Three Strikes at Truth

Maya's palm sweated against the leather of her baseball glove as she stood in center field, the late afternoon sun casting everything in that golden-hour Instagram-filter glow. This was supposed to be her element—her dad had been the Panthers' star pitcher back in his day, and Coach Thompson kept saying she had "the arm." Whatever that meant.

"You good, M?" Tyler called from left field, popping his gum like he owned the place.

"Yeah," Maya lied, adjusting her cap. "Just thinking."

The truth was, she'd rather be anywhere but here. While other kids spent their weekends at tournaments, Maya had been secretly volunteering at the Pet Palace, where she'd bonded with this depressed-looking goldfish who kept swimming into the glass walls like it was trying to escape. She'd named him Carl, because he seemed like a Carl.

A fly ball came her way—easy catch. But Maya's mind was somewhere else, specifically on the conversation she needed to have with her dad later. The one where she'd tell him she didn't want to try out for varsity, that she'd rather join the Art Club, that Carl the goldfish understood her better than any of her teammates ever would.

"Maya! Heads up!"

The ball soared toward her, and this time she caught it without thinking. But as she stood there, palm stinging from the impact, she realized something: sometimes the hardest catches aren't the ones that come flying at you from across the field. Sometimes they're the truths you've been dodging, the ones that keep hitting you in the face until you finally open your glove and let them in.

She tossed the ball back, then pressed her bare palm against her forehead, feeling the sweat and the sun and the absolute terror of what she was about to do. And for the first time all season, she didn't hate it.

"After the game," she whispered to herself. "Carl's gonna need feeding anyway."