The Summer of Uncomfortable Truths

Maya's hair was supposed to be a subtle caramel balayage. Instead, she looked like a highlighter explosion. The stylist had called it "brave." Maya called it a social catastrophe.

"You look... different," Tyler said when she walked into the summer baseball camp. He said it like he'd just discovered she'd grown a third arm.

"My hair is having an identity crisis," Maya said, tugging her neon-yellow bangs. "Anyway, ready for tryouts?"

Tyler, who'd been her lab partner since seventh grade, nodded. But his eyes kept darting to her hair like it might attack him. This was the problem with being almost-someone with someone. One wrong move—like trusting a Groupon hairstylist—and suddenly you're the weird girl with the radioactive hair.

At camp, Coach Miller lined everyone up. "Listen up! We've got a scout coming next week. I want to see hustle. I want to see heart. I don't want to see anyone whining like they just stepped in bull."

"Bull?" someone whispered. "Does he mean... poop?"

Coach Miller's glare suggested they shouldn't test this theory.

Later, Maya sat on the bleachers, examining her palm like it held answers to the universe. Her cousin had taught her palm reading over Facetime. "See this line? That's your life line. Long one means you'll live forever. Short means... well, let's not think about that."

"Your palm looks fine to me," Tyler said, dropping beside her. "Unlike your hair."

"Gee, thanks."

"I mean it stands out. In a... memorable way." Tyler shifted. "So, my mom says I need to take vitamin D supplements because I'm inside playing video games too much. Says I'll get rickets or something."

Maya laughed. "Rickets? What is this, 1890?"

"Hey, at least I don't look like a human traffic cone."

She shoved him, and for a second, the weird tension between them evaporated. They were just Maya and Tyler, lab partners and almost-something more, sitting on dusty bleachers while sweat pooled in the hollow of her lower back.

"You think I'll make the team?" Maya asked quietly.

Tyler studied her, really looked at her, not just the hair disaster situation. "You've got the best arm I've ever seen on anyone. Male or female. You throw like you've got something to prove."

Maybe she did. Maybe that's why she'd agreed to the ridiculous hair transformation in the first place. Because she was tired of being safe, tired of being the girl everyone liked but nobody really noticed.

"My palm says I'm supposed to be brave," Maya said, tracing the lines on her hand. "But I think being brave is just doing stuff even when it feels like stepping in bull."

Tyler snorted. "That's definitely not what palm reading means."

"Maybe that's what I want it to mean."

The scout never showed. But Maya made the team anyway, her neon hair flying when she pitched strikeouts. And Tyler finally held her hand between periods, his palm against hers, both of them sweaty and nervous and brave in their own small, terrified ways.

The hair grew out. But the confidence stayed. Sometimes that's all summer camp gives you—the uncomfortable truth that you can be scared and brave at the same time, and that's okay.