Stealing Bases (4 page)

six

“This is
so
not good,” Jessica says, drumming her long concert pianist fingers against her cheek.

“We have nothing to worry about,” I chime in, attempting to convince the others as much as myself.

“Yeah, it’s not like this is brand new to us,” Nyla adds, pushing up her Gator hoodie sleeves. “We’ve been here before.”

“Of course
you two
aren’t worried.” Emily rolls her eyes. “Nyla, you’re like the best player in Beachwood history. And Kylie, have you ever not played varsity?”

“Seriously,” Phoenix adds, twirling a skinny braid.

“Will you guys relax? Coach is talking about the new girls,” I say, taking deep breaths as I watch Amber jog toward the mound. I feel the anxiety beginning to overwhelm me and immediately shake myself out of my stupor. “Come on, girls, let’s go!”

Zoe, who has been silent this whole time, looks up at me, and I give her arm a squeeze. Then she and Abby—who is also visibly quivering at this point—run out to their spots on the field. The rest of us give each other a final nod and all follow suit. Jessica, Nyla, and Phoenix join the infielders on the dirt between second and first. Chloe jogs toward right field. And Emily joins the catchers to my left.

That just leaves those of us on the mound: me, three freshmen, last year’s JV pitcher, Sophia, and Amber. Clearly, there’s only one real threat.

Too nervous to chat, the six of us turn to face our evaluator. I allow myself to revel in my good fortune—Coach Kate is the one scoring us. She knows me. She’s the same person who just asked me to join her at the coaching clinic. She can’t bench me now.

I hope.

“Okay, Wildcats. I hope you’re all warmed up and ready to give us your best,” Coach Kate says, holding her clipboard like a lunch tray. A radar gun balances on top. “Today, you’re going to pitch off the mound without a batter. Emily, our returning catcher from last year, will catch you. I will stand behind the backstop fence and clock your speed with this.” She holds up the black radar gun. “Kylie, why don’t you take the mound first since you know the drill?”

The five other girls trying out for pitcher look up at me in awe.
Including Amber.
For a second, I feel like everything is normal—Coach Kate is still loyal to me. And I’m standing on the softball mound, my home away from home.

Coach tosses me the ball, and I dig my foot into the familiar soft orange dirt. Lifting her face mask, Emily winks at me from behind home plate. She knows I got this. Then she adjusts her chest protector and knee guards and crouches down.

Coach Kate, satisfied that Emily is ready to go, looks at the other girls. “The rest of the pitchers, please wait for your turns in the dugout.” Turning to me, she says, “Since you should be warmed up, Kylie, why don’t you throw three practice pitches and then we’ll get started?” She begins flipping through the papers attached to her clipboard.

Emily gives me a nod and I take a deep breath. Then I step onto the rubber, focus, wind up, take a giant step, and push off, whipping the ball toward Emily’s glove.

Smack
.

“Nice work, Ky!” Emily’s muffled voice shouts from behind the catcher’s mask.

Nick and Andrew walk by the far fence on their way to shoot some hoops. “Killer Kylie!” they yell out. “Ow! Ow!”

Take that, Amber.

After two more perfect practice pitches, Coach Kate shouts, “Okay, let’s get started.” She points the radar gun at me.

Emily gives me the sign and calls out, “Fastball, outside.”

Don’t overthink, just throw
. Coach Malone’s words fill my head. I remind myself that I’ve done this a bazillion times before. Then I take a deep breath, wind up, push off the rubber, and fire.

“Strike!” Coach yells. “Nice pitch, Kylie.” She looks down at the radar gun.“Fifty-nine.”

My heart stops.
Oh my God. That’s nearly what I want to top out at UCLA. I might actually be able to do this.

I fire two more fifty-nine-mile-per-hour fastballs.

Beat that, Amber
.

Emily gives me the sign for the screwball. My best pitch. I feel for the seams, wind up, twist my wrist, and fire my favorite pitch. It cuts right.

“Beautiful,” Coach yells, and scribbles something on her clipboard. “Fifty-eight.”

As I throw a drop and changeup, I look over at the dugout. Amber just sits there, smiling as she hugs her glove.
Enjoy the bench
, I silently tell her.

“Can I see your rise?” Coach asks, holding her pen over the last box on the evaluation sheet.

“Yeah. I mean, yes,” I say, mustering up as much confidence as I can. Again my pitching coach’s words echo in my ears:
Don’t aim, throw.

I dig my foot in and take a deep breath, attempting to control the butterflies at war in my stomach. I find the seams with two fingers, wind up, take a giant leap, and twist the doorknob just like I’ve been practicing with my spinner. The laces snap across the tips of my fingers. The ball flies from my hand, darting upward. But instead of cutting right before the plate, it rises early and way too high.

Emily reaches up to grab it. It’s good, but it’s far from great.

“Fifty-three. Nice work, Ky,” Coach says, looking up from her clipboard. “Sophia, you’re up next.”

Sophia hops off the bench and tucks her glove under her arm. She leans down, pulls up her socks, and jogs toward the mound, passing me on the way.
Let’s see what you’ve got
, my eyes tell her.

When I enter the dugout, Amber jumps down from the bench and holds out her hand for a teammate slap.

I don’t think so.

Pretending I don’t see her hand, I pass her and dig into my bag for my water bottle.

“Nice work, Ky! I just knew you were going to do amazing. Do you need a water bottle?”

“Thanks, I’m good,” I reply, pulling the bottle out of my bag. After yesterday’s practice, I knew Amber would only be all too eager to take care of everything. And I couldn’t allow that.

Taking a few more steps away from Amber, I scan for a spot in the dugout, knowing that there’s no way I’m taking a seat on that bench. God forbid Coach see me there and think that I want to stay.

Ultimately, I decide to stand to the side and watch Sophia in action. Fortunately, there isn’t much to watch. After five okay pitches in the high forties, Coach announces that she’s seen enough. Then she calls for Amber.

“Yay!” Amber jumps off the bench and excitedly makes her way to
my
mound.

Once there, she moves her foot around, manicuring the dirt with her head down. I do my best not to jump up and strangle her right in front of everyone. Nothing irritates me more than when the visiting pitcher digs into
my
mound. And now Amber has the gall to do it. Ruin
my
smooth surface.

I take another swig from my water bottle.

“Are you ready?” Coach asks Amber, a whopping five practice pitches later.

“Yup.” Amber beams. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

I roll my eyes, wishing that Missy were here to crack jokes and cut the tension.

Emily calls the pitch. “Fastball inside.”

Amber winds up.

Smack
. The ball explodes into Emily’s glove. The power of Amber’s pitch pushes Emily back a bit. Just like it did me yesterday.

This is not good.

I contemplate sticking my fingers in my ears so I don’t have to hear the radar gun reading.

“Strike,” Coach calls out. “Nice pitch, Amber.” She looks down at the radar gun. “Sixty-two.”

Sixty-two? Are you kidding me?
No, that’s not possible. Coach is probably just trying to make Amber feel comfortable by rounding up.

Emily tosses the ball back to Amber. Then, giving Amber the sign, she calls out, “Screwball!”

I chuckle to myself. The screwball is
my
pitch. There’s no way she’s better than me at the screwball.

Amber sets up, stares at Emily’s glove, and nods at the sign. She winds up, takes a giant step, and fires.

Smack.

“Strike,” Coach announces. “Fifty-seven.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Amber can’t touch my screwball. I threw it faster. I threw it sharper. I’ve got it in the bag.

Amber pitches three more in the high fifties before Coach shouts, “Okay, Amber, I think we’ve seen enough. Nice job.” She looks over at the dugout. “Lauren, you’re up.”

A freshman brunette with two braids hops off the bench.

“Wait!” Amber shouts. “I have one more pitch to show you.”

“Amber, I’ve seen plenty. Nice job.”

“Please . . . I haven’t had the opportunity to show you my best pitch.” Amber leans forward, clinging to her glove.

Keep crying, Amber. Coach hates whiners.

Coach pulls the pen from behind her ear, checks her Nike watch, and scribbles something on her clipboard. “I guess we have time for one more pitch. Go ahead.”

“Rise,” Amber announces, suddenly confident.

Amber drags more dirt on the mound, and I have to stop myself from yelling out,
She’s acting like she has more poise than Jennie Finch, but have you seen all her nervous habits?
Then she lets out a deep breath, winds up, and fires, pushing all her power toward Emily.

Thud.

We all watch in amazement as Amber’s blurry pitch cuts up at the last second.

Coach looks down at her radar gun and her eyes pop. She shakes it and looks again, more closely. Finally, she says in astonishment, “Sixty-six.”

A perfect rise ball.

seven

Still bitter about Amber’s rise ball, I take off for the student parking lot the second tryouts are over. Luckily, one thing does go my way—Missy’s car is still sitting there. At least she stuck around long enough to drive me home. I breathe a sigh of relief that I don’t have to call my dad.

“Thank God this day is over,” I announce as I slide into the passenger seat of her black BMW three series, a birthday gift from Daddy.“And thanks so much for waiting.”

Missy looks up from the magazine she was reading. “No prob,” she says. “Everything okay?”

“I don’t want to talk about it . . .” I say, tossing my bag onto her backseat.

“You sure?” she asks, doing the same with her magazine before putting the car into reverse.

“Yeah,” I say, tersely. I know Missy means well, but right now I’m not in the mood for conversation. I close my eyes and remind myself that I won’t have to bum rides forever. In a few months, I’ll finally take my driver’s test. Then hopefully I’ll get a car, assuming my dad cuts loose with some cash.

I lean back into the bucket seat, letting the plush tan leather envelop me. As we pull out of the school parking lot, Missy waves to Brooke Lauder in her Benz. Brooke seems pleased to see us, but I don’t have the patience for her right now. The last thing I need to hear is “tales of the life of a tortured model.” I glance her way for a split second and then turn on my phone, checking to see if there are any e-mails with a
ucla.edu
address in my inbox. (Not that there are likely to be. Especially after today’s performance.)

“Okay then . . .” Missy looks at me out of the corner of her eye.

We sit in silence, driving past the huge, stone Beachwood sign and through the campus’s iron gates. Once we reach my neighborhood, crazy thoughts begin to swirl in my brain.

Oh my God. I’m screwed.

Oh my God. I’m going to lose my spot.

Oh my God. I’m going to lose softball.

Oh my God. I have no future.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

“Ky, you all right over there?” Missy asks. Clearly, my insanity has become palpable.

I rest my head against the headrest. “Uh-huh.”

Missy isn’t buying it. “What’s that?” she asks, glancing at my phone.

“College stuff,” I say, holding up my phone for her to see. “Or, should I say, what I wish was college stuff.”

“Seriously, Ky. I don’t know what you’re worried about. You’ve got it in the bag. The recruiters will be knocking down your door. And if they don’t, you can always walk-on at any school you want.” She looks at me encouragingly.

“What door?” I smirk. “You mean the one at the guesthouse that doesn’t even belong to us?”

“I assume you still have a door,” she replies.

I stare blankly back.

“You know. That thing you enter. It swings back and forth. There’s usually a knob.”

A hint of a smile creeps its way onto my face.

Missy takes this to mean that all is better. “Whose guesthouse are you staying at, anyway?” she asks, totally unaware that the guesthouse in question belongs to the family of a certain ex-boyfriend of mine.

I quickly run through my mental files to remember which lie I told her. “Remember? My dad’s friend—our neighbor’s.”

She pulls in front of the FOR SALE sign at my former beach house, peering into the adjacent yards. She then drives five blocks in the wrong direction, eventually arriving at someone else’s guesthouse. The one I’ve been lying about living in. “I hate to say this because I know you’re going to take it the wrong way . . . ” she says.

I look at her like,
Are you kidding me? You lead with that?

Missy ignores my response. “But I still don’t get it. Why would your dad move before the house sold?”

I shrug my shoulders. “No clue.” I leave out the fact that my dad isn’t exactly interested in having his living arrangements funded by my mom.

“So once your house sells, where are you going?”

“I don’t know . . . . ” I grab my bag, hoping that my neighbors don’t notice I’ve been spending an exorbitant amount of time parked in front of their house.

“Wait, Ky!” she calls out. (A little too loudly if you ask me, considering that I haven’t even exited the car yet.) “When are you going to take your driver’s test?”

“Huh?”

“You know the test we all took last year?”

“Oh yeah . . . that.” The divorce had me so shaken over the summer that I skipped out on the lessons my mom scheduled for me, which meant that the test was then kind of out of the question.

“Maybe picking out brand-new wheels will make you feel better.”

“Doubtful . . . ”

“Well, maybe this will help pep you up. I still haven’t told you about my revenge plan! For the boys.” She raises one eyebrow.

As much as I don’t have room for this in my life right now, I can’t help but be intrigued. “What kind of plan?” I ask.

“Just a little list of our own
.
”

“Sounds fascinating,” I reply, egging her on. “Count me in.” I shut the car door behind me.

Missy rolls down the window. “Oh, I will.” She winks.

I begin walking up the stone driveway of our neighbor’s house praying for Missy to leave, when I hear her call out, “Wait just one sec, Ky.”

I turn around.

“You dodged me on the guesthouse question. Tell me, is the Collins family impoverished? It’s okay. Even Donald Trump filed for bankruptcy.”

“Keep studying those SAT words,” I say. “Don’t worry about the Collins family. We’re just fine. Thanks for the ride.”

Missy grins, looking satisfied. Then she waves and pulls away.

I hate lying to Missy. But I can’t risk telling her the truth. It’s embarrassing enough to live in someone’s guesthouse. But it’s way more embarrassing when that guesthouse belongs to Zachary’s parents.

When Missy’s taillights disappear around the corner, I scale down my neighbor’s driveway, saying a silent prayer of thanks that no one’s come out to arrest me for trespassing. Then I trek the five blocks inland toward the Murphys’ miniestate.

Once I reach the Murphys’ main house, a six-bedroom yellow stucco behemoth, I walk up the steep stone driveway, passing my dad’s navy Prius along the way. Then I push through the white fence into the backyard. I glance at their half-size basketball court and traipse along the path through their immaculate garden, resisting the urge to step on their flowers and plants. Taking a not-entirely-necessary jaunt across their white-lit gazebo, I finally arrive at what I like to call our cottage—a two-bedroom stucco guesthouse. Currently, it plays home to two of three Collinses. Previously, it served as
casa de
Zachary and Zoe’s nanny. Either way, it’s kind of a poor excuse for a primary residence.

I dig into my bag for the equally tiny key. And then, giving up on any pretense of sanity, I peek behind me. Zachary’s second-story window glows brightly. Like a homing beacon tempting me 24/7.

He’s home.
Great.

I force myself to look away and resume opening the front door of the guesthouse. Immediately my senses are assaulted by the potent smell of honeysuckle soy aromatherapy candles. A wave of heat hits my face.

“Shut the door.” My dad speed-walks toward me, holding a glass of thick green liquid. His bare feet and choice of clothes—charcoal biker shorts—tell me what I’m in store for. “Don’t let the heat out,” he says.

Our furniture—tiny beige matching tuxedo chairs and an abaca ottoman—is pushed up against the sidewall to make room for at least a dozen multicolored yoga mats. Scantily clad ladies bend over in painful-looking triangle poses, the sweat beads on their bodies threatening to spill over onto our living room floor.

“Please slip in quickly on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays,” my dad whispers as he hurries past me. He wipes away beads of sweat of his own from his freshly shaved head.

That was something he adopted after his mini–heart attack a year ago—shaving his head to cover his balding. The other was a midlife-crisis-style career change.

Exactly one year ago this May, my dad quit his real job and jetted off to India to study yoga. Two months later, when he returned, he slowly began his transformation toward his new career goal—to become Southern California’s premier yoga instructor. A month after that, my type A mom couldn’t take his babble anymore. (As she eventually told me, she worked really hard, and he was doing
what
?) So, she filed for divorce, and left.

And honestly, I don’t blame her. For years, my parents would fight in private when they thought I couldn’t hear them. And all of their fights were about the same thing—how my mom actually wanted practical things and my dad didn’t.

I glance back at my dad and think about what other families must be doing right now—finishing dinner, watching television. And here we are at yoga night. So, yeah, I guess I do blame my mom for one thing: leaving me with
him
.

Wanting to escape my dad as quickly as possible, I take a quick right down the narrow hallway to my bedroom. I sigh in disgust when it takes me all of ten seconds to arrive at my door—I still can’t believe my dad voluntarily downgraded from fifteen rooms to five just so he didn’t have to depend on my mom to pay the mortgage. On the plus side, my Lab Kibbles is waiting there to greet me. She stands up on her hind legs in front of my door and slobbers all over me with warm, sloppy kisses. I giggle and squat down to pet her long golden fur.

“Hey, girl. Who’s a cutie? Who do I love?” I scratch underneath her chin and she wags her tail excitedly. Then I stand up and push open the door to my room, spinning the doorknob just as I do my screwball.

From there, things take a turn for the worst. Kibbles follows me into my room, and I’m so caught up in playing with her that I don’t notice the softball glove I left on the ground. Naturally, I trip over it and collapse onto my bed. In a way, I guess it’s good because my bed—the only piece of furniture I was allowed to keep during the move—is there to cushion my fall. But all it does is manage to remind me of how small my room is. There’s literally a whopping two feet between my door and the foot of my bed.

For a moment, I just lie there, thinking about how once upon a time things were good—how my mom and I picked out the bed together; how Missy and I used to have sleepovers where we’d lie on this very bed and imagine what prom would be like; how Zachary and I used to lie there in each other’s arms, telling each other that we’d always be there.

A single tear trickles down my face. I roll over to my side, placing my hand on the bamboo cotton duvet. The duvet feels stiff to the touch. I stifle a scream. Just another thing to make it impossible to forget that every friggin’ thing in this house is biodegradable. Even what are supposedly
my
linens.

I pull myself off my bed and close my blinds, just in case Zachary decides to indulge in his habit of knocking on my window at all hours. Then I grab my pink iPod off my bamboo night table and lie back on my bed. Shoving the white earbuds into my ears, I blast my “Chill Out” mix. “Need You Now” courses from the headphones, bringing me back to the first time I heard the song: Zachary and I were hanging out after his parent’s annual Fourth of July bash. Tucked away in “our spot”—the corner of the beach where the cliffs form two perfect chairs—Zachary and I cuddled together as he jokingly serenaded me.
If there was ever a perfect moment . . .

I glance out the window that overlooks the back of Zachary’s house. He’s right there. Only yards away. It would be so much easier if I could just talk to him tonight. Right now. He would be able to make sense of this Amber mess.

Instantly, everything hits me like one of Amber’s fastballs. The tears flow. Within seconds, my face looks like a car skidded across my cheeks.

Dad is nuts. Mom left. Zachary is gone. And I don’t even have the guts to tell Missy where I live.

Softball is all I have left. If I lose softball, I’ll lose Kylie.