The stolen bases of summer

Marcus stood at the plate, the **orange** dusk settling over the diamond like a bruised peach. His team was down by two runs, bottom of the ninth, and somehow—against all laws of the universe and middle school physics—he'd become the cleanup hitter.

"You got this!" yelled Jenna from the bleachers, where she sat with her friends, all of them somehow luminous even in the failing light. Marcus adjusted his **hat**—a vintage Cubs snapback he'd found at Goodwill and was currently pretending was his dad's—to hide the fact that his forehead was already sweating through the brim.

The pitch came. Fast. Outside. Marcus swung anyway.

*CRACK.*

The ball sailed into left field, past the outfielder who was too busy trying to impress his own crush in the stands. Marcus booked it to first, then second, his heart doing that embarrassing flutter-thud thing that happened whenever Jenna was within a fifty-foot radius. He rounded third, his cleats digging into the dirt, and—

His phone, which he'd stupidly tucked into his back pocket during his at-bat, buzzed so violently against his hip that he nearly face-planted rounding third. He stole home anyway, sliding in safely, because sometimes the universe gave you small mercies.

Later, spread across someone's backyard with cheap pizza and the worst soda brand known to humanity, Marcus's **iphone** lit up with a notification. Jenna had posted a photo to her story: him mid-swing, **hat** flying off, looking equal parts terrified and determined. The caption: *our baseball hero 👏*

His face burned hotter than the **orange** sun dipping below the horizon. But when he looked up, Jenna was walking over, grinning like she knew exactly what she'd done.

"Nice swing, hero," she said, dropping onto the grass beside him. "Even if your form is absolutely tragic."

Marcus laughed, because what else could he do? This was it—this messy, sweaty, ridiculous moment. This was growing up. Not some cinematic breakthrough, but sitting on scratchy grass with **baseball** dirt still smeared across your cheek, your phone blowing up with notifications, and the most terrifyingly wonderful person in the world sitting next to you, making fun of your terrible batting stance.

"Thanks," he managed. "I work on my tragic form every day. I'm very dedicated."

"I can tell," Jenna said, and her shoulder brushed his. "Seriously though. That was cool."

Marcus didn't say anything. Just let the moment sit there, bright and impossible, like something you could hold in your hands and never quite let go.