The Goldfish in Left Field

Jax stood by the snack table at Maya's end-of-summer bash, nursing a papaya LaCroix like it was some exotic potion that could make him disappear. His palms were sweating — literally, his palms were gross and clammy — and he'd already wiped them on his shorts three times.

Across the pool, Quinn was laughing with the varsity baseball guys, wearing that faded Marlins cap Jax had been crushing on since freshman year. Of course Quinn played baseball. Of course he was perfect.

"Hey, you want one?" A girl with turquoise hair held out a bowl. "Goldfish?"

"Huh?" Jax blinked.

"The crackers. Not actual fish." She rolled her eyes. "Unless you'd prefer the real ones. My brother won these at the carnival last summer and they're still somehow alive in our pond. Overdramatic little guys, honestly."

Jax took a handful of cheese crackers, suddenly aware of how uncool he must look. Thanks to his anxiety, he wasn't exactly winning at the whole social hierarchy thing.

But then Quinn walked over, baseball cap backwards, and Jax's heart did that stupid flutter thing.

"Yo, who's winning at beer pong?" Quinn asked, grabbing a handful of goldfish crackers.

"Not me," Jax said, before his brain could filter his words. "I mean, I'm not playing. I'm just... existing. Proficiently."

Quinn laughed, and it was genuine. "Same. These parties are lowkey exhausting. I was actually gonna bail and hit the batting cages if you wanna...?"

Jax's palms stopped sweating. "Wait, seriously?"

"Yeah. Unless you'd rather stay here and debate the merits of papaya sparkling water."

Jax smiled. Maybe the summer wasn't over after all.