The Spy in the Dugout

My dad called them brain vitamins, popping two orange tablets into my palm every morning since third grade. For my brain, he'd say, like they'd magically fix whatever made me different. By sophomore year, I'd learned to hide them under my tongue and spit them into the napkin at breakfast.

The baseball cap — my dad's old Giants hat, stained and sweat-faded — lived on my head 24/7. It was my shield. Pull the brim low, slide through the halls unseen, become part of the background. That was the plan: observe, don't participate. Like a spy gathering intel on normal teenagers, cataloging their inside jokes and casual touches and effortless everything, filing it away in some mental report I'd never submit.

Then came Maya, who slid into the seat behind me in homeroom and immediately started braiding my hair without asking. Her knuckles brushed my neck and my whole body flared like I'd swallowed those vitamins for real.

"You coming to the game Friday?" she asked, still braiding. "Tyler's pitching."

Tyler. The boy I'd been spy-watching from the dugout fence since fall, the one whose laughter made my chest weirdly tight. I'd catch myself staring at him during baseball practice, cataloging details like case notes: the way he adjusted his cap between pitches, how his uniform number 12 was peeling at the corners, the constellation of freckles across his nose.

"Maybe," I said, trying for casual and landing somewhere near tragic.

Friday found me wedged into the bleachers, Maya beside me pointing out players like she was introducing celebrities. When Tyler struck out the final batter, the crowd erupted and Maya grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the fence where the team was celebrating. Someone shoved a foam baseball into my hands. Tyler looked up, sweat dripping down his face, and grinned directly at me.

"Nice hat," he said.

I pulled the brim lower, but I was smiling. Maybe tomorrow I'd actually swallow the vitamins. Maybe tomorrow I'd take off the hat. Maybe tonight I'd stop spying and start living.