Zombie at the Plate

I felt like a straight-up zombie as I dragged myself to baseball practice. Third night this week I'd gotten zero sleep—thank you, AP History overload and Instagram spiral at 2 AM. My dog Buster waited by the door, looking at me like, bro, you're not gonna make it.

Coach blew the whistle. "Marcus, you're up!"

I stepped to the plate, bat feeling like it weighed fifty pounds. That's when I saw her—Chloe, sitting in the bleachers with that perfect-smoothie girl crew. I'd been crushing on her since September, and my brain immediately went full dumb.

First pitch? Swing and miss. Embarrassing.

Second pitch? Another whiff. The team snickering.

Then Coach yelled from the dugout, "Marcus! There's spinach in your teeth!"

The ENTIRE field went silent. I ran my tongue across my front teeth—sure enough, that gross, slimy spinach from the smoothie my mom forced me to drink this morning. OF COURSE. The universe had officially declared war on my social life.

Chloe covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. Was she laughing? I wanted to dissolve into the earth.

Third pitch came. I didn't think. I just swung.

CRACK.

The ball sailed over the fence. A legit home run.

I rounded the bases, grinning like an idiot. Chloe and her friends were actually cheering. Coach was nodding. Even Buster (who'd wandered onto the field somehow) was barking like I'd just won the World Series.

After practice, I found myself by the water fountain, rinsing out my mouth forever. Chloe walked over.

"Nice hit, spinach teeth," she said, smiling. "That smoothie looked gross anyway."

"My mom's health kick," I admitted. "It's a war crime against breakfast."

She laughed. And for the first time all day, I didn't feel like a zombie anymore. Just a guy with spinach in his teeth and a home run under his belt.