Zombie in the Orange Jersey

The alarm went off at 6 AM like it always did, and I dragged myself out of bed feeling like a total zombie. Fourth practice this week, and honestly? I was over it. Baseball was supposed to be this great bonding experience with my dad, but mostly it was just me standing in right field while my mind drifted to literally anything else.

"Hey, Harper! You gonna stand there all day or actually catch something?" Tyler yelled from second base. He was the kind of guy who lived for this stuff — already committed to State, walked around like he owned the hallways.

I readjusted my orange jersey, which dad insisted was "lucky" but mostly made me look like a traffic cone. Orange. Literally the worst color on me, and of course it had to be the one I wore every single game.

"Yo, Harper, you good?" Maya was sitting in the bleachers, sketching in her notebook like always. She'd been showing up to practices since sophomore year, claiming she "liked the vibe" but we both knew she was just waiting for her mom to pick her up from her art class.

"Just tired," I called back, trying to sound normal instead of like I was barely holding it together.

Coach blew his whistle. "Harper, bat's up!"

I grabbed the bat and stepped up to the plate, my heart doing that thing where it beats way too fast. The pitcher wound up and threw something I barely saw. Swing and a miss. The second one? Same story. Third pitch, I actually made contact — foul ball, but still.

"At least you didn't strike out," Tyler said, jogging past me. He meant it as a joke, I think, but it hit weird.

After practice, Maya was still there, sitting on the hood of her car with this sketchbook. "You know what you need?" she asked, flipping to a page filled with these incredible zombie drawings — like, actually amazing, not the kind of stuff you doodle in math class when you're bored.

"To quit baseball?"

She laughed. "I was gonna say coffee, but that works too." She tore out the sketch and handed it to me. It was this zombie baseball player, orange jersey and all, looking absolutely exhausted but still kind of magnificent. "Figured you'd appreciate it."

"This is sick, Maya. Seriously."

"So, about that coffee," she said. "There's this place downtown, and they have orange cream soda cold brew that's actually not terrible."

I looked at my orange jersey, then back at her. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm down."

Maybe baseball wasn't my thing. Maybe I was just going through the motions like some zombie teenager who needed to figure her stuff out. But as I got into Maya's car, watching her carefully tuck her sketchbook into her bag, I thought maybe that was okay. Some things you don't choose. Some things you do. And some things just find you when you least expect them, like a friend who gets it without you having to say a word.