[7/08/452 AC, 6:48 PM]

  Sweat’s cold on my back, as dusty fabric sticks to my skin. Lightinly sunburned, freckles blurring, under the dimming amber of the dreary sky. A short thing, of messy auburn curls. Breathing steady. Green cap tipped ready.

  As the batter comes up to pte.

  And I snap into focus.

  I’m standing on a grassy lot. Spotted with kids in green and orange, Bunnies and Butterflies. And a diamond of weather faded rubber mats. Pine needles thick at the field’s edge, wafering with the cheers and chants of parents on bleachers, where grass bleeds into the dark and tall branches. Of the old growth woods. My mind wanders. Meander of brook, rustle of furr, and flutter of feathers darting under the gnarled oaks. I daydream of the forest. Of the wild. Like a pce from a book. Out behind the handful of “temporary” beige rectangles that make up our town's middle school. Pikebar Middle.

  Sodden with mildew.

  Sigh.

  At least there’s softball.

  My eyes flicker to third base, smiling awkwardly at Flora Martinez, before nding on second. Where the new girl, at least a head taller than me . . . just sort of watches.

  Her bright orange cap and dark hair, almost obscuring the silvery glint as she looks through everyone. Through me. Piercing. A knife’s edge of rainwater. As she poises her legs, like a jackrabbit, waiting for the fox to dash. And slip.

  Or in this case, the bat to cra—

  “Earth to Lee.” Flora shouts through the buzzing of cicadas and parents. “Pay attention to the game! You myst forsaken freckleface.”

  I slink back, despite being an inch or so taller.

  She’s scary okay. I once saw Flora kick out the tooth of a raccoon who stole her apple . . . and she now wears it as a neckce. Who does that? No wonder she’s team captain of the Butterflies. It's not like I was gonna cast a vote against her. Plus she is actually just the best pyer on our team.

  “Fucking flowerbrain!”

  “Right, sorry!” I bluster and I spin to face home pte. I swear the new girl stifled a ugh. But anyways, I turn just in time to see the bat swing. As the ball soars past the pitcher . . . and right at me.

  I barely have time to pull my mit up towards my face, before the field comes alive. New girl bolts, Flora shouts, the batter scrambles, my eyes shut, and something thuds in my glove. I caught the ball.

  I caught the ball.

  Fuck.

  “Flora.” I shout. “Catch!" My shoulder twists. I spin back. The ball flies from my fingers. Spinning. Like a shooting star cutting through the distant mist.

  My lips curl to a smile as my teammates begin to shout and holler. A welling sound, about to break. We’re gonna win.

  Crack. Squelch.

  Blood. A scream. Shouts of worry. As the new girl slides into the grass, holding her face. The red spttered ball disappears into the grass and clover. I just stand there, as coach rushes the field. I’m just frozen. Hand outstretched.

  I ask stupidly, fingers trembling. “Are you okay?”

  Blood drips between her fingers. Red smears her warm olive cheeks. Her nose visibly bent at an angle, squished to the left. Her sharp features marred. As she stumbles to her feet, watered eyes screaming, teeth bare, as she charges against the grasp of teammates and teacher. At me. As everything goes silent.

  Well . . . We’re dead as a doornail.

  * * *

  “Hey . . . I wanted to say sorry.” I approach slowly. Ignoring the taunts of Flora and my teammates. “I brought another ice pack. And a cookie. And again so sorry.”

  The new girl just stares at me. Sat on a log covered in lichen and conks. Holding a half melted cooling handkerchief over her bandaged nose. I wish she would speak. Even try and chase me, like before. But nothing.

  “Uh . . . My name is Lee Meadows.” I mumble as my fingers scrunch my hand-me-down fnnel. “Would you want a cookie, my mom made extra, o—”

  She ughs. A giggling snort. As she rises to her feet.

  “Pffft” Her grey eyes crinkle as I flinch back. “What are you? An old man? No one talks like that. Weirdo.”

  “Hey, I—”

  She grabs the cookie from my hand. “Good throw.”

  My eyebrows furrow. “Oh . . . thanks?”

  “Anything fun to do on weekends here? In Pikebar. Its kinda small”

  “I just read or take walks or stargaze. . . but the arcade is pretty fun!” I sputter. Brain wracking to think what neurotypical people like to do for fun.

  “Alright it's decided then.”

  “What's decided?”

  “You’re my friend now.” She smiles. Reaching out a hand. And for some reason I can't expin, I take it. “Call me Bea.”