The Fox in the Outfield

My orange hair was supposed to be auburn, but the box lied. Now I look like a human traffic cone, and Lucas Miller is definitely going to notice me when he walks by the bleachers.

I'm hiding behind Sam's dog, Buster, a Golden Retriever with zero concept of personal space. "Bro, you're literally blocking my view," Maya says, flicking my shoulder. "It's just hair. And it actually kinda slaps."

"Easy for you to say. Your hair didn't come out looking like Cheeto dust."

The baseball game is tied, bottom of the ninth, and I'm missing everything because I'm too busy mentally cataloging every reason Lucas will never look at me twice now. That's when I see it – a fox, trotting along the outfield fence like it owns the place.

"Yo, is nobody else seeing this?" I point.

The fox stops. Looks right at me. Then it does something completely insane – it hops the fence and sprints across the infield.

"WHAT." Maya's on her feet.

The entire game stops. Players freeze. The fox pounces on something in the grass – a forgotten baseball, buried there since who knows when – and takes off like a felon with it clenched in its jaws.

Everyone loses it. The whole stadium is cracking up. Even Lucas, even the umpires. And I'm laughing so hard I can't breathe, my stupid orange hair everywhere, Buster going wild beside me.

Lucas turns around, still laughing, and catches my eye. "Your hair," he calls out. "It's sick."

"Thanks," I manage, still giggling. "It was an accident."

"Best accident ever," he says, and something in my chest unlocks.

The fox disappears into the trees beyond left field, baseball still in its mouth like it just pulled off the heist of the century. And okay, maybe my hair is ridiculous. Maybe I stuck out enough already. But sometimes the weirdest parts of yourself are exactly what gets you seen.