The Cable Knit Cap

The cable box died on the last day of July, right as the baseball playoffs were heating up. My dad swore at the screen, kicked the entertainment center, and declared we'd get it fixed eventually. Eventually meant never, which meant my summer of doing absolutely nothing had officially reached its peak.

"You could, like, go outside," Maya suggested from her spot on the couch. She was wearing her cutoffs and a vintage band tee, looking like she belonged in a Tumblr aesthetic post while I was still in my gym shorts from three days ago.

"It's ninety degrees out there."

"So we'll get iced coffee. My treat."

Maya had been my friend since sixth grade, back when friendship bracelets were currency and she'd made me one that said BEST in those little plastic letters. Now we were sixteen, and things were different but not different enough. She'd gotten highlights and learned to curl her hair perfectly. I was still figuring out that maybe looking like everyone else wasn't the worst thing.

We ended up at the park near her house, where some guys from school were playing baseball. Not even for real – just messing around with a borrowed bat and a ball they'd found somewhere. Lucas waved at us, and Maya did that thing where she pretended she didn't see but her face got all flushed anyway.

"You should talk to him," I said.

"Shut up."

"I'm just saying, he's been looking at you all summer."

"He's looking at everyone. He's that guy."

But then the ball came rolling toward us, and Lucas jogged over, all sweaty and smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Hey," he said. "Want to join? We need another player."

Maya's hair fell in her face and she tucked it behind her ear, nervous and perfect. "I don't really play."

"That's okay," I said, already standing up. "I've got this."

I hadn't played baseball since I was twelve and quit because I couldn't hit anything. But something about Maya watching, something about the dead cable box and how this whole summer felt like waiting for something that wasn't going to happen – I just wanted to move.

The first pitch came at me and I swung so hard I almost fell over. Strike one. Someone laughed, and I felt that familiar heat in my cheeks. But then Lucas adjusted his cap and said, "You've got this," and I realized I did.

Second pitch, I made contact. It wasn't a home run or anything – just a solid hit that sent the ball bouncing between first and second. But as I ran toward first base, Maya cheering from the sidelines, hair flying everywhere like she didn't care how it looked anymore, I thought: yeah. This is what living feels like.

Later, walking home with iced coffees and grass stains on my jeans, Maya linked her arm through mine.

"You were amazing today," she said.

"I got to second base once. That's literally it."

"You did something. That counts for something."

The cable box was still dead when I got home. But I didn't care. I'd spent the whole day outside, my hair was a mess, my legs were tired, and for the first time all summer, I didn't feel like I was waiting for my life to start.

Sometimes you just have to swing.