The Hair Disaster Before First Base

Sixteen and I'd already learned: sometimes your worst moments happen right before your best ones.

My mom stood in the bathroom doorway, that familiar concerned look on her face. "Did you take your vitamin D? You look like a zombie, Maya."

"I'm fine," I lied. Truth was, I'd stayed up until 3 AM scrolling through Tyler's Instagram, overanalyzing every caption like my life depended on it.

"Big game today," she reminded me unnecessarily. Tyler was pitching. I'd been counting down the days.

I stared at my reflection. My hair was a disaster—frizzy, uneven, doing this weird flip thing on one side. I'd tried to dye it sunset pink last weekend (very on brand, very aesthetic), but it had turned out more "failed cotton candy" than Pinterest dreams. Now I had to wear this ridiculous beanie in 75-degree weather.

Our dog, Buster, chose that moment to burst into the bathroom, spinning in excited circles because he sensed my anxiety. He knocked over my backpack, and my secret—my carefully folded baseball jersey, the one with Tyler's number on the back—tumbled out.

"Oh my GOD, Mom, get out!" I practically shoved her toward the hallway, face burning.

"Maya, it's totally normal to—"

"NO IT'S NOT," I hissed, shoving the jersey back into my bag. "I'm just going to support the team. That's it."

Buster decided this was the perfect time to start barking at absolutely nothing, because that's what dogs do when you're trying to have a crisis.

At the game, I sat three rows back, heart hammering. Tyler pitched like he was possessed, striking out everyone. Then, in the seventh inning stretch, he scanned the crowd. Our eyes locked.

He walked over after the inning. "Nice hat, Maya."

I died. Actually died. My soul left my body.

"I like the pink tips," he added, gesturing to where they peeked out from under my beanie. "Looks cool."

My hand went to my hair instinctively. "Oh, thanks. It's... still a work in progress."

"Wanna walk around the concession stand?" He grinned. "Unless you have to get home to your vitamin schedule or something."

I laughed, feeling something shift inside me—like maybe I didn't have to have everything figured out yet. "Yeah. Let me just text my mom."

Later, walking with Tyler as Buster (who'd somehow escaped the house) came trotting up to us, I realized something: the imperfect, messy, slightly chaotic version of me? That was the person worth knowing. Bad hair and all.