Zombie Mode and Papaya Seeds

Marcus dragged himself to the baseball field, legs heavy like he'd been running laps in his dreams. Which he kinda had—stressing about varsity tryouts all night had him operating on full zombie mode. The morning sun glared off the dugout roof as his best mate Javi sprinted over, cleats clacking against the pavement.

"Bro, you look dead," Javi said, tossing him a papaya. "Try this. My abuela says it cures whatever's killing you."

Marcus wrinkled his nose at the weird orange fruit but took a bite anyway. Sweet, but also kinda wrong, like someone mixed candy with salad. "This is bull, and not the chill kind that chills in fields."

"That's the spirit," Javi laughed. "You're gonna crush tryouts. Coach already knows you're clutch."

If only. Marcus's stomach did backflips watching the seniors— effortless, perfect, like they were born holding bats. He felt like a fraud just standing there. Then he saw Chloe, the girl from his English class, sitting on the bleachers with her friends, messing with some cable thing, maybe fixing her earbuds. She caught his eye and smiled, and suddenly his zombie mode lifted a little.

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

His heart hammered. This was it—the moment that determined everything. High school was such a trip, how one swing could somehow define his entire existence. He stepped to the plate, the papaya still weird on his tongue, and breathed. Just swing. Don't think about being the new kid, don't think about Chloe watching, don't think about how everyone else looked like they belonged.

The pitch came. Fast.

CRACK.

The ball sailed into the outfield, and the whole dugout went nuts. Even the seniors nodded. Javi tackled him with a hug, yelling something about papaya magic. Marcus looked over at the bleachers—Chloe was cheering, the cable forgotten in her hand.

Maybe freshman year wouldn't completely suck after all.