Undead Curveball

Marcus stood behind the register at Pet Paradise, watching the clock crawl toward 5 PM like it had all day to get there. The goldfish in tank #7 floated near the surface, its orange scales catching the fluorescent light. Lucky fish. All it had to do was swim in circles and occasionally eat flakes. Marcus, on the other hand, had survived the week from hell—three chemistry tests, one humiliating lunch tray spill, and enough homework to turn his brain into something resembling the walking dead.

"You look like a zombie," said Chloe, dropping onto the stool next to him. "No offense."

"None taken," Marcus yawned. "I feel like one. Mrs. Henderson's essay is literally sucking my soul through a straw."

Chloe laughed, spinning her phone between her fingers. "That's because you stayed up until 2 AM playing Call of Duty with Jackson. You're your own worst enemy, dude."

Marcus couldn't argue with that. His phone buzzed—Jackson, asking about baseball practice. Their team, the Ravens, had made it to regionals for the first time in like forever, and Coach Martinez had been working them harder than ever. Marcus's pitching arm throbbed just thinking about it.

"You coming to the game tomorrow?" Marcus asked, trying to sound casual even though his stomach did that stupid little flip thing whenever he talked to Chloe about anything.

"Wouldn't miss it," she said, sliding off the stool. "Jackson told me you've been throwing heat lately. Don't disappoint, Martinez."

Marcus watched her walk away, his heart pounding harder than it should've. The goldfish in tank #7 continued its endless circles, oblivious to existential crises or crush disasters or the weight of regional championships.

"Whatever," Marcus whispered to it. "At least nobody expects you to figure out your whole life before you're old enough to vote."

The fish just stared back with its weird glassy eyes. Marcus couldn't tell if it was judging him or just waiting for flakes. Either way, he took it as a sign.

He'd survive the game. He'd survive the essay. And somehow, some way, he'd survive being seventeen without completely losing his mind.