Max Swings for the Fences by Anne Ursu

M AX S WINGS FOR THE F ENCES
BY ANNE URSU

    I t wasn’t as if Maximilian Funk didn’t know that things were going to go badly. After all, there’s no good that can come out of being a new kid in school, especially when you’ve just moved halfway across the country, especially especially in the middle of the year. Nothing says Give me a wedgie and hang me from the flagpole like waltzing into a new middle school in February at a time when there are no other new kids to hide behind.
    He knew things were going to go badly. If he knew just how badly they were actually going to go, though, he would have faked some illness that would keep him out of school for the rest of the year. Like Ebola.
    So Max slowly got ready for his first day at Willard Middle School, spending more time than anybody ever had trying to decide whether it would be better to wear a sweater and T-shirt or a sweater and button-down shirt. He just wanted to get it right. Max had spent his middle school life thus far working hard to be the sort of kid no one ever noticed, except perhaps to say “Oh, I didn’t see you there.” Because there were only two ways to get noticed in middle school, and Max was never going to be the kid who got noticed in a Good Way, like if he were a basketball stud or did something amazing like winning an ice cream–eating contest or solving one of Mrs. Bjork’s extra credit word problems. So that left the Bad Way. Better not to be noticed at all.
    When he got downstairs, his mom presented him with a Minnesota Twins cap, flashing him a huge I-know-I-ruined-your-life-but-I-bought-you-this-fabulous-hat-so-it’s-all-better-now smile. “Now you’ll look like a native,” she proclaimed.
    Max frowned. He did not wear baseball caps. Baseball caps only served to emphasize his ears. Which were already doing a fine job of emphasizing themselves.
    â€œMom,” he said, not trying to keep the exasperation from his voice, “baseball hats are for jocks. I can’t stride in there pretending I’m a jock.” Middle school kids could smell posers like a T. rex could smell a lame triceratops. It was a biological fact.
    â€œYou are a jock!”
    â€œI play tennis , Mom.”
    â€œThat’s a sport!”
    â€œTrust me. It’s not the same thing.”
    â€œCome on, honey. Don’t be nervous. Everyone’s going to love you.”
    â€œIt’s February, Mom. Nobody cares.”
    â€œOf course they care!” she said. “You have so much to offer them!”
    Max tried to keep from rolling his eyes. Every mother thought her kid was extraordinary. By definition, at least 75 percent of them had to be kidding themselves.
    â€œAnyway,” she added, putting the cap on his head, “this town’s nuts about baseball. Just tell everyone at school you’re from Beau Fletcher’s hometown. They’ll think you’re a celebrity!”
    Max sighed. Beau Fletcher was the veteran All-Star third baseman for the Minnesota Twins, a two-time MVP, future Hall of Famer, and the greatest thing to come out of New Hartford, NY, ever. People in New Hartford said Beau Fletcher’s name with this dazed reverence, like he’d invented soup or something. It didn’t matter whether he was a nice guy or anything. All that mattered was that he hit a jillion home runs. After Beau donated some money to help rebuild Roosevelt High’s athletic fields, there was a movement to rename the school after him. After all, what had Franklin Delano Roosevelt done for them lately? In New Hartford, Beau Fletcher mattered so much that the universe needed to make people who didn’t matter at all just to keep everything in balance.
    People like Max.
    And then it was time to go. Max’s dread followed him to the car. It huddled its overgrown body into the backseat and kicked Max’s seat the whole way to school. It lurked behind him as he went up the steps to the