Zombie at the Plate

The papaya sat on my plate like some alien artifact I'd been dared to eat. Mom bought it because she read somewhere it was a "superfood," which I'm pretty sure is just marketing for "things teenagers hate."

"It's an acquired taste," she said, already leaving for her shift.

I poked it with my fork. It smelled like gym socks mixed with expensive perfume.

This was my life now. Ever since Marcus—my best friend since sixth grade—decided he was too cool for everything we used to do together, I'd been trying out new things. New foods. New hobbies. New ways to exist without feeling like I'd been left behind.

The baseball tryouts were tomorrow. Marcus had made varsity as a freshman, which apparently made him a deity. I'd barely touched a bat since Little League, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

I caught my reflection in the darkened TV screen. I looked like a zombie—pale skin, dark circles, dead eyes. Three nights of staying up until 3 AM, overthinking everything, would do that to you.

The cable had been out since Tuesday, which meant no distraction. Just me, my thoughts, and occasional texts from Marcus that went unanswered for hours. "At practice," "Busy with the team," "Maybe later."

My phone buzzed.

"You coming? Everyone's at the field."

My heart did this stupid flutter thing. He wanted me there. After two weeks of distance, of watching him become someone I barely recognized from the sidelines, he still wanted me around.

I grabbed my glove—the one I'd dug out of the closet, gathering dust since I was twelve. The papaya sat untouched, looking judgmental from its plate.

The walk to the field felt endless. The spring air hit my face, carrying the sounds of shouts and laughter, the crack of bats making contact. When I rounded the corner, Marcus was there in the batter's box, smooth and confident, like he belonged.

He saw me and smiled. Not the fake polite smile he'd been giving me lately. The real one.

"Finally," he called out. "I need someone to catch for me."

I put on the mask and crouched behind the plate. His pitch came fast, stinging my glove even through the leather. We fell into the rhythm we'd had a thousand times before, the one that felt like breathing.

"Tryouts tomorrow," he said, throwing another pitch. "You nervous?"

"Terrified."

"You'll be fine," he said. "You've got the arm. Just need to stop thinking so much."

Easy for him to say. Marcus had never questioned himself a day in his life.

Later, as we sat in the dugout, he passed me a Gatorade. "Sorry I've been distant. Just... figuring stuff out."

"It's cool."

"No, it's not. You're my best friend. That doesn't change just because I made the team."

I watched the sunset turn the field gold, thinking about how I'd spent weeks panicking that I was losing him, when really, I'd just needed to show up.

"Hey," Marcus said. "Wanna come over? My parents finally got cable."

I laughed. "Pretty sure my mom's wondering if I'm still alive."

"We'll text her. Unless you're still a zombie?"

"Nah," I said, feeling something like myself again. "I think I'm waking up."