Throwing Like a Girl (14 page)

After a few minutes, Rocky returns wearing a T-shirt and a well-worn glove on her left hand. “Ready?” she says, smiling.

“Sure.”

“Okay, all we’re gonna do today is throw. We can talk about situations on the field; we can talk about yesterday’s game; we can talk about anything you want, but all we’re gonna do is throw.”

We separate, and go to opposite ends of the yard. She holds the ball in her right hand, which I notice for the first time is really big. Both of her hands are. Huge, in fact. Not in a gross way, just in a way that makes the ball look like an orange instead of a grapefruit.

Her arm drops back behind her head and then she snaps the ball over to me, not hard, but forcefully. Directly. I can feel how she puts it exactly where she wants it: about a foot in front of my face.

“Don’t think,” she says. “Just throw.”

“If I don’t think, it won’t go anywhere.”

She laughs. “Yes, it will.”

I try not to think, which is impossible, and plus I’m a little tired from practice, but also nervous to be throwing with Rocky. I try to let go and breathe, but I can’t pull it off.

Rocky doesn’t comment. She scoops up the ball from the dirt
and tosses it again, effortlessly, like she’s swimming or stretching after a long nap. We throw back and forth for five minutes and the balls start to come harder, punching dust up from my glove. She’s got this grin on her face, not at anything specific; it’s just there. I’m beginning to see how good she really is, how much she loves this.

“Feels like you’ve been throwing all season.”

“I haven’t thrown in two years.”

The ball smacks against my glove. “Really?” I stare at her.

She stares back. “Come on, throw,” she says. And I do.

We throw for a good half hour, until the timer she set down by the sliding glass door goes off. “Dinner’s ready. You wanna stay?”

I told my mom I’d be late, but said nothing about dinner. Also, Rocky and I hadn’t really discussed how I’d get home after this little tutoring session.

“Let me call my mom,” I say.

“Great. Phone’s in the kitchen.”

As I dial, Rocky sets the table and fills glasses with milk. She calls Theresa from the bottom of the stairs and gathers the little boys from watching TV in the living room.

“Mom,” I say. “Is it okay if I eat over at Rocky’s?”

“Tell her I can drive you home,” Rocky says.

“Rocky can drive me home. Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Mom.”

It feels like they’re all watching me as I hang up. And suddenly I’m self-conscious about having a mother.

“Are you missing something good?” she asks.

“Not as good as lasagna.”

“Ugh, we have it every other night,” Theresa says, scowling. She’s wearing shorts and one of the little boys’ undershirts.

“No, we don’t,” Mikey says. “Sometimes we have hamburgers or pancakes.”

Rocky shakes her head. “Theresa’s right. Mostly I make dinners on Sunday that we eat for the rest of the week. Lasagna’s easiest.”

Instead of serving up the plates at the stove the way my mother does, Rocky puts the food in the middle of the table—the pan of lasagna cut up with a spatula, canned green beans, and a loaf of bread that the boys tear into pieces for themselves.

“Wow, this is amazing,” I say.

Theresa busts out laughing at my admiration for the meal, and we all sink happily into quiet eating mode. By seven thirty we’ve done the dishes and cleaned the kitchen, and the boys are playing checkers at the kitchen table. Theresa lounges on the phone while Rocky looks at the clock above the fridge and says, “Anthony’s usually home by now.”

“That’s okay. It’s Friday; I’m not exactly in a rush.”

We get comfortable in the living room, with me on the couch and Rocky on the floor leaning against a chair.

“How’d you learn to cook like that?” I ask. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about making lasagna.”

She shrugs. “It seems like I’ve been doing it forever.”

“Doesn’t Theresa help?”

“What do you think?”

I laugh. “I think no.”

“Bingo.”

I figure I have to say something about her mom, because she’s never mentioned it, even though she drives her brothers and sister to and from school, makes the dinner, acts like the mother. And then there’s the obvious, of course: no mother.

Finally I say, “I heard about your mom from Frannie and Mo.”

She nods.

“I’m sorry.”

“She was sick a long time, since Mikey was in diapers.” Rocky sounds embarrassed to talk about it.

“How long ago did she die?”

“It’s been four years.”

When I don’t say anything more she says, “My aunt used to help take care of us for a while, but now it’s just us. And my dad, but he works a lot and Anthony works, too. It’s actually fine.”

Framed pictures clutter a bookshelf across the room. I point to a black-and-white wedding photo on the top shelf. “Is that her?”

Without looking she says, “Yeah.”

I get up and cross the room. “She was really pretty.”

“I know, what’s weird is she got prettier as she got older.” Rocky rolls onto her stomach and glances up at the shelves of photos. “But then she got sick. Cancer. And it faded the way she looked. But not completely.”

I sit down near her. “Do you miss her all the time?”

She swallows hard. “Sometimes I feel like I’m forgetting her. How her voice sounded and how she looked standing in our room in the morning when she’d get us up for school. I miss her when I hear you talking to your mom on the phone asking for permission to do something. I haven’t done that in a million years.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

“No. It’s just what it is.”

The front door opens, and the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever
seen walks into the room. He’s wearing a uniform, like a cop or a paramedic.

“Hey, Rock.” He stares at me with dark brown eyes. “Hi. Who are you?”

When I don’t answer, Rocky says, “This is my friend, Ella.”

He throws down his wallet and keys, sits in the chair Rocky had been leaning against, and starts to take off his shoes.

“I’m Anthony. You go to Spring Valley?”

I nod because he’s so beautiful I can’t speak. He’s got short black hair and a dimpled chin, strong hands like Rocky, and a long, straight nose like Theresa’s. Just taking off his shoes is this exquisite, excruciating event. I can hardly look when he pulls off his socks.

“Any dinner left?” he asks Rocky, even though he’s still looking at me.

“Lasagna. You can throw it in the microwave.”

“Perfect.” He gets up. “Ella, it was nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” I whisper, trying desperately to act cool.

I remember the story Frannie and Mo told me about how he got hurt and lost a football scholarship to college.

On our way to the car, I ask Rocky, “What’s the uniform for?”

“Security guard. But he thinks he’s on
Cops
or something.”

We laugh. I wait to see if she’ll talk more about him, but she doesn’t. At my house I say, “I really appreciate you throwing with me, helping out.”

“We’ll get more involved as we go along. The best thing right now is to get your motion down, make it second nature.”

“Right,” I say.

“Maybe you can find a place at home to throw against a wall, without breaking any windows.” She smiles. “Work on stepping
with your right foot and opening up your hips.”

I nod.

She looks down at her lap. “You know, this might actually turn out to help me more than it helps you.”

I don’t say anything.

“I can’t believe how good it feels to throw the ball again.”

I look out my window at the pretty lawn, the bushes and flowers and bright red front door.

“Isn’t there any way you could talk to Coach and have a special tryout for the team?” I blurt out.

She gazes at me. “It’s not about the team or the coach, Ella. It’s about my life.” She pauses. “My father would never let me play. I’ve got too much to do at home.”

“But you could still drive the kids home every day after practice.”

“Yeah, but what about away games or Saturday games? There are too many things involved.”

“Well, maybe my mom could help out. She doesn’t do anything else.”

“Like me?” Rocky rolls her eyes as if to say, have I taught you nothing? I forget how adult she has to be.

“You know what I mean. I’m the only one home now. My sisters are all out of the house. Maybe she could pick up the kids from school on those days. Or, what about Anthony?”

She doesn’t respond.

“Doesn’t he know how much you miss it?”

“Anthony does, but he’s working. My dad has no clue. He’s just trying to get some sleep between shifts. He never even saw me play. Of course, he never missed even one of Anthony’s games, but that’s football. That’s Texas. It’s a whole different ball
game, ha ha. Besides, Anthony was a superstar.”

“So were you, I heard.”

She smiles. “I should get home, Ella.”

I get out and wave good-bye, wait until I see her turn the corner, and then go inside through the back door. The house is quiet. I walk through the kitchen into the family room, where my parents are watching TV.

“Hi, Ell,” my dad says. “How was your visit with your friend?”

He makes it sound dull. “It was good. We had lasagna and green beans and bread all in the middle of the table, and we served ourselves. It was so cool.”

My parents look at each other.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” I say.

In my room everything is in its place. Though I make my own bed, chores at my house are token ones, not like at Rocky’s, where laundry, meals, and memorizing everyone’s schedules are requirements for existing. The pile of clean laundry sitting neatly folded on top of my dresser is my life in a nutshell. I realize that missing old friends and a house and a city is not like missing a dead mother. And not starting in a sport you’re still learning is not like losing your whole future because of a knee injury.

Being around Rocky puts my universe in perspective.

Normally during the week, I’m lazy and just pick what I want to wear from my stack of folded clothes, but tonight I put everything away. Tonight, I begin a new way of doing things at home.

Monday’s a bad day. I’m not starting in tomorrow’s game. I haven’t talked to Nate since Friday when Sally ratted me out and I had to admit to him that I lied. Then today Mr. Dominick gave us a lecture on marriage in America and how it’s changed so drastically in the twentieth century. It’s depressing and I wonder if my sister knows all these statistics? To top everything off, Sally makes a crack during practice about my number six jersey and how I’m a wannabe. I don’t know if anyone even figured out what she was talking about, but I wanted to die.

In the car, Rocky tells me I looked better on the field today.

“Not good enough,” I grumble.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m still not starting.”

She frowns. “Ella, it’s not about that. At least it shouldn’t be. You’re not ready yet. You’re still learning.”

“But I know as much as Julie Meyers. You even said so!”

“I said you’re
going
to be better than her. And probably, as far as raw athletic talent goes, you’re already better, but she played first base last season. She knows where to stand and how to find the bag when she’s not looking. And all the other important stuff.
Do you really want to put yourself out there when you don’t know that yet?”

“How am I supposed to learn? How am I supposed to get experience if I never play?”

She nods. “Good point. But give Coach time to put you in. She already noticed your throwing. I can tell.”

I roll my eyes.

“No, really. She’s watching you. You’re her pet project. I swear, I know these things. I’m a master of observation.”

From the backseat Theresa scoffs on cue. But as I get out of the car, I see her look at me—Theresa—and there’s kindness in her eyes, a secret thank-you of some sort. And I realize there must be a part of her that appreciates Rocky’s love for the game and the small role she’s able to play in it now that we’re becoming friends.

I don’t know how it happens so fast, but by the end of the week, we’re 0 and 3. The whole team is in a daze, including Coach. I’m making my contribution by continuing to throw with Rocky every few nights, and I’m getting better, my throw harder and on target. We’ve been using a cushion from the couch as first base. I say we should at least put it in a garbage bag to protect it, so we try that, but Rocky says it makes too much noise, makes it too easy for me to find it.

I work on not moving my left foot from the base while she forces her throws all over the place. It’s hard, but after ten minutes or so, I start to get the hang of it. I even scoop up a few backhanders, and Rocky’s so proud she has to run over and high-five me.

In school Nate and I are distant, if you could’ve ever called us
close. He’s still nice in passing, but he doesn’t seek me out like he did the first couple weeks of school. Lately, the Marriage Project assignments have been solo acts, like interviewing a person with your job and creating a resumé.

The worst part is Nate hardly ever hums in class anymore. I don’t know what kind of sign that is, but I don’t really analyze it because I’ve got softball on the brain all the time now.