Becky's Kiss (9 page)

“Chills you right to the marrow, doesn’t it?”

Horseshoe head was still scratching away in his note book, and Principal McGovern addressed him.

“Paul, how far is Hatcher sitting away from her?”

“Sixty-one feet, give or take six inches or so.” He smiled wide enough to show his fillings. “My students would get a kick out of this. You simply approximate…”

Principal McGovern interrupted him by putting up his hand.

“Mike, what’s the distance between home plate and the pitching rubber on a standard baseball field, high school or pro?”

Rent-a-Cop didn’t miss a beat.

“Sixty feet.”

“And what’s the weight of a big league hard ball?

“Five and an eighth ounces.”

Principal McGovern turned to Horseshoe head.

“How much does a Florida Sunkist weigh?”

“Well, first you have to consider…”

“Paul.”

“Hmm?”

“To the point.”

Horseshoe adjusted his position, ankle up on the knee. “Right,” he said. “The average orange would be around seven ounces.” He nodded his head then, all smiles and squinting eyes. “I know, I know. Yes, even with the differential, you have a basic match. The common orange is slightly bigger than a baseball in terms of circumference, and this one, by appearance is of the smaller variety…”

“Oh, it’s a match all right,” Rent-a-Cop said. “Lock, stock, and barrel.”

Becky’s heart sank and she looked down. Why couldn’t there be ‘differential,’ or whatever, just this once?
Gosh.
Daddy was going to kill her!

“Miss Michigan.” Becky raised her head and felt her bottom lip trembling. Principal McGovern still had his hands folded, his eyes hard and his expression entirely flat.

“Have you ever done something like this before?”

“No!” Becky pleaded. “I swear! I never picked up a baseball, let alone an orange in my entire life! Well, I’m sorry, I’m sure I’ve eaten an orange or two, but I don’t even like them really—“

Principal McGovern had his ‘shush’ hand up again. He gently closed his eyes.

“Just how fast did she throw that thing, please?”

Horseshoe said, “Yes, considering the approximate weight of the projectile and the distance, compared with the visual I would estimate…mmm…eighty miles per hour or so.”

Rent-a-cop was stroking his goatee.

“I’m not really a betting man, but I’d wager Paul is being too conservative here. I’ve seen plenty in this life, but I’d swear she hit eighty-seven, eighty-eight, even.”

Principal McGovern shook his head in wonder or disgust, it was difficult to tell.

“Eighty-eight miles per hour. In my lunch room, right under our noses.” He looked around the table and said, to no one really, “And where do they pretty much set the bar for major league pitching, please?”

“Ninety,” Becky said, unable to stop herself from talking ‘MLB’ with the rest of them. “But there’s no way I could have hit eighty-eight. It’s impossible.”

Principal McGovern sat back and folded his hands at his gut.

“What kind of pitch did you throw back there? Tell the truth, now.”

“A four seam fastball.”

“What did you aim for?”

“His nose.”

“You hit his forehead.”

“I’m in sneakers and the floor is polished. I slipped an inch or two on the follow-through, and there was no mound slope to let me come downhill.”

Her hand flew up to her mouth. It was all true, she knew, but how
could
she be so sure of this stuff when she’d never been on an actual mound in the first place?

“How many pitches do you have, Miss Michigan?”

None!
Becky’s mind screamed.
I have none, and this is a weird fluke, and I never meant to break any laws!

“Eight,” she admitted, looking down and shrugging. “But I don’t know where they came from, I swear. I mean, the police can’t arrest me for what I dream, can they?”

“The police?” Principal McGovern said. Becky tilted up her chin and nodded over toward Rent-a-Cop. Dr. McGovern gave a short laugh.

“Mr. Rivers isn’t a policeman, Miss Michigan. He teaches shop and wears a radio so he can call in injuries faster. Liabilities and such.”

“So he’s not a cop?” Becky repeated back stupidly.

“No. He works here and coaches my varsity baseball team. You interested?”

“What?”

“In baseball. In playing baseball for us. In pitching for The Tigers, and finally giving us a chance to beat Windsor Crest.”

Mr. Rivers nodded in agreement.

“Yup. Windsor has been a thorn in our sides for the past eight years. Good program they have over there, good hitters, all dead red, but I don’t think they could even imagine hitting this young lady’s heater.”

“And then there’s Strathmoor,” Principal McGovern said. Mr. Rivers gave a bit of a frown.

“Pretty boys, all pretty boys.”

“I don’t like Strathmoor.”

“Nope. No one does.”

“I want to beat Strathmoor, and I want to beat Luddington Heights too.”

“Good grass roots travel league for the kids in that township,” Mr. Rivers said. “They train them real good from seven years on, and by the time they hit Legion, they’re all big as houses. Must be something in the water. State champions over there. ”

“State champions,” Principal McGovern agreed. “I’d like a state championship.”

“It would be nice,” Rivers added.

“Real nice. You want to be a state champion, Becky?”

“I guess so.”

“You guess so.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

Principal McGovern blinked. Once.

“Well, you figure it out and get back to us tomorrow. I’ll forget about the incident in the cafeteria, and I won’t even call your parents about it. Just remember, Becky, everyone else is going to forget about it too. It’ll be like you never threw that orange, never knocked Hatcher clean out of his chair, never stood up to him. If he comes near you, come to me, and I’ll back you.”

He gathered his files.

“But it won’t be the same.”

Mr. Rivers pushed away from the table and stood.

“I know you’d prefer a real mound outside, but it isn’t our season. Cheerleading and soccer have the field out back reserved, along with the flag captains and the weapon lines for the color guard. Still, we have our first unofficial practice in the gym after school on Friday. If you want a piece of this, be there.”

Becky was standing now as well.

“But what about the meeting,” she said, “and Cody’s parents, and his lawyer and the union whatever?”

Principal McGovern smiled.

“I’ll call Bill Hatcher tonight. I think we can avoid the whole war council, as long as you show up in your sweats with your glove tomorrow. Father is just like son in that family, and they both like one thing even more than intimidating people.”

“What’s that?” Becky muttered.

Principal McGovern moved past her toward the door.

“Winning,” he said. “Cody Hatcher is our starting third baseman.” He reached over to a wall peg and took down a baseball cap, midnight blue with the ‘RT’ insignia for Rutledge Tigers stitched bright white in the middle of the forehead. He tossed it back to Becky.

“Try it on when you get home. See if you like the way it feels.”

He opened the door and turned back.

“And if you like it, go see Mr. Rivers in the gym tomorrow and throw a batting practice to the boys.” He smiled thoughtfully. “I think Hatcher should be the first to face her, don’t you, Mike?”

Coach Rivers grinned, and with the overheads reflecting off those mirror suns, it was a cold experience.

“That’s why we play this game. I wouldn’t want to miss that for anything in this big, wide world.” He looked at Becky.

“Would you?”

Chapter Ten

Mrs. Pierce didn’t give her any problem at all when she showed up ten minutes late with the note sent by Mrs. Grover, the Principal’s secretary, and art started out kind of fun, especially since Becky didn’t really want to think about whether or not she was going to show up tomorrow after school with her new hat, her sweats, and a ‘glove’ she didn’t even own. They were put in pairs, and Becky’s partner was this weird boy named Seth who kept snapping his hand down to make the index finger whack against the middle one. They all had on their smocks and stood across from each other along long brown tables, easels to the side. Seth was the mixer and Becky the painter: their object, a red vase.

Other pairs were given basic knickknacks: a white sugar bowl, a small brown box, a gray plastic bathroom drinking cup. Everyone was handed two cards, one with a number between one through five on it, the other with a time between thirty seconds and two minutes. From the first pile, Becky and Seth got a three, meaning she could only make three brush strokes—the painter wasn’t allowed to lift the brush from the paper, or it was counted as another stroke—and from the second pile, a one minute marker.

Mrs. Pierce had the timer and sent them off with a “Ready…set…go!”

Seth suddenly had to go to the bathroom, so Becky mixed and painted, a bustle of activity all around her. Responsible now for two jobs, she almost fouled at the end by lifting her brush before she was ready, but in three ‘strokes,’ completed a sweet, kindergarten-ish, cartoon vase. She even had a stroke left to put a little light dot on it.

“Time,” Mrs. Pierce said. “Now move one station down to your right to evaluate the work of your neighbor. No, your
military
right.” She rolled her eyes as students bumped into each other, laughing and jostling, some now purposely moving upstream, working the joke too far. Becky went to wash her hands. The brush had had a rainbow of spatters on it, a few of them fresh enough to leave sticky, calico prints on her palm. Becky got to the utility basin and tried water. The stain just repelled it, making the water bead up. She turned, saying “Hey Mrs. Pierce, where’s the turpentine,” but only got out “Mrs. Pierce…” before realizing that all the action behind her had come to a standstill.

Everyone was huddled around her easel, mouths open in disbelief.

“What?” Becky said, coming over. When she drew near, the other students made a path as if they didn’t want her brushing against them.

The paper on her easel didn’t have a vase on it.

It was a dilapidated farm house with moss and ivy spreading up from its base. The left shutter was hanging off a hinge and the window was broken this time, a small circular hole in the bottom left pane with cracks spidered around it.

Becky’s mouth was open like everyone else’s.

Mrs. Pierce got everyone back to work quickly, shrugging it off and commenting that “Miss Michigan has a strange sense of humor.” The students kept their distance. And before the bell, even Mrs. Pierce gave Becky a couple of quick, nervous glances out the side of her face.

Chapter Eleven

“Why me?” Becky thought. “What is this? What do I do?” She felt she was living the life of some odd stranger, filling in slots and grooves that by themselves made no sense, yet seemed a part of some larger, more frightening pattern.

She tried to focus, but health class was gross. Mrs. Gerhardt split them in groups to do a ‘jigsaw’ reading activity from an in-class textbook where they were responsible for one section each. Becky’s assigned portion started with the lovely title,
If You’re Seventeen and She’s Thirteen, You May Be In Love, But It’s Still Rape.
She couldn’t really concentrate on the awful subject, no matter how hard she tried, and besides, there were a couple of boys in the group right next to her that kept snorting lame jokes about their excerpt called
The ABC’s of S.T.D.’s.
When the bell finally rang, Becky realized she’d left her English book,
Of Mice and Men,
in her locker, and by the time she got it, she’d missed her bus.

Fabulous.

Becky crossed County Line Road and started the long walk home down King Avenue. Her book bag was heavy, because she’d borrowed the science and history textbooks for next semester, and she dug her thumbs under and moved the straps a bit. She hoped she wouldn’t get blisters. The rain had long since blown off, and the sun was high now, the sky one of those royal blues that reminded Becky of sailboats and oceans and promises. If only her life matched the beauty around her! She’d already decided that she was sort of obligated to go to the baseball practice tomorrow, whether she liked it or not, and she totally dreaded it. She had no on-field experience whatsoever, and every gym class of her entire life had been a nightmare of stepping on balls, catching her feet in the goal nets, falling off the gymnastics equipment, and getting absolutely creamed in dodge ball and bombardment. And now she was supposed to just go on in and “throw a batting practice,” go figure.

Becky kicked a rock along the sidewalk and trudged on. One of the ‘slots and grooves’ she
had
put into place was Cody Hatcher, at least in a small way. It had seemed strange to her that the Principal knew him so well if he was just in the ninth grade like her. How was he already the starting third baseman? She had texted Beth about it casually, briefly mentioning the team and making sure she pushed back the after school get-together to 4:30 p.m. Of course, Hatcher had been held back because of suspensions and absences. He was really sixteen. That’s why he was bigger than everyone. And meaner. Becky glanced over at the elementary school she was passing across the street and focused on the baseball field there—mostly dirt, uncared for, weed tufts and clover in the outfield.

Suddenly, a baseball organ started playing “Take me out to the ballgame”
from somewhere in the school, but it was creepy and slow and a little off key. Then, from a car passing behind her, a similar organ sound came trumpeting up in that fanfare they always played right before everyone yelled, “Charge!” Becky spun around. There was no car with its window rolled down, no game on the radio, and now it was the lack of the organ sounds that seemed strange, like they had been cut off to the quick with no echo, no residue, and no trace but the haunt they left in her memory. She turned back to the elementary school and it was as silent as the grave, just darkened windows and the breeze whispering through the outfield clover.