Jenna called, waving me over. "We're doing **baseball** trivia for Tyler's birthday. You in?"

I forced a smile. Because what was I gonna say? That I'd been crushing on Tyler since seventh grade science when he accidentally set off the fire alarm? That I'd spent all morning perfecting my eyeliner even though we were literally going to a pool party?

The real problem wasn't Tyler. It was the **bear**.

My childhood security blanket—this ratty old stuffed bear I'd had since I was three—was still sitting on my bed because apparently I hadn't fully packed my dignity before coming here. Mom had texted asking if I wanted her to bring it to camp next week, and the honest answer was: maybe.

What did it say about me that I was fifteen and still needed a stuffed animal to sleep? Meanwhile, Jenna was out here being effortlessly cool, probably had never needed a comfort object in her life.

"You good?" Tyler asked, suddenly right there.

My brain short-circuited. "Yeah. Just thinking about... stuff."

"Deep stuff?"

"Baseically deep stuff," I said, and immediately wanted to die.

But Tyler laughed. Actually laughed. "Nice. You're funny, Maya."

Later that night, lying in bed and staring at my phone, I typed out a text to Tyler: "Thanks for inviting me today." Then deleted it. Retyped it. Deleted it again.

Somehow, without thinking, I grabbed Mr. Bear off my bed and held him against my chest. The familiar soft fur against my cheek. And maybe fifteen wasn't too old for a security blanket. Maybe growing up wasn't about leaving everything behind—just about figuring out which parts to keep.