Tropical Curveballs

Marcus stared at his reflection in the sliding glass door, adjusting his Yankees cap like it was armor. Three days in Oahu and he'd already managed to: 1) get laughed at for wearing socks with flip-flops (his bad, okay?), and 2) fall hard for Keira, the girl whose family owned the guest house next door. Her dad was some big-shot local baseball coach, which explained why she spent every afternoon shagging flies at the community field down the street.

"You coming or what?" Keira called from her driveway, spinning a rawlings glove on her finger like she'd been doing it since birth. "My dad's letting us use the batting cages before practice."

Marcus's stomach did that embarrassing flutter thing. "Yeah. Just gotta grab my glove."

His aunt had a **papaya** tree in the backyard that dropped fruit like grenades. Marcus had nearly taken one to the head yesterday morning, which everyone found hilarious. Keira had called him a "mainland haole" with zero malice in her voice, but still.

The batting cage was sweltering. Like, the kind of heat that made everything smell like sunscreen and impending embarrassment. Marcus stepped in, digging his cleats into the rubber turf, and watched Keira's dad feed the machine.

First pitch: line drive to left. Okay, not terrible.

Second pitch: solid contact. Marcus felt himself breathing easier.

Third pitch: foul ball straight back.

The ball ricocheted off the cage netting and smacked into the **palm** tree hanging over the back fence, dislodging something huge and orange that plummeted directly onto Marcus's head with a sickening THWACK.

Everything went starry. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard Keira's voice—worried, maybe? Or trying not to crack up?

"Oh my god, are you okay?"

Her hands were on his shoulders, then her **palm** against his cheek, checking for swelling. Marcus wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole, papaya and all.

"That's gotta be a sign," Keira said, wiping something sticky from his forehead. Her eyes were dancing. "The island's trying to tell you something."

"That I should stick to video games?" Marcus groaned.

"That you need better luck." She grinned. "Or better reflexes. Either way, you're coming back tomorrow."

Marcus touched his forehead. It was tender. His dignity was more damaged. But Keira was still holding his glove, and she hadn't walked away yet.

"Yeah," he said. "I'll be back."

His phone buzzed in his pocket—a text from his best friend back home asking if Hawaii was everything he'd dreamed it would be.

Marcus looked at the papaya splattered across his shoes, then at Keira already tossing him a fresh ball from the bucket.

"It's complicated," he typed back.

But maybe, just maybe, complicated was exactly what he'd been looking for.