The Cat Who Caught Our Fly Ball

Maya's trench coat smelled like the animal shelter, but nobody at South High said anything. Not after she showed up to every baseball game with a stray calico tucked inside like a smuggled secret. The cat—which she'd named Rookie—had this thing for watching the varsity team from the dugout fence.

"You know the social pyramid works against you, right?" I said, sliding onto the bleacher beside her. "Being the weird cat girl isn't exactly top-tier marketing."

Maya smirked, scratching Rookie behind the ears. "Bro, I'm not trying to climb anyone's pyramid. I'm just here for the vibes."

That was the thing about Maya. While the rest of us were playing 4D chess to avoid social suicide sophomore year, she was genuinely, bafflingly unbothered. Meanwhile, I'd accidentally agreed to join the baseball team because Tyler asked me in front of everyone, and now I had to figure out how to hold a bat without looking like a complete clown.

"You're overthinking again," Maya said, reading my mind. She pointed at the field where Coach Martinez was demonstrating something with a pyramid of baseballs. "See that? Even Coach's teaching strategy is built on a pyramid scheme."

I laughed. Rookie chose that moment to bolt onto the field, making a beeline for Coach's carefully stacked pyramid. The cat scattered baseballs everywhere like they were personal demons.

"ROOKIE!" Maya shrieked.

The whole team froze. Tyler, the golden boy of our school's entire athletic pyramid, jogged over. I braced for the moment when Maya would get annihilated socially.

Instead, Tyler scooped up the cat. "Dude," he said, grinning. "This cat has better form than half the team."

By the end of practice, Rookie was the unofficial mascot. Maya was showing Tyler how to hold her properly. And me? I realized the social pyramid was only as solid as we let it be.

"You were right," I admitted as we walked home. "About the pyramid thing."

Maya just winked. "Bro, I'm always right. You just finally noticed."