Zombie at Home Plate

Maya's palms were sweating so much she could barely grip the bat. Not that it mattered—she hadn't made contact with the ball all season. Coach Miller kept shouting encouragement from the dugout, but his voice blended into the background noise of parents chatting and siblings playing on the sidelines.

She was a total zombie at this point. Three nights of studying for finals, plus her mom insisting she watch those cheesy zombie movies as "bonding time," had left her running on caffeine and spite. Her batting helmet felt like it weighed ten pounds.

"You've got this, Maya!" called Lisa from second base, where she'd somehow managed to get on base. Lisa was everything Maya wasn't—confident, graceful, apparently immune to sweating through her uniform.

The pitcher wound up and released. A fastball, right down the middle. Maya swung, missed completely, and stumbled. The ball hit the catcher's mitt with a sound that echoed her dignity.

But then she saw it—a sphinx moth, drawn to the field lights, hovering right above home plate. Its wings were impossibly still, like it was defying physics. For some reason, it made her think of the riddle she'd read in English class: What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening? The answer was "man," but honestly? The answer was also being a teenage girl trying to figure out who she was while everyone watched.

Her phone buzzed in her back pocket. Probably her dad asking about her college applications. Probably another question she couldn't answer yet.

The sphinx moth darted away as the next pitch came. Maya didn't overthink it this time. She just swung.

*Crack.*

The ball sailed into the gap between center and right field. Lisa scored. Maya stood at first base, grinning like an idiot, her heart pounding harder than any exam stress had ever made it. Some of the parents actually cheered.

"See?" Lisa yelled from home plate. "I told you!"

Maya wiped her palms on her uniform and looked up at the lights, where the sphinx moth still danced, invisible to everyone but her. Maybe she didn't have everything figured out. Maybe that was okay. For now, she'd take this win—one base at a time.