The Worst Best Summer

The pool party was already peak awkward when Marcus's cousin decided it was time for the baseball game. Marcus stood by the snack table, hand self-consciously running over his buzz cut – the one his mom talked him into getting the day before freshman year, insisting it'd "look mature." Spoiler: it didn't.

"Marcus! You're up!" his cousin yelled from the makeshift pitcher's mound they'd set up on the lawn. Most people were already in the pool, hair plastered to their faces, laughing and splashing like this was the highlight of their summer.

He hated baseball. Hated how his glasses slid down his nose when he sweat, hated how he always swung too early, hated how his dad kept going on about how he used to play varsity. But Sarah was watching. Sarah, with the perfect curly hair that somehow looked good even when it was wet from swimming earlier. Sarah, who'd just finished her freshman year as the school's star pitcher and probably didn't even remember Marcus existed.

He stepped up to the plate, heart hammering. This was it – his chance to not look like a total flop in front of everyone. His cousin wound up and threw what was supposed to be a slow pitch but ended up somewhere between his shoulder and the ground.

Marcus swung. And missed. By approximately three feet.

"Bro, are you even trying?" someone laughed. Sarah didn't laugh, but she didn't not laugh either. That might have been worse.

The game continued, each hit another memory Marcus wished he could delete. By the fifth inning, he'd successfully struck out twice and been tagged out at first because he'd been too busy watching Sarah show someone her swimming trophy from regionals.

Then came the carnival prize table – his aunt's weird attempt to make the party more "fun." Marcus stepped up to the goldfish bowl toss, mainly because it was the farthest thing from baseball he could find.

"One try, winner keeps the fish," his aunt announced.

Something about the way Sarah was watching from the pool edge, dripping wet, hair sticking to her shoulders, made him focus. He tossed the ping pong ball. It hit the water. It hit the rim. It – against all laws of physics – landed inside the smallest bowl.

"No way," someone muttered.

His aunt handed him a plastic bag with a tiny orange goldfish swimming inside, completely unimpressed by its new celebrity status.

Sarah walked over, wiping water from her eyes. "You know, that's actually harder than baseball."

"Really?" Marcus asked, trying to play it cool even though he was literally holding a bagged fish.

"Way harder," she said, and then, "I'm Sarah, by the way. We have English together next year."

He'd sat behind her in eighth grade. She'd never noticed him once.

"Marcus," he said, realizing his hair didn't feel so bad anymore. "Want to help me name him?"

They ended up sitting on the pool edge, feet in the water, watching the goldfish swim in his temporary bag home. She told him about how she'd almost quit baseball after middle school because some guy told her girls couldn't pitch. He told her about how his buzz cut was supposed to be mature but mostly just made his ears look huge.

"I like it," she said, and Marcus wasn't sure if she meant the hair or the moment.

Later that night, he set up the fishbowl in his room, watching the goldfish – officially dubbed Strikeout – swim in lazy circles. His phone buzzed. Sarah had sent him a meme about terrible haircuts.

Maybe freshman year wouldn't be so bad after all.