The Papaya Strikeout

I looked like a zombie. Not the cool, Netflix-variety kind. The "stayed up until 3 AM doomscrolling" variety, complete with dark circles that basically screamed "I'm dying inside" to everyone at school.

"You need this vitamin, Maya. It's natural energy." My mom handed me a horse pill that looked suspiciously like something from a medieval apothecary.

"Mom, I have the championship baseball game today. Sam's going to be there. I can't show up looking like the walking dead."

"Then eat your papaya." She pointed to a tropical fruit sitting ominously on the counter like an orange grenade.

My phone buzzed. Leo: "dude you look rough. bad hair day or bad life day lol"

I groaned and texted back: "both. my mom's trying to cure me with fruit and vitamins again. send help."

"sorry can't. coach said if we're late to warmups we're running laps until we graduate. see u in 15"

Great. Just great. The other team's mascot was literally a bear—a giant, furry reminder that life was unfair and my face had betrayed me. I'd been crushing on Sam since seventh period Spanish, when he'd helped me pick up my dropped vocab sheet and said my name with this adorable half-smile. Now I had to face him with my skin doing its own impression of a topographic map.

The papaya sat there, judging me.

"Fine!" I grabbed a spoon and dug in. If nothing else, I could tell Sam I was embracing tropical wellness or whatever. It tasted like soap and disappointment.

By the time I got to the field, my stomach was staging a violent protest against the vitamin-and-papaya combo. But Sam was there, leaning against the dugout fence in that way that made my brain short-circuit.

"Hey Maya." He pushed off the fence. "You look... intense today."

"Intense?" I practically squeaked. "That's good? Intense is good?"

"Yeah. Like you're ready to destroy people."

Well, okay then.

Our team was down by two runs in the seventh inning when I stepped up to the plate. Their pitcher glared at me like I'd personally insulted his entire family. The bear mascot did some weird dance behind the backstop.

First pitch: strike.

Second pitch: ball.

Third pitch—something connected. The sweet spot of the bat met the ball in this perfect, crystalline moment of clarity. I watched it sail over the center field fence, my papaya-fueled body somehow channeling energy into something magical.

As I rounded third, Sam was cheering like I'd just saved the world.

"Vitamin MVP!" Leo shouted from the dugout.

I laughed so hard I almost tripped. Maybe the zombie look was worth it after all.