Throwing Like a Girl (12 page)

We hardly talk the rest of the way home. Now I’ll have to tell my mother the car pool didn’t work out, and she’ll want to know a million details.

In my driveway I say, “Could you get out for a second so I can apologize properly?” I seem to be doing a lot of this lately.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rocky says.

“No, please.”

“Fine.” She leaves the car running, gets out, and stands in the front yard, hands on hips.

“I don’t know why I said that. Everyone wishes you were on the team. It would change everything. Kat says we could dominate if you were playing short. And I could get good enough to play first, if you were there helping me.”

“You don’t need me,” she says. “You only need to listen and watch.”

“Isn’t there some way, Rocky?”

She shakes her head and glances back at the car. “No. I don’t play anymore.”

“But…”

There’s so much I’ve learned about Rocky from other people that I have to remember not to bring up her brother or aunt helping out since
she
hasn’t told me anything.

“I gotta get going,” she says.

I follow her to the driver’s side. “What about throwing with me. At your house. You could teach me to throw better, like a girl.”

Her eyes narrow. “You want me to teach you to throw like a girl?”

“A
real
girl. Like you.”

She laughs. “I don’t think so.”

“You could help me learn about positioning and crucial defensive playing.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She gets back in the car and slams the door. “Go take a hot shower. You’ll need it. You’re gonna be sore tomorrow.”

She backs out of the driveway with a screech and tears off into the sunset. But before she makes the turn off my street, she puts her arm out the window and waves to me.

We’re still hanging on by a thread.

Not only am I sore on Tuesday, but Wednesday, too. Waiting to find out if Rocky will throw with me sometime this week and if I’ll play against Fort Worth Country Day in our first game tomorrow makes the pain worse. Neither prospect looks too good. Rocky hardly talked to me the whole way home yesterday. And during the drills at practice today, Julie Meyers played first with the rest of the starting lineup.

I try to remember what Rocky told me. Listen to the coach and watch what the experienced players do. Try to be thinking about softball the whole time, not Nate or the fitting I have for a bridesmaid’s dress for my sister’s wedding or the fact that I seem to be off Sally Fontineau’s radar at the moment.

But then I overhear Gwen and Joy talking about Sally’s mother getting pissed off that Sally brought the car home late, since their BMW was in the shop. How many cars do they have?

Gwen says, “Her mom had to be at some fund-raising event downtown so she chewed Sally out for being irresponsible, once again. When Sally reminded her she was late because of softball, her mom went ballistic.”

“What happened?”

Gwen shrugs. “She went on and on about how Sally wasn’t
good enough to play in more than two innings last year, so why would she subject herself to that again? You know Mrs. Fontineau. We’re not talking
Little House on the Prairie
here.”

“God.”

“I know. Then she told Sally how worthless it is for girls to play sports and that she should worry more about getting herself into any college that’ll accept her so she’ll have something to do after high school.”

I stand there trying not to listen. I’m supposed to be listening to Coach. I’m up next in the three-player line-relay drill we’re doing. But all I can hear is Gwen talking about Sally’s mom. Nate’s mom.

My mother would never say something so mean to me.

I’m in a rotation with Kat, who absolutely fires the ball at me. I catch it, turn, and whip it as hard as I can to Jenny Yin. Which isn’t very hard. Or perfectly on target. But it gets there, and I trot off to get behind the last person in the next line. Coach is standing on the other side of the field, but she saw me catch Kat’s ball. She saw me pivot and throw. She says, “Good job, Ella.”

And this makes me very happy. What doesn’t make me happy is the reading of the lineup at the end of practice. We’re sitting on the bleachers passing around water bottles as Coach talks about the other team, their record from last season, their strong returning players. She talks about what we have to remember when we’re batting and fielding. And then she reads the lineup: Julie Meyers is starting at first base. I get that sinking feeling, but then I have a reckless moment of hope that maybe Coach might have put me in another position—right field, possibly. But she stops reading, and I’m not starting anywhere in tomorrow’s game.

I tried to prepare myself for this, but it’s still a blow. Even
though I’m not good enough to throw on target or smart enough about positions, I still had this crazy little hope.

Mo and Frannie accompany me off the field. They aren’t starting, either.

“You okay?” Mo asks.

I nod, because if I speak it might come out squeaky, like right before I cry. They drape their arms around my shoulders to comfort me, and a small part of my frustration melts away.

Later, in the car, Rocky gets right to the point. “What’s the verdict?”

“Julie Meyers is playing first tomorrow.”

She nods. “You’re gonna be better than she is. No worries about that. You’ll definitely play, Ella. The question is, are you gonna
make
it long enough to start in a game? Because at the rate you’re going, your disappointment will get the better of you.”

I hear Theresa snort in the backseat. I don’t respond. Neither does Rocky.

We drive all the way to my house, a good fifteen minutes before Rocky says, “Well?”

“I’m not gonna sabotage myself, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“Good. We can start our first lesson on Friday. After practice.”

I climb out, sling my backpack over my shoulder, and glance through the windshield at Rocky. The sun bounces off the glass so I can’t see her very well, except for her chin and the curve of her smile. I can’t hold mine back, either.

At dinner my parents ask annoying questions about tomorrow’s game. I tell them I’m not starting, and the way they look at each other makes me realize they didn’t think I would be anyway. Great.

They say they want to come. My father is even taking off work early.

“No. You can’t.”

“What do you mean? We want to watch the game,” my father says.

“To see you win,” my mother adds.

“That’s my point. I probably won’t play at all.”

Neither responds to this. Finally, my mother says, “Ella, when I say
you
I mean the team. Watching
all of you
play.…” She lifts her eyebrows for emphasis. “You might want to think about that. It’s called being a part of the team.”

“Whatever,” I say, stalking off to my room to bury myself in homework.

Thursday, game day, pours rain.

Frannie and Mo come up to me after fourth period. Mo says, “Can you believe this weather? On opening day?”

“I know,” I say, as if I’m so upset. But after lunch the skies clear and the sun comes out strong, almost steamy. From my Spanish class I can see a little bit of the softball field where the maintenance guys are throwing sand over puddles in the outfield.

By Behavioral Science, word is that the game’s on.

Nate gives me a brotherly pat on the back. “Ready for the big game?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Fort Worth Country Day,” he says, like that’s a complete thought.

“Right.”

Mr. D hands back our food budget with a bright red A. Nate and I high-five each other, which causes a wave of eye-rolling by girls in the class. Nate never catches any of this. They’re too careful.

The newest assignment, along with reading boring sociological data of marriage in different cultures, is a family tree. I have to complete one on Nate’s family, and he does one on mine. The final version will be joined together. Another task I’ll probably complete for the both of us.

Toward the end of class, during a lull, Nate says, “So, are you starting today?”

“You know it.” I lift one shoulder and freeze that way. What did I just do? I can’t believe I told him that.

He looks surprised for a flash of a second, but then he recovers and says, “That’s so great. I’ll come by after rehearsal and see if I can catch an inning.”

Why did I say that? Did I forget that it’s possible to be caught in a lie?

Nate doesn’t seem to notice my horror. Instead, he starts
humming, which he’s been doing a lot lately with
Show Boat
rehearsals heating up. It’s a bit corny, but I like that he hums, even if it makes it hard to concentrate during class. Maybe it’ll make him forget to come down and see me riding the bench in my spotless uniform.

In the locker room everyone dresses for the game in silence because the other team is here already, acting like they own the place. They stand at the long row of sinks and mirrors adjusting their hair and caps, perfecting their already perfect look: patriotic red, white, and blue uniforms, hair ribbons, shoelaces, and wristbands. We can’t seem to stop gawking.

The Fort Worth Country Day coach has this husky smoker’s voice and a kick-ass tan. She looks like she’s been doing this for a hundred years, and you can tell by the way the team listens to everything she says that she’s revered. The minute she yells, “
Time’s up!
” they leap to attention and gather at the far end of the locker room in front of a small green chalkboard. It’s almost creepy.

Coach marches into the locker room at about that time to get us psyched. When no one responds to her cheers, she says, “What’s the problem here?”

“We’re intimidated,” Debra Lester whispers. “They’re so big.”

Which is true. They’re huge. They look like they’re in college.

Coach doesn’t like this. She starts clapping and walks up and down the rows of lockers. “Okay, Lady Peacocks,” she shouts. “Get proud and show me your colors!”

I cringe, especially since the other team can hear.

We shuffle out through the gym as ordered, but it’s like she’s
forcing us to do something we absolutely do
not
want to do. The sun makes our purple and green uniforms explode, and I have to shield my eyes.

The starters begin infield, throwing the ball around from their positions when Coach hits it to them. They don’t look half bad—until the Country Day girls appear at the top of the hill and descend in one massive red, white, and blue mob. The Lady Peacocks start dropping the ball, overthrowing it, missing it completely. Coach reels them in. She doesn’t want the other team to see that we’re nervous.

Their coach barks out, “
Infield
,” and the other team’s starters dash out to their positions and hurl the ball around the bases, yelling and grunting at each other. They look so confident.
Thank God I’m not starting
.

After a minute or two, Coach comes over to the bench and crouches down to our level. She looks into our faces. “Don’t watch the other team warm up; don’t look so scared; and start giving your team some support. Send it telepathically if you have to. Believe it.”

I happen to glance at Sally Fontineau. I’ve been avoiding this for a whole week, trying not to have any contact with her whatsoever. When she sees me, she rolls her eyes and pops her gum.

Coach notices the whole thing.

“Sally? Ella?” she says, making it seem like we’re sharing some secret code.

I’m shocked. Surely she can’t think I’m as indifferent as Sally.

But then, instead of reprimanding us, she says, “Hang in there. We’re a team, remember? This is fun.”

Sally looks at her fingernails. I look Coach right in the eye and nod my head, trying to project my I’m-a-worthy-part-of-the-team face.

Coach turns to go over the batting order with Sue Bee, and Sally says to me, “So, you took six after I took five?” She frowns.

I ignore her. Good comeback.

The umpires call for the captains from each team. Kat and Marcie go to home plate together while Coach stands by the bench. When Marcie comes back with our score book, she looks around and gulps, “They have a girl named Moose.”