The Hat Trick

The baseball hat sat on my desk like a bribe from my dad's midlife crisis. He'd bought it thinking, what? That I'd suddenly transform into the varsity jock he'd always wanted? Instead, I was hiding out in my room, doom-scrolling through cable news while lightning cracked the sky outside.

"Marcus!"

I flinched, knocking over my soda. Dad again. He wanted me to go to this neighborhood barbecue—meet people, be normal, all that. My palms were already sweating just thinking about it. Social situations were basically my villain origin story.

But then I saw her through my window. Jasmine from down the street, the one who'd transferred to our school last month and sat in the back of English, always reading something obscure. She was walking toward my house, carrying a plate of what looked like very questionable brownies.

Okay, new plan.

I grabbed the baseball hat—might as well commit to the bit—and headed outside. The barbecue was exactly as cringe as I'd expected: adults talking about property values, kids playing cornhole with way too much enthusiasm. But then I spotted Jasmine awkwardly standing near the snack table, looking like she wanted to teleport elsewhere.

"Nice hat," she said when I approached, and I couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic.

"My dad's attempt to fix me," I said, then immediately wanted to die. Why did I say that?

But she laughed. Actually laughed. "Mine tried to sign me up for softball this morning. I accidentally hit myself with the bat."

We ended up sitting on the curb while lightning flickered in the distance, both of us wearing hats we didn't want, talking about everything and nothing. She quoted philosophy; I admitted I'd never actually played baseball. The cable box in my room seemed suddenly very far away.

When her mom called her home, she pulled off my baseball hat, dropped it on my head, and smiled. "See you Monday, Marcus."

My palms were definitely sweating again. But for once, I didn't mind.