Three Strikes and Spinach

My first week working at the stadium concession stand felt like social suicide. Between the grease stains, the ridiculous hat, and my complete inability to flirt with Jake—the cute senior who worked the dip station—I was ready to quit before summer even started.

Then came the spinach incident.

It happened during the seventh inning stretch. I'd finally mustered the courage to talk to Jake between rushes, casually leaning against the counter like I'd seen in movies. 'So, you catching the game later?' I asked, channeling way more confidence than I felt.

Jake smiled. 'You have a little...' He gestured at his teeth.

I froze. Behind me, in the reflective steel of the dip warmer, I saw it: a massive, bright green chunk of spinach lodged between my front teeth. My face burned hotter than the concession lamp above us.

'That's been there all night,' Jake added, like that made it better.

I wanted to evaporate. But then my phone buzzed—my little sister had sent a pic of her prize from earlier: a tiny goldfish in a plastic bag swimming in circles, won at some carnival booth. The caption read: 'Even when things suck, keep swimming 🐟'

For some reason, the stupid fish made me laugh. 'Yeah, well,' I said to Jake, finally finding my voice, 'at least I'm memorable.'

Jake grinned. 'Oh, you're definitely that.'

Maybe embarrassing myself wasn't the worst thing. Maybe spinach and goldfish and terrible first jobs were just part of the whole mess of being sixteen. And maybe Jake didn't mind green teeth as much as I thought he would.