Zombie Batter

I stood at home plate, bat trembling in my hands like it weighed fifty pounds. The crowd noise faded to static. I hadn't slept in three days—finals, college applications, my mom's new boyfriend drama—and I was running on caffeine and pure spite. Coach Newman called me his "zombie batter" because I could hit anything while looking half-dead. The joke wasn't funny anymore.

"You need protein," Coach said, shoving a weird green smoothie at me before the game. "Spinach, bananas, protein powder. Drink it or don't start."

I chugged it. Tasted like grass clippings and desperation. Now it sat in my stomach like a brick.

The pitcher wound up. I recognized him—Tyler Chen from AP Bio, who'd asked me to prom three days ago. I'd said no because I was "focusing on baseball," which was code for "I'm terrified of everything."

His pitch came at me like something personal.

I swung. Connected. The ball sailed over the fence, and something in my chest cracked open. First home run of the season. The crowd went wild. Tyler tipped his cap, respectful.

But I couldn't feel my legs. My vision tunneled. The world spun—lights, faces, the smell of popcorn and sweat. Someone caught me as I went down.

"Hey." It was Tyler, crouching beside me in the dugout. "You okay?"

I laughed, kind of hysterical. "I think the spinach smoothie finally hit my bloodstream."

He smiled, and in that moment I realized some things: I was exhausted, I was lonely, and maybe I'd been swinging at everything wrong. Maybe I should've said yes to prom. Maybe there was more to life than being the perfect daughter, the perfect player, the zombie who never quit.

"Want to get food after?" Tyler asked. "Somewhere with no spinach."

"Yeah," I said, feeling something like hope flicker in my chest. "Yeah, I really do."