The Zombie Spy at Home Plate

Maya felt like a total zombie as she dragged herself to third period, the fluorescent lights of the hallway amplifying her zombie state. Three hours of scrolling through Jordan's Instagram posts until 2 AM will do that to you. She'd become a professional spy, practically forensic-analyzing every Story for signs he'd moved on from their awkward middle-school romance.

"Your hair looks different," Jordan said, sliding into the desk behind her. "It's... bigger."

Maya's hand flew to her frizzy curls. She'd attempted a Pinterest curl routine last night—clearly a fail. "Oh, yeah. Just experimenting. You know how it is."

"Totally," he said, but he was already turning toward his friends.

That afternoon at baseball tryouts, Maya adjusted her cap over the uncooperative hair. Jordan was the star shortstop, all effortless confidence and sun-bleached perfection. Meanwhile, she was choking on her own nerves, overthinking every throw like her life depended on it.

"Rogers! You're up!" Coach barked.

Her hands shook as she stepped to the plate. Jordan watching from the dugout, probably judging her stance, her hair, her entire existence. She swung at the first pitch—missed by a mile. Second pitch: foul ball. Third: solid contact, right to Jordan at shortstop.

He made a diving catch. Spectacular. Absolutely humiliating.

"Nice hit," he said afterward, genuine smile softening the blow. "Seriously, you've got power. Just need to stop swinging at everything."

Maya's mom had started her on these chewy vitamin things at dinner, insisting they'd help with "stress and skin." As if a gummy bear could fix sophomore year.

But that night, Maya deleted Instagram from her phone. No more spying, no more zombie-scrolling. She'd face Jordan at school tomorrow—frizzy hair, vitamin-fueled nerves, and all. Maybe she'd even try out for the team again next year. Growth looked different on everyone, right?