Three Strikes of Green

I've been crushing on Marcus since seventh grade, and today I finally made my move. Sorta. If by move you mean aggressively NOT looking at him while chewing spinach at Chipotle with my friend Chloe.

"You're staring again," Chloe said, dunking a chip. "Just talk to him."

"I can't. He's basically baseball royalty," I whispered. Marcus was the starting pitcher, all golden boy energy and effortless confidence. Meanwhile, I was the girl who once tripped over her own feet during gym class and took out three people like bowling pins.

Our dog, Buster, chose that moment to escape his leash and bolt toward Marcus's table. I went sprinting after him—running in my Timbs, dignity officially gone.

"Buster, NO!" I yelled, but he was already jumping all over Marcus, who just laughed and scratched behind his ears. "Hey, buddy. Who's a good boy?"

"That's my dog," I panted, arriving at the table. "And I'm so sorry."

Marcus looked up, and that's when Chloe made a universal gesture that strikes fear into every teenager's heart: she pointed at her own teeth.

I froze. "Is there—"

"Yeah," Marcus said, grinning. "You've got—" he mimicked green in his teeth. "It's cool, though."

I wanted to die. Right there. Just dissolve into the Chipotle floor.

But Marcus didn't laugh. He reached for a napkin. "Happened to me last week with a kale salad. My friends still won't let me live it down."

His friends—who I'd thought were the popular, untouchable elite—were all chuckling. Not at me. At him.

"That's nothing," one said. "This dude once threw up in his own helmet during baseball practice."

"Bro, we said we'd never speak of that," Marcus groaned, but he was smiling.

Chloe appeared beside me. "See? They're just people who happen to be good at sports and occasionally vomit in their own equipment."

I wiped the spinach from my teeth and actually looked at them. Really looked. They weren't the unapproachable gods I'd built up in my head. They were just dudes. Dudes who knew the agony of public embarrassment.

"Want to sit?" Marcus asked. "We were just debating whether hot dogs or nachos are superior ballpark food."

"Nachos," I said without hesitation. "Obviously."

"Thank you!" Marcus said, as if I'd just validated his entire existence. "Some people have no taste."

And just like that, I wasn't the spinach girl anymore. I was the girl who knew her ballpark food opinions—a distinction that felt surprisingly significant. Sometimes the moments that seem like the end of the world are just the beginning of something real.