Throwing Like a Girl (17 page)

We don’t pull into the school parking lot until eight thirty at night. We’re singing camp songs in our van with the windows
wide open. Parents are leaning against the hoods of their cars, chatting, hardly noticing us. I catch a glimpse of my father talking to someone else’s father, turning his head when he sees us pull up. He’s wearing a cardigan vest over a short-sleeved plaid button-down shirt. His dentist look. It’s fashion suicide, but for some reason it makes me want to run out and hug him, which is exactly what I do once the van is parked.

It’s surprising to him but not unwelcome. He hugs me back and kisses the top of my head.

“I played, Dad! For four innings.” I tell him I got a double and two RBIs (runs batted in). “And we won!”

“Honey, that’s great. Good for you.” He gives me another squeeze. “You’re playing in the majors now.”

I try not to let that corny little comment ruin things. I wave to Frannie and Mo as they get into Mo’s car together, hoping things will go back to normal. They wave back and I follow my dad to the Blue Bomber—not proud to slide in beside him, but too tired to care.

I don’t hear from Nate on Sunday. I was secretly hoping Sally might have told him about my stellar performance in the game. I thought he’d call to at least tell me whatever it was he wanted to tell me last week in 7-Eleven, but he doesn’t. Instead, the only phone call for me all day is from Rocky. It’s a welcome distraction from my Behavioral Science homework, a listing of places I’d mail the resumé if I really were looking for a new job. Does this resumé stuff ever end? Homework at my old school was steady and time-consuming, but much more straightforward. Spring Valley is full of creative theory. It’s exhausting sometimes.

“Don’t tell me anything about the game yet,” Rocky says. “I’m making Impossible Cheeseburger Pie; Love Boat Chicken, don’t ask; and everybody’s favorite, lasagna. I’m free at four. You want to throw and stay for dinner?”

“I want to talk,” I say.

She’s quiet on the line.

“I want to talk about you playing softball.” I’m not sure if she’s still there. “Rocky?”

“Yeah, I heard you. Maybe we should throw at your house, then.”

“Sounds good.”

When she arrives, I’ve caught up on most of my homework and am wearing shorts and a T-shirt.

My mom brings us lemonade on the patio as we throw the first ball. “Would you girls like a little break?”

“Mom, we haven’t even
started
.”

“No, it’s great. I’m so thirsty,” Rocky says, smiling at her.

And I’m momentarily ashamed for not appreciating my mom the way I’d promised myself I would.

“So, you may as well tell me,” Rocky says, planting herself in a chair. “First the game, then if anything happened with Sally since 7-Eleven.”

I decide not to mention Sally’s latest attack. I talk about the game so that we don’t need to talk about her. Besides, I still have some thinking to do on it, to figure out why she’s so mean to me and how much it has to do with Nate.

We sip our lemonades, and I rub the glass pitcher with my thumb as if a genie might come out and grant us three wishes. I wonder what Rocky’s would be.

“
You played!
” Rocky screams once I’ve told her the news.

“I did. And Rock, it was so awesome. I didn’t make any errors. I caught the ball. I got people out. I got a double and two RBIs.”

“Holy cheese. Girl, you’ve arrived.”

I’m smiling hard, shaking my head in disbelief.

“So we won?”

“Five to four,” I say.

“
Yawwhoo
.” She high-fives me with her glove and chugs the rest of her lemonade. “Let’s throw,” she says.

I hold off on talking about getting her back on the team. I’ll let her loosen up, bask in my success, which is really her success, too. And then I’ll spring it on her.

At around five fifteen she looks at her watch. “Oh, man, I’ve gotta get home. Actually, let me call Theresa first.”

We go inside to get her cell and stand in the kitchen as she makes the call. “Mikey, can you get T?” She whispers to me, “She can’t even boil an egg.”

I’m not sure if I can, either.

“T, it’s me. I’m leaving in two seconds. Can you throw in the Impossible Cheeseburger Pie? It’s in the fridge. It’s all ready to go. Just preheat the oven to three hundred and twenty-five degrees and set the timer for forty minutes.”

My mother comes in. She says, “Rocky, would you like to join us for dinner?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Kessler, but I have to get home. I hope I can take a rain check on that.”

“You bet,” my mom says.

I walk Rocky out to the car. “You don’t have to be so polite. You’re making me look bad.”

“You
are
bad.” She pauses. “You know what I mean. You’re so lucky. You have great parents.”

I don’t know what to say. “We never got a chance to talk about you and softball.”

“I know.” She gets into her car.

“I’ve got some ideas. I think we should talk to Anthony, and your aunt, and my mother. And…I think you need to tell your dad.”

She shakes her head. “You’ve got all sorts of plans for me, don’t you?”

“Rocky, it could happen.” I keep my hand on the door so she can’t close it.

“No. It’s impossible.”

“So is that cheeseburger pie.”

She snorts. “Oh, please.”

“What about if we just…try it? The worst they can say is no, we won’t help you out for one month of your life. And then you wouldn’t be anywhere different than where you are already.”

“I’ll think about it,” she says, and my insides leap.

“You will?” I take my hand off the door.

“I will. I’ll give you an answer tomorrow.” She climbs in, puts the car in reverse, and backs out slow—for the first time. As if she wants to be more careful. As if she’s precious cargo.

Waiting for Rocky’s decision almost obliterates everything on my radar. When I get to school Monday, my geometry teacher, Mr. Milauskas, stops me after class to congratulate me on Saturday’s game.

“Thanks,” I say.

He’s sitting on the edge of his desk, leaning forward with a fatherly grin. “You know, mathematicians love baseball. It’s a very…well, for lack of a better word,
mathematical
game.”

I spot Nate standing in the hallway.

“Mr. M, you’re not gonna bore her with the details, are you?” he calls out.

Mr. Milauskas drops his head. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“How could you ever think that?” I say jokingly.

By default, I join Nate in the hallway and try not to act annoyed that he didn’t call.

“Sorry I didn’t call.” As if reading my thoughts.

“No biggie,” I say.

“Congrats on the big win in Houston,” he says, but he seems uncomfortable. Jumpy. “I want to tell you…not tell you, exactly, but explain. It’s complicated. And my life is really busy right now. I’ve got
Show Boat
and college acceptance letters, and
there’s so much I need to do.” His eyes squint like he’s swallowed something awful.

“My life is busy, too,” I say. “Tell me.”

He steps back. I’ve said something he didn’t expect. That I didn’t expect, either.

“Oh,” he says.

“Nate, I’ve only been here one month.” I’m not sure what I mean by this.

“I know.”

“I’m just trying to keep up in school and learn to play softball.”

“I know.” He sighs.

I look one way up the hall and he looks the other. I want to cry. Just roll up in a little ball in the corner and cry, because this is the first boy I’ve ever really talked to and now he’s too busy.

I tell myself not to think, just
do
. “This isn’t a good time for me to get to know you, right?” I ask. “That’s what you wanted to tell me?”

He frowns. “No.”

“What did you want to say, then?”

“Don’t you know, Ella?” He’s staring at me, his blue eyes burning into mine.

A second later, Mrs. Henderson, the headmaster’s secretary, bustles down the hall. “Off to class, you two. Off to class!”

And the spell is broken.

During practice Dixie has her sprinters from the track team run down from the track to do a little cheer for us and then
sprint back. They yell, “Way to go, Lady Peacocks,” as they disappear over the crest of the hill. We love it and so do the construction guys, who continue to cheer for us like proud fathers whether we win or lose.

For almost two straight hours we drill hard, and then Coach surprises us by giving us the day off from conditioning. No sprints. No nothing. We’re psyched. But she puts up her hands to quiet us. “Okay, y’all. I want to give you a little pep talk before I read tomorrow’s lineup.”

We wipe the afternoon’s dirt from our brows, passing water bottles around as she waits patiently for us to get settled in the bleachers. Finally she has our attention.

“I’m very proud of our win on Saturday. You played well.”

We clap for ourselves. Am I crazy or is she looking right at me and giving me extra kudos for my stand-out play? Okay, maybe not.

“There’s something I want you to remember, though. I want you to carry it on and off the field. You are a
team
.” She looks around at us. She lets that word hang in the air. “I don’t care what your differences are. I don’t allow any unsportsman-like behavior on my team.”

Please don’t single me out. Please don’t single out Sally.

She continues, “For the remainder of this season, I expect all of you to carry yourselves like athletes. Look out for each other; stand up for each other. Be friends and be teammates. You’re connected to something and you depend on each other. This is your chance to show the world how cool it really is to be on a team.”

After a second, she adds, “We have a little over a month to go. It’s not that long. Let’s play like a team and keep winning.”

Then she reads the lineup, and I’m starting at first base.

I AM STARTING AT FIRST BASE.

Frannie and Mo give me thumbs-up, but they leave ahead of me after Coach dismisses us.

In the car Rocky says, “You’re starting tomorrow, aren’t you?” before I can tell her.

I grin and she slaps me a high five. Theresa and the boys cheer from the backseat.

My own private fan club.

I don’t mention any of the weirdness between me and Frannie and Mo. Instead, I throw Rocky meaningful looks that say,
What have you decided to do?
But she refuses to catch on.

At my house, she leaps out after me. “Hang on,” she says.

“What’s the verdict?” I ask anxiously.

“I may be crazy, but I think you’re right.”

“You’re gonna do it?”

“I’ll start with Anthony tonight. Practice on him. And then I’ll call my aunt Rita.”

“They’ve gotta be willing to try this for a month. Even Theresa.”

“We’ll see. Anyway, after family, I’ll talk to Coach Lauer.”

“That’ll be no problem,” I say.

“Unless there’s some rule about not letting someone play late in the season.”

“Same philosophy applies. If you don’t try, you won’t know. What about your dad?”

“Not ready yet.”

“You or him?”

“Both?”

We give each other a gentle knuckle-to-knuckle, and I whisper,
“Good luck.”

During dinner my parents can’t stop talking about softball. My father’s so excited about me starting in tomorrow’s game that he’s practically drooling. He slaps the table. “What do you know about the other team? What’s their record?”