Boy Toy (27 page)

"Hey!" I shout. "Hey, wet-head!"

Her face lights up when she sees me, and I feel like a superhero.

"Josh!" She comes running back down the path, but I'm already headed up the path and it's like something from a cheesy movie as we meet in the middle. Her hair is sopping wet, too. "Look at us!" She musses my hair, scattering water droplets over us. "How much of the game did you see?"

"I just got here. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." She throws her arms around me and hugs me. "I can't believe you came. That's so sweet."

I can't bring myself to move my arms in turn. She doesn't say anything, just hugs the totem pole standing there in front of her, then takes a step back.

"How did you guys do?"

"Against East Brook? Heh."

"Say no more."

I point to the scoreboard. "You kept them to three runs. That's amazing. Were they earned?"

"Decent defense today, but yeah." She links her arm with mine like she's been doing it her whole life and marches me toward the bus. School policy dictates that she has to travel to and from away games on a bus, so she can't join me in the car. "I thought we had them for a little while. Struck out four in the first two innings, but then they found me and started chipping away."

"Three runs," I tell her again. "That's amazing. They haven't scored less than five in a game all season."

She stops near the bus. I'm suddenly, keenly aware of the entire South Brook varsity softball team watching through the bus windows as their star pitcher holds hands with the school pariah. "Follow the bus back to school?"

I glance at the windows.

"Don't look at them," she scolds. "Look at
me.
"

And I do. Hair dripping. Spray of freckles like a constellation over the bridge of her nose. Absolutely no makeup. Just fresh-faced girl.

Woman. Not girl.

"OK."

And she leans in and kisses me, quickly, just a peck, but it's smack-dab on the lips, and I think I hear a massive, coordinated intake of breath from the bus as it happens.

"Rache..." I could just combust and die right here, watched by fifty eyes that know what I did with Eve.

"Shh..." She strokes my cheek with a palm, and then a shout from the bus:

"Madison! Get on the damn bus!"

Rachel rolls her eyes and squeezes my hand, then dashes to the door and brushes by her coach, who glares at me from the bus steps as Rachel flops into a seat near a window. I ignore Coach Kimball and find myself waving to Rachel as the bus pulls away.

I follow the bus back to South Brook, exposed, naked, and aware that at least two softball players keep looking back at me through the bus's rear windows as if I'm a stalker.

And why not? Any one of them could log on to the Web and see what I've done, see my history. Dr. Kennedy has told me for years that I shouldn't always assume that everyone I see has read the files on the Web, but I think that's naïve. Kids in particular are curious—they want to
know
things. And when knowledge—prurient, forbidden knowledge—is just a click away, how can you
not
check it out?

At school, Rachel flies off the bus and hops into my car. "Let's go!"

"Um, where?"

"Dinner, Math Boy! I'm dying. I'm starving. I'm
wasting away as we speak.
"

Dinner is suspiciously like another date, a territory I've been avoiding as much as possible. Going out with Zik and Michelle is one thing—they take some of the attention away from me. But just the two of us?

I reach for a secure rung on this weird ladder I've found myself on. "OK. We'll go to Cincinnati Joe's."

Her nose wrinkles. "C'mon, Josh. I just held Canterstown to three runs on their home field
and
hit a home run, to boot. You want me to celebrate at Joe's?"

"You hit a home run? You're hitting .367 this season, now. With a .500 slugging average and an IPA..." I hesitate, because her IPA is low. She hits mostly singles. But for a pitcher, she's killer at the plate.

"You're the only person on the planet who even bothers to figure out his IPA, Josh. I bet you could talk to twenty major-leaguers and most of
them
wouldn't be able to tell you their IPAs at any given moment in time."

I move on. "Your ERA is 2.20. Jesus, Rache! That's Cy Young territory!" I hate myself for saying it. Rachel could have an ERA in the negative numbers and she'd still never get a Cy Young Award.

We're at a light. I look over; she's staring at me. "Did you just do that in your
head?
Right now?"

I shrug. "Well, yeah." I still get caught off-guard by that—how can other people
not
make those calculations right away? How can they stop themselves from doing it? I don't understand.

"Not Joe's," she says, leaning back. "You hate it there anyway."

True. But I have two reasons for wanting to go there. One is that Zik will be there and Michelle will have joined him by now, turning this into another safe double date. I can't tell her that, though, so I tell her the second reason.

"There's no chance Eve will show up at Joe's."

The light changes. I hit the gas. Rachel sighs.

"Swing by the Narc," she tells me.

At the Narc, Rachel tells me to keep the engine running. She disappears inside and comes back out with two plastic shopping bags and a big bottle of sports drink.

"SAMMPark, Math Boy!" she orders. "Quickly!"

So as the sun sets over SAMMPark, we find a quiet, secluded place near the baseball diamond and break out the impromptu picnic Rachel scored from the Narc: potato salad, apples, baked chips, fried chicken (we peel off the skin—we're in training), and carrot sticks.

We pass the big bottle back and forth, sipping from it. "Don't leave me any floaties," she warns me.

For a little while, there's nothing but the sounds of two hungry teenagers devouring food as if someone had threatened to take it away from us. We're both jocks, so it's cool to forgo manners and go totally into demolition mode while we eat and replenish our bodies after the games.

I feel a belch welling up from the depths of my gut and turn my head aside to let it go as discreetly as I can. Rachel giggles and taps her belly, then lets loose with a burp-roar that sounds like a wounded lion.

"Holy shit!"

"Not bad, huh?"

She sidles up to me. We both smell like fried chicken and mayonnaise, and since we both do, it doesn't matter. A part of me wants to snuggle up to her, to entwine with her like the other night on the hood of the car. But I just hold myself still.

"Loosen up. You got screwed, Josh. No question about it. Literally and figuratively. So what? It was five years ago."

"I guess I should just move on, huh?" I ask sarcastically.

"I'm not saying that what happened wasn't a big deal. Just that it's not
the
deal. It's not the only thing in your life. You've got college to think about. Prom."

I groan. "Please, Rachel, please stop talking about prom. I don't want to go."

She gnaws at a carrot. "You don't have a choice. I bought my dress already. It's gorgeous. Green. I'll bring you a swatch so you can match your tie and cummerbund."

Match my tie and cummerbund? Match my
tie
and
cummerbund?
Is she insane?

I think I've let this go on long enough. I have to let her down easy, but I absolutely have to let her down.

"We're going away to college, soon, Rache. We're gonna be apart. Does it really make sense to start something now?"

She toys with her carrot, not looking up at me. "We're not starting something," she says quietly. "We're
continuing
something. Something that was interrupted. The question really is: Do you want to? Or not?"

"Rache..."

"No, let me finish. You're avoiding it. You're avoiding all of it. Why? Is it her? Is it because she's out of jail? Do you think she's going to show up and pick up where you left off? Why can't you pick up where you left off with me?"

"Because it doesn't make any
sense—
"

"Damn, Josh, why do you have to be so
logical
all the time?" Her eyes flash as she finally looks up at me. "Why can't you just enjoy the moment? We missed out on five years, on what could have been. Why can't you let us at least experience what
is?
Why do you always have to worry about what could be or what might be?"

She leans in and kisses me on the lips again; she wants more. She wants me to open my mouth and let her in, but I can't, I won't, but then I do because as much as I try not to be, I'm still me. I'm a horny guy. I try not to act on it because that way lies disaster, but I'm still just a guy at the end of the day. A guy wrapped up in Rachel as SAMMPark goes dark around us.

I stay with Rachel longer than I should. We don't go any further than kissing and a little tongue-action on necks and ears, but it makes me dizzy and almost sick. Rachel doesn't groan like Eve did—she makes little sounds that are almost like whimpers, but somehow sexy.

I'm hard as a rock the whole time and I don't want her to know, but I think that's probably impossible.

It's past midnight when I get home. My brain is sloshing around in my head like a cork on the ocean. I don't know how Rachel manages on so little sleep. She's like a robot or something.

I creep into the kitchen for a quick snack—it's always time to feed the machine, even late at night. If I'm up, I need fuel. But in the light from the refrigerator, I notice a collection of shadows on the living room sofa. Now that I've seen it, I hear it, too—softly breathing.

I sneak over. It's Mom, wrapped up in an old afghan, fast asleep. The afghan's too short and her feet and calves poke out from the bottom.

Well,
this
can't be good.

In my bedroom, I figure I'm good for passing out as soon as my head hits the pillow, but instead I just lie there on top of the covers, my mind spinning, my chest too tight for my heart.

I'm a dickhead.

I call Rachel on her cell phone. I have an inkling she'll be up. Probably texting Michelle about me.

"Hey, Rache. It's me."

"I know."

"Did I wake you up?"

"Are you kidding?"

Deep breath. And:

"I'm sorry I'm such a dick."

"You're not a dick. What are you talking about?"

"Everything. I'm distracted these days. College stuff." I'm beating around the bush. I'm not talking about what I
really
need to talk about. Why? Why can't I just open up and tell her?

It's like dead air on her end, and for a second I think she's lost the connection. Then she says, "Hang on a sec, OK? I want to tell Michelle I'm on with you and I'll get back to her later."

I hear a click. I lay in the dark. What the hell am I doing? How did I get to this point? Seeking forgiveness from Rachel was one thing. Telling her about Eve was too far. And then the double dates. And now ... Am I really considering going to the prom with her?

"I'm back," she says.

"Maybe I should just go. Let you sleep."

"
You're
the weakling who needs sleep," she reminds me. "C'mon, why did you call me all apologetic?"

I tell her about Coach confronting me in the shower, about the deal we made. "Zik thinks I should just try to impress the scout, see if I can go out for the minors or maybe even straight to the majors. My parents want me to play ball in college."

"What do
you
want?"

Well, that's the problem, isn't it? "I want to play baseball. I want to go to a good school. Somewhere where I can really use math, you know? Change the world a little bit. Send someone to Mars."

"So, college, then. Zik can't control your life, Josh. He'll get over it."

But it's not as simple as that. "It's not just a choice between the league and college, though. You know how it is. Most of the really good math schools, the ones that would change my life—they're not exactly renowned for baseball."

"What about Georgia Tech?"

I considered Georgia Tech. Good school, ranked consistently in the Top 15 nationally for college ball.

"Clemson?" she goes on. "USC?"

Decent schools. Good for baseball.

"Stanford," I tell her.

She doesn't say anything for a second. "Not exactly
renowned
for baseball," she says. "Might as well go to USC if you're looking that far away."

Does she realize what she just said? "Where are
you
going, Rache?"

I can almost hear her shrugging. "Probably Maryland. They've offered me a great scholarship as long as I pitch. Still a chance that financial aid might come in from Michigan or Iowa. I don't have the options you have."

I laugh at that. "God, Rache, it's all speculation right now. I haven't even heard from Stanford or MIT or Yale."