The Geometry of Almost

Maya's **palm**s were sweating again. That specific, betraying dampness that made gripping her **iPhone** feel like clutching a bar of soap. Three rows back in Honors Bio, Leo was laughing at something Tyler said—head tilted, sunlight catching the dark curl falling over his forehead. Maya had memorized that curl like it was on tomorrow's test.

"You're being a total creep," Jazz whispered, sliding into the desk beside her. "Again."

"I'm not creeping," Maya hissed, thumb hovering over Leo's Instagram story from the weekend. "I'm conducting research. It's called gathering intelligence."

"It's called being a weird little **spy**, babe." Jazz snorted. "Just ask him to the bonfire already."

Maya's stomach did that thing—like swallowing a goldfish whole. Nasty. Last night, her little brother's carnival **goldfish** had flopped onto the carpet while she tried to save it, translucent fins gasping. She'd placed it back in the bowl, but something about its glassy eye stuck with her. That frantic, useless thrashing. That was Maya around Leo.

**Baseball** practice started in fifteen minutes. She could see the field from here—Leo in right field, how he'd stretch his arms overhead before chasing down fly balls, graceful and sure and everything Maya wasn't.

"His story," Jazz said, pointing. "Watch."

Maya tapped. Leo's face filled the screen: backward cap, that half-smile that made her chest feel tight. "Bet I can hit the sign today," he said to the camera. "Watch this space."

The space was empty. He never posted the follow-up.

"See?" Jazz groaned. "Literally ZERO information gained. Your surveillance game is weak."

But Maya noticed something else—behind Leo, in the dugout, a pale blue hair tie. The exact one Maya had lost at last week's game when she'd stayed late to watch him practice, pretending to need extra batting practice even though she played third base and had zero business at the plate anymore.

Her palms stopped sweating.

"He stole my hair tie," Maya said.

"WHAT"

"From the dugout. Last Tuesday. I was looking for it everywhere and—he KEPT it?"

Jazz grabbed Maya's phone, zooming in on the blurry background. "No way that's—yeah. That's definitely yours. Oh my GOD. He's the creep now! We're even!"

The bonfire was Friday. Three days away. Maya's thumb found Leo's name in her contacts, typed: "You owe me a hair tie, thief 🤘"

Sent.

Two minutes later: "Caught me. Trade you for a pitch?"

Maya's palms were sweating again. But this time, she didn't wipe them on her jeans.