Singled Out (18 page)

Sam was waiting for me outside the headmaster’s office. He was still in his uniform, sitting on a stone wall, his legs half-blocking the plaque that read, “The Hazelton School: Where Boys Become Men.”
Well, at least one of them did
, I thought, looking at Sam. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did for me today,” I said.

“You’d have done the same thing for me. And honestly, so would a lot of the guys around here.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“It’s true. You saw some of the guys in the dugout today. They were happy to see a Statesman get in trouble. And since I quit the Statesmen, I’ve noticed something,” Sam said. “Many of those quiet, nerdy guys who hide in the library, or even some of the new guys on the team I may not have known so well— they’re all really good people. It’s like they all hated Tuttle and the Statesmen, and I guess me as well, at one time. And I don’t blame them for hating them . . . for hating us. Who wants to live in fear or feel like they’re not as good? School shouldn’t be about that. Maybe things are finally going to change around here.”

“And all because of you,” I said.

“Not because of me. Because of you,” he said. “If you’d never come here, I’d probably still be the same guy, a Statesman, trying to dictate how everything should be. Too bad I’m a senior. I’m finally starting to like this place.”

“Well, there’s always college.” I nudged his shoulders. “And there are girls there, too.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Speaking of which, I know things have been a crazy rollercoaster ride with us, but maybe we can come to some sort of understanding. I would never want to mess with your ability to pitch.”

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“Except when we’re on the field together, we can be like boyfriend and girlfriend.”

This is too good to be true.
“How about practice?” I said.

He rubbed his chin, thinking. “Practice would be hands-off, I think.”

“How about in the gym?”

“The gym is hands-off, too, but the bus rides after practices and after games are open to discussion.” He stood and took my hand. “And then, after each game, we’ll walk across campus together, holding hands, and you’re going to tell me how great I was on the field.”

“Is that right?”

“Yup.”

I wasn’t going to argue. He’d proven himself time and again with me. I was sold.

When I got back to the house that night, I was surprised when Mrs. Richards told me my dad was waiting for me in Dr. Rich’s office. I rushed in to see him.

“Dad, what are you doing here?” I said, reaching for a hug.

“I got a voice mail from Dr. Colton and I didn’t like the tone of his voice,” Dad said. “I was on the road anyway, driving
back from a meeting in Ewing, so I figured I’d drive over.”

“Dad, Ewing is, like, thirty miles from here.”

“Yeah, well, I was worried about my daughter, so shoot me. What exactly happened? Dr. Colton said there was an incident.”

I had spilled my guts to Dr. Colton, and now it was time to do the same with my dad. He deserved to know the truth, about everything—the Statesmen, Sam, Gabby, everything.

I closed the office door.

After I told my dad the long, complicated tale of my past six months at Hazelton, I assured him that Dr. Colton was going to put an end to the Statesmen and that I was safe now.

“So, after all of this, you still want to stay here?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “I do.”

“I guess my little girl has grown up a lot this year, huh?”

“In more ways than one.”

Dad gave me a big bear hug and said, “So, just one more question.”

“What’s that?” I said.

“When’s your first game?”

As I pulled the comforter over me that night, I felt a wave of relief. For the first time, I felt safe and welcome at Hazelton. I looked up at the hats hanging on the wall.
That old red one is all mine now. I am so wearing that tomorrow.

After the Tuttle incident, it took a while for the air to clear. In fact, the stench of the Statesmen hung in the halls for a few weeks. Surprisingly, Sam said the remaining Statesmen were trying to regroup and keep their clique alive, but with little success. Many guys feared expulsion after what had happened
to Tuttle. Things were dying down. Sam’s brother, Ben, even apologized to me one day in the café. I accepted it, but I’m sure Sam had threatened to kick his butt if he didn’t.

Enough of this drama, enough worrying about boys, enough failing classes, enough fighting Statesmen. It’s time to do what I do best. Pitch.

After months of confusion, I finally felt I had my focus back.

T
he first game of the season, all of them were there— the scouts, that is. Some were from the west coast, some from the south and southeast. Texas, Miami, Arizona, and even major league farm teams were present. I had never seen anything like it. Also in the stands were the Richards family, my dad and brother, and half the student body. And I even noticed a friendly face sitting on the field level and waving. It was Gabby, who must have received and accepted Dr. Colton’s apology.

My mom had called earlier to wish me good luck, and I decided I’d meet her again for breakfast. We might even make it a monthly thing, I thought.

I was scheduled to start—Coach Madison was convinced I was ready for anything after walking onto the field and keeping my focus even after that jerk crushed my hand in a door. Coach had told me that day, “I know you’re a girl and all, but you got balls.” Clearly, that’s one of my top ten favorite compliments ever from a coach.

We were facing St. Joe’s, a prep school whose head coach, I heard, had phoned earlier to see if the rumor of a girl pitcher was actually true. “Not only is the rumor true, but we’re starting her against your boys today,” was Madison’s response.

With Tuttle gone, there was a cheery mood in our dugout.
The guys talked to me not like I was a girl, but like I was a teammate. That made throwing the first pitch a whole lot easier, knowing that the team was behind me.

Sam was safely tucked in left field, and I knew he would always have my back. I laughed inside when I thought about how much I had once loathed him. He had thanked me for making him a better person, but I knew he’d only himself to thank. You can’t change someone. They have to want to change themselves. Sam wanted to change.

Madison assured me that someone inevitably would get a hit off me today, because these guys were good. “Don’t let it rattle you,” he said. “You’ve been playing against much less talented teams for years, so a hit is bound to come.”

He was right. I had to leave my safety zone if I wanted to go somewhere with my pitching. And, I hoped, that somewhere would be college.

I stood on the mound and readied myself for the first pitch. I blocked everyone out and just went to that place—that safe place—where I love baseball, where my dad is cheering for me, where my brother is telling jokes, and where everything is in perfect rhythm.

And then I delivered my first pitch for Hazelton. The crowd erupted as the batter swung and missed. I was on top of the world.

We won the game, four to one. I gave up two hits, walked two, and struck out eight in the five innings I pitched—not bad for my first time starting on a real team.

After the game, I shook a lot of hands, including that of a scout from the University of Miami who seemed extremely happy to meet me.

Miami—warm weather, the beach, and baseball year-round.
Pretty good deal, right?

But I decided to keep my options open. Who knew what else might change before the season was over?

I’m a bird with wings

And I can fly.

I stretch my wings out wide,

I’m so high up in the sky

When I fly, I feel free.

Free of sadness and anger

All I’m filled with is glee.

—Marielle Bakri (1995-2008)

Thank you to the fine people at Bancroft Press, especially Bruce Bortz for believing Taylor Dresden had another story to tell; Harrison Demchick and Julie Steinbacher for their fabulous suggestions and editing; and Tracy Copes for creating a beautiful front cover.

Thank you to those who have always supported my writing career: the Griffiths family, the Moesch family, the Kirby family, the Buono family, the Robertson family, the Lyons family, the Cloutier family, the Ciccotello family, the Gilsenan family, Jeanne Doremus, Ed and Pat Nicholanco, Leah Mustra, and Stephanie Konschak.

Thank you to all the staff and students at South Orange Middle School who make school a fun place to be, especially: Dan Savarese, Ellen Hark, Fran Cristalli, Ashley Griffin, Steven Cohen, Bernadine Smith, Kathy Hester, Liz Harris, Marty Weber, Kathleen Andersen, Bonnie DiBlasio, Gayle Martone, Debra Myers, Carla Dos Santos, Danielle Levine, Becky Donahue, and Gary Pankiewicz.

Thank you to Jamie and Benjamin for their love and support.

To Marielle Bakri, to whom this book is dedicated, thank you for sharing your writing and yourself with me and inspiring so many people.

Many thanks to the Bakri family for sharing Marielle’s words with me.

Sara Griffiths is a young adult author and teacher. Her first novel,
Thrown A Curve,
was published in May 2007. Sara has been teaching language arts to seventh and eighth grade students for many years. She began writing to provide struggling students novels that were age appropriate but easy to read.

Sara is a graduate of Rutgers College in New Brunswick, New Jersey. She is a teacher at South Orange Middle School in South Orange, New Jersey. She is a member of the National Council of Teachers of English, the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, and the New Jersey Education Association.

Sara currently resides in Whitehouse Station, New Jersey with her husband, Jamie, and their son, Benjamin.