Three Strikes at Summer

Marcus stood on the pitcher's mound, sweat dripping down his back like he'd jumped in a pool fully clothed. The papaya his abuela had packed for lunch sat uneaten in his bag—too embarrassing to pull out in front of the team, too gross to actually enjoy anyway. Who ate fruit that smelled like dirty socks?

"You got this, Marcus!" yelled Chloe from the bleachers, her voice cutting through the humidity like a fresh breeze. He pretended not to notice, though his stomach did that weird flip-flop thing it always did when she was around.

The batter stepped up. Some guy from Northwood with perfect hair and a personalized batting glove. Marcus wound up, his fingers slippery against the ball, and threw. Strike one. Okay, not terrible.

His mind kept drifting to the goldfish bowl on his nightstand. Comet—or maybe it was Cupid, he'd named it in eighth grade and couldn't remember anymore—had been swimming weirdly lately. Just floating near the top, listless. His mom said it was probably fine, but Marcus worried it was symbolic. Like, maybe Comet was giving up on life. Which was dramatic, obviously, but Marcus was fifteen and everything felt symbolic.

Strike two. The Northwood guy scowled.

Chloe was still watching. Marcus could feel it. She'd transferred to their school last month and somehow fit in everywhere—sat with the nerds at lunch, joked with the stoners behind the gym, and now she was cheering for him at baseball practice like she actually cared. It was confusing. She was confusing.

The third pitch left his hand and Marcus knew immediately it was wrong. Too high, too slow, basically a invitation to crush it. The batter swung and CRACK—the ball sailed into the parking lot.

"Nice one, Goldfish!" someone yelled. The nickname had stuck since seventh grade when he'd choked on a cracker during lunch and his face had turned the color of his mom's necklace. It wasn't even gold, just orange. Whatever.

After practice, Marcus sat on the bleachers alone, finally pulling out the papaya. He took a bite. Actually, it wasn't that bad. Sweet, kind of musky, nothing like dirty socks. Maybe he'd been overthinking it.

"Hey." Chloe dropped onto the bench beside him. "Your curveball is actually getting good."

Marcus shrugged, feeling his face heat up. "Thanks."

"My cousin has this huge saltwater tank," she continued, like they'd been having this conversation for hours. "She's always trying to convince me to help her clean it. But honestly? Watching fish swim around is kind of... peaceful."

Marcus nodded slowly. "Yeah. I have this goldfish. It's probably dying."

Chloe laughed. "Wanna go check on it? I can help you Google fish symptoms. My phone has data."

And just like that, Marcus thought—maybe eighth grade nicknames and weird fruit and dying pets didn't matter so much. Maybe being seventeen was allowed to be messy, and confusing, and sometimes not as terrible as he'd convinced himself it was.

"Yeah," he said, picking up his bag. "Let's go."