The Resurrection of Max

I stood at home plate, baseball bat trembling in my hands like a wet noodle. The varsity team watched from the dugout—Jason among them, looking effortless in his perfect uniform. I'd finally worked up the courage to try out, and now I was about to humiliate myself in front of everyone.

"You got this, Max!" Someone yelled. Definitely not Jason.

The pitch came. I swung. Missed by three miles. My face burned hotter than the sun blazing overhead.

After practice—which I survived by some miracle—I trudged home, where Barnaby, my orange tabby cat, waited on the porch like he owned the place. He nudged my hand with his head, purring like a tiny motor. At least someone believed in me.

Mom was waiting inside, all excited because she'd finally replaced Bubbles, my goldfish who'd gone to that great aquarium in the sky three months ago. "Look, Max! A new friend!" She pointed at the bowl on my dresser.

I stared. The new goldfish was floating upside down at the top of the water, completely still.

"Mom, it's dead."

"It's resting!"

"That is not resting. That is a deceased fish."

She sighed and took the bowl away. I flopped onto my bed, Barnaby jumping up to curl against my side. That's when it hit me—I'd been trying out for baseball because Jason played baseball, because I thought it would make me interesting, make me someone worth noticing. But I hated baseball. I'd always hated baseball.

My phone buzzed. Jason: "u looked good today btw"

I stared at the screen. Maybe tomorrow I'd tell him I wasn't coming back. Maybe tomorrow I'd finally join the drama club like I'd wanted to since freshman year. Barnaby shifted, his warm weight solid against me, and I realized something—dead fish couldn't be saved, but zombie versions of ourselves, the ones living other people's lives? We could bring those back to life.

I texted Jason back: "thanks. but i think i'm done w baseball"

Then I called Mom. "Hey, can we get a goldfish that's actually alive this time?"

Barnaby purred like he approved.