The Strikeout Window

Leo balanced on the wooden crate outside Maya's bedroom window, his heart hammering like a baseball glove against a fastball. Below, his cat Nacho twitched her tail, judging him silently. The plan was simple: return Maya's favorite hoodie before she noticed he'd "borrowed" it for luck at tryouts tomorrow.

"Leo?" Maya's voice floated through the screen. "Is that a rustling sound or are my raccoons back?"

"It's me!" Leo whispered loudly. "And no raccoons. Just Nacho. And maybe a little spinach in my teeth from dinner, but otherwise—I'm good."

Maya appeared at the window, laughing. "Why are you outside my window like a confused baseball?"

"Baseball don't climb, Maya. They get hit. Or catch people sleeping." Leo's face burned. Why did words become this terrible whenever she was around?

He'd barely survived lunch earlier when Tyler, Maya's oldest friend, had announced Leo was trying out for the team just to impress her. "Bro's taking a daily vitamin for this," Tyler had said, spinning a bottle Leo's mom made him bring. "Gotta fuel those dreams."

The worst part? Tyler wasn't wrong. Not about the vitamin (his mom was obsessed with his "growth period"), and not about Maya. She'd been his friend since sixth grade, but this year something had shifted. Suddenly her laugh made him forget how to speak English. Suddenly he was trying out for baseball—a sport he actively hated—because she'd mentioned once she thought guys who played looked cool.

"You coming in or what?" Maya pushed up the window.

"Actually." Leo held out the hoodie. "I just wanted to return this. Before tomorrow."

Maya's expression softened. "You wore it for luck?"

"No! Yes. Maybe." Leo groaned. "It's stupid."

"Leo." She leaned out. "You know you don't have to play baseball to hang out with us, right?"

"I know."

"And you know I think you're cool because you're yourself, not because you can hit a ball?"

Below, Nacho meowed.

"Even if 'yourself' includes weird food combinations?" Maya grinned. "Because I saw your lunch. Spinach and pickle juice? Really?"

"It's a pre-game ritual! In my head!"

Maya laughed—really laughed—and something inside Leo settled. "Friday. You. Me. Tyler. Milkshakes. No baseball talk. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Good." She took the hoodie. "Now get down before my mom thinks you're a raccoon. Again."

Leo climbed down, Nacho twining around his legs. Baseball could wait. Maybe finding himself didn't mean becoming someone new. Maybe it meant finally being brave enough to be the person he already was—spinish teeth and all.