The Mascot Strikeout

The metal bat felt impossibly light in my sweaty palms. Across the field, our massive **bear** mascot head sat abandoned on the bench—my sad, deflated costume from the disastrous halftime show where I'd tripped over my own giant paws in front of everyone.

"Don't choke, freshman," called Tyler, the senior **bull** of a pitcher whose fastballs had been terrorizing the league all season. His **baseball** cap was pulled low, shadows cutting across his smirk as he wound up. The pitch screamed toward me, and I swung so hard I spun myself into the dirt.

Silence. Then laughter rippled through the bleachers, cascading up the social **pyramid** where Tyler's crew sat at the top, their phones already recording my humiliation. I felt hot all over, like my skin was too tight.

But then Jordan was there, pulling me up, dusting off my jersey like it was no big deal. "Your swing's garbage," he said, grinning, "but your form getting out of the dirt? Olympic level."

"I quit," I muttered, grabbing my stuff.

"Nah." Jordan fell into step beside me as I walked away. "Tyler's been striking out everyone since he grew that ego with his mustache. Want to hit the batting cages later? My cousin's got a key to the rec center."

I looked back at the field, at the bear head still sitting on the bench, at the pyramid of popularity that suddenly seemed ridiculous. "Yeah," I said. "But first, help me figure out how to wash this mascot costume. I think I sweat through three layers of foam."

Jordan laughed, and for the first time all day, I didn't feel like a joke. I felt like someone who'd just made a real **friend**.