The Orange Hat Awakening

Marcus stood at the edge of the baseball diamond, clutching his phone like a lifeline. The orange bucket hat perched on his head — a gag gift from his aunt that he'd somehow started wearing everywhere, like it was his armor against the world — felt suddenly ridiculous.

"Nice hat, zombie," someone called out. Marcus flinched. It was Tyler, the bull-headed third baseman who'd been making his life miserable since seventh grade. "You look like you died three days ago."

Marcus hadn't died. He'd just survived freshman year, summer school, and his parents' divorce announcement. Exhaustion did feel like walking through life half-alive sometimes.

Savannah stepped up to the plate. She'd cut her hair over the summer, was wearing cleats she'd scrawled with metallic silver Sharpie, and looked like someone who'd figured out exactly who she was supposed to be.

Marcus's heart did that stupid flutter thing. He'd been crushing on her since they'd been assigned as lab partners last semester. She'd laughed at his terrible chemistry puns and told him he was funny, which no one had ever said about him before.

The pitcher wound up and threw. Savannah connected with a crack that echoed through the park. The ball sailed toward left field, and she took off.

"Run!" someone screamed.

She rounded first, second, kept going. Tyler was shouting something from his position at third, but she ignored him, kicked up dirt, and slid home just ahead of the tag.

Safe.

Their team erupted. Savannah pulled herself up, dusting off her knees, and caught Marcus's eye. She grinned and pointed at his orange hat.

"Nice hat," she mouthed.

Marcus felt something shift inside him, like sunlight breaking through clouds. Maybe the hat wasn't ridiculous. Maybe he wasn't ridiculous. Maybe being different wasn't the worst thing in the world.

He adjusted the brim, squared his shoulders, and for the first time in forever, didn't look away.