The Outfield Spy

Marcus's palms were sweating again. Gross, clammy, uncomfortable — the universal sign of impending social disaster.

"You good, bro?" Jordan asked, slapping him on the back. "You look like you're about to puke."

"Fine," Marcus managed, gripping his water bottle like a lifeline. "Just nervous about the game."

This was partially true. The baseball game mattered, sort of. But what really had his stomach doing backflips was that Maya was watching from the bleachers. Maya, who'd moved here three months ago with her eyeliner and her mysterious smile and her ability to make Marcus forget his own name.

His mom had shoved a vitamin at him that morning, her usual speech about how growing boys needed their nutrients. He'd swallowed it without protest because sometimes it was easier to just let parents believe they were helping.

Now, standing in the outfield while Jordan pitched, Marcus felt like a spy. Not the cool action-movie kind — the awkward, pathetic kind, stealing glances at Maya between pitches. She was sitting cross-legged in the grass, book open, but he kept catching her looking up. At him? Or just at the game?

The sun beat down on his neck. He took a long pull from his water bottle, trying to look casual. Trying to look like someone whose palms didn't currently feel like swamp things.

"Heads up!" someone yelled.

The ball sailed toward him, and Marcus's body moved on instinct. He caught it cleanly, somehow, and threw it to second base. Out.

"Nice!" Jordan called.

Maya was definitely looking now. She was smiling.

After the game, dripping sweat and feeling weirdly triumphant, Marcus found her waiting by the water fountain.

"You were actually good out there," she said, and he noticed her palms had little paint smudges. Art student, then. "I'm Maya, by the way. We have English together."

"Marcus." His voice cracked. Smooth. "Yeah, I know. English. With Mrs. G. The worst."

She laughed, and it was better than any vitamin, any victory, anything.

"Want to get water?" she asked. "There's this place by the park. They have those fizzy ones with the caffeine."

"Yeah," Marcus said. "Yeah, absolutely."

His palms were still sweating. But as they walked away from the field, he thought maybe that was okay. Some things were worth being nervous about.