The Green Smoothie Sabotage

Marcus stood in front of his bathroom mirror, eyeing the suspicious green liquid his mom had left on the counter. Another vitamin-packed smoothie, she'd written in a note. Because apparently being the shortest kid on the baseball team wasn't already giving him enough of a complex.

He took a tentative sip. Spinach. Definitely spinach. And something else that tasted like lawn clippings and betrayal.

"You're not actually drinking that, are you?" His little sister Chloe appeared in the doorway, already dressed in her spy costume from Halloween—black turtleneck, toy binoculars around her neck. She'd been wearing it nonstop for three days. "I saw Mom put kale in it."

"Thanks for the reconnaissance, Agent Chloe." Marcus poured the rest down the sink. "Some missions require sacrifice."

The real mission today was surviving tryouts without embarrassing himself. Especially with Jordan watching from the bleachers. Jordan, who'd actually smiled at him during yesterday's lunch period when Marcus's milk carton exploded everywhere. She'd laughed, but not in a mean way. Not like the guys who still called him "Shorty McShort-Stack" despite the fact that he'd hit two home runs last week.

"I could spy on her for you," Chloe offered, adjusting her binoculars. "Find out if she likes you back. I accept payment in Oreos."

Marcus laughed. "You're eleven. Go do your homework."

At the field, Coach Miller blew his whistle. Marcus's stomach did that thing it always did before something important—like the time he'd forgotten his lines in the school play, or when he'd had to give that presentation about nutrition while his poster kept falling down.

"Alright, listen up!" Coach Miller's voice cut through his thoughts. "Varsity spots are up for grabs. Show me what you've got."

Marcus stepped into the batter's box. The pitcher wound up and threw. Marcus didn't think—he just swung.

CRACK.

The ball sailed over the fence. Perfect form. Perfect timing. He jogged the bases, grinning so hard his face hurt. When he crossed home plate, he looked up at the bleachers.

Jordan was there. She was wearing his team's cap, and she was clapping. Actually clapping. And then she did something weird—she pulled a small notebook from her pocket and wrote something down.

"What's that about?" his friend Ramón asked, bumping his shoulder.

Marcus shook his head, but he was smiling. "No clue. But I think I might need to hire a spy to find out."