Throwing Like a Girl (22 page)

We arrive at Fort Worth Country Day well before our nine o’clock game and hit the locker room. There are a ton of other teams milling around the cavernous, well-lit space.

“All right, Lady Peacocks,” Coach yells as she walks in, and we all cringe.

“We should tell her not to call us that in public, don’t you think?” Frannie says.

“Meet in the field house in five minutes,” Coach calls. “Bring everything with you, because we’ll be going straight to the fields from there.”

As we wander through multiple gyms and corridors on our way to the field house, Sally saunters in from another doorway with Gwen and Joy. And I feel nothing. Not fear, not anger—just distance. Like I can put her at arm’s length, at least for this moment. I feel so much better than I did yesterday. Rocky and I talked. I slept well. I’m gonna play softball all day. And tonight I’ll go to the prom, and even though I’m a little wary of Sally and unsure about Nate, I’m excited about getting dressed up and going to a dance.

As we sit down in front of Coach, she says, “We have one thing to do today.”

“Go to prom?” someone says.

And I blush immediately for having the same thought.

Coach is serious. “I’m talking about this other thing called softball. Think we can manage that?”

We stomp our feet and clap our hands in response.

“That’s right,” she says. “
First things first!
”

“
Wooo!
”

“That’s the spirit,” she says, getting us psyched. “We’ve got a few games to play today, and we’re gonna do it like we always do, one inning at a time.
Right?
”

“
Right!
” we yell back.

“Okay, quick review. Kinkaid has that pitcher with the double-jointed elbow. She was undefeated last year, but has been having problems, especially when teams start to hit away on her. So that’s what I want us to do. Swing those bats. Look at me for signs, and watch me on the bases. Talk to each other, and let’s hear a little chatter from the bench. Memorize the players and what they did at their last at bat. Think softball. Think smart. And blast the hell out of the ball. None of these games count against our record. But they count here.” She points to her head. “And here.” She points to her heart. “So let’s win. Let’s make this so much fun that we ride the wave all the way to SPC!”

That gets everybody riled up. We hoot and holler as loud as we can in the field house, and it echoes like we have legions of fans.

After a good warm-up, we’re at bat, and we come out guns blazing. By ten fifteen, the ump calls the game and we win 6–0. Parents are on their feet cheering. Coach is smiling. She finds us a shady spot under a tree and keeps her voice steady and low: “You did it. You threw off that pitcher’s game and that’s all they had. Brilliant. Way to go.”

We have an hour before our next game, and Coach forces us to come and watch the end of the Casady–St. John’s game. “We play the winner of this game, so watch closely. Study the fielding and batting, talk to each other about which players to be careful of. Notice their strengths and weaknesses.”

St. John’s wins, and we head off to the cafeteria to eat our bag lunches provided by Spring Valley’s cafeteria. Coach tells us not to fill up too much before the game.

“On school food?” Frannie says, pulling out snacks for the rest of us.

Forty minutes later, after warm-up and infield, Coach gathers us in the dugout and says, “I don’t have a lot to add. You’re on a roll. Hang on tight.”

Coach tells us she’s gonna be moving players around and putting people in. She says to be ready and I am. She reads Mo and Frannie into the starting lineup for the first time. Rocky and I cheer since neither of them have had much play this season. The four of us slap high fives before the first pitch and tap our knuckles together for good luck.

And Frannie, in her delirium at being on the field, yells, “Go, Lady Peacocks!”

We score three runs in three innings before Coach pulls me and Mo. Julie Meyers goes in at first, and Sally Fontineau goes in at right field. We beat St. John’s 4–1 in a little over an hour. Frannie is walking on air after playing the whole game. My parents give me and Rocky big hugs. Then we run off to sit with the team.

“I don’t know what to say, except—” Coach pauses as we pass water bottles around, wipe our faces, pull off our dirty socks and cleats. “You’re looking good. We’re in the finals!”

“Yahoo!” we yell.

“Let me read the lineup for the Fort Worth Country Day game. Then we can go cool off in the air-conditioning, okay?”

Rocky and I are starting, along with some of the ninth graders who haven’t played all season. We’re feeling great. Everyone seems happy, confident but tired.

In one of the many gyms, we haul our stuff into a corner and relax. Everyone’s snacking and sharing music and talking about prom or finals, which are looming on the fringe of my radar screen. Frannie closes her eyes and leans back against the bag of balls. “This is the most uncomfortable pillow. So why does it feel so good?”

Coach comes in around three fifteen to tell us our game starts at four. We look at her blankly. She repeats herself, then says, “Softball. It’s a tournament, remember?”

I can feel our fatigue, our sunburns, dehydration, boredom. We put on our stiff, dirty socks; our cleats and caps; and drag the equipment back out to the field, squinting against the sun.

In the huddle, Coach says, “Hey, hey, let’s try to get excited! Come on, y’all. I know you’re tired. It’s been a long day, but you’re young. You’re strong. You’re the ‘fighting, fighting Lady’Cocks.’”

We put our hands together and yell a rousing, “Go ’Cocks!”

Since Fort Worth Country Day has the most runs accumulated today, they’re in the field first. As they trot out, they look as bright and fresh as they did this morning—their hair in place, their warm-up still fast and furious. Rocky and I exchange a quick look.

But we’re at bat, and there’s work to be done.

Joy and Virginia both fly out, Kat gets on base by an error, and
Rocky strikes out. Not a great beginning, but we hold them to a scoreless inning.

Still, we’re lukewarm compared to the first two games. By the fourth inning we haven’t really snapped out of it, and Rocky pulls me aside.

“How are we gonna keep up our energy and focus long enough to last two days at SPC?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But let’s play one game at a time.”

She grins. Like it was a test, only it wasn’t. “Good advice, Ella.”

Rocky gets a double her next at bat, but I haven’t gotten on base all game. I also don’t have any errors, so I’m not complaining. By the start of the last inning we’re losing by three, and I finally get a walk. On base I watch Coach, and she gives me the steal sign, which is touching her shoulder, shirt, or shoe, but it has to be “live,” which means she must give an indicator first. (Otherwise, it means she doesn’t want me to steal—it’s only taken the entire season for me to understand this.) The indicator is fist to palm or hand to hat. I always hate this, because I’m never sure if I catch the indicator or not. And then if I do, I wait for the sign and get confused about that. If someone on the sidelines could whisper it to me, it would make my life so much easier.

This time, though, I take the chance that the sign is live and on the next pitch I go. Coach’s words pound in my brain:
Don’t turn your head; don’t look down; run hard
. I do, and as the catcher throws to second, I go for the slide. I can hear Coach yelling, “
Down, down!
” I’m sliding on my butt, leg tucked under—it’s clean—but the ball comes in right when I do. Not into the shortstop’s glove, but bouncing in the dirt, then up into my mouth.

The pain is sharp and then dull. My eyes water and blur. The
ump calls me safe and then calls a time-out. Coach comes running out to check on me and is followed closely by a trainer.

“Ella, you okay?” She brushes dirt off me.

“I think so.” Already I can feel my lip inflating and imagine my mother freaking in the stands.

“Let’s take a look at that,” the trainer says. He holds my jaw in both of his hands and lifts my chin up like he’s gonna kiss me or something. He’s pretty cute, but way old, like at least thirty-five. “How does that feel, Ella? Does it hurt if I turn it this way?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“What about now?”

I shake it again.

“Okay,” he tells Coach, “she’ll have a fat lip, but other than that, she’s fine.”

“A fap lip?” I look desperately at Coach.

Her face reflects my horror. “It’s prom night,” she explains to the trainer.

They leave me out there on the bag. At least I’m safe. The team is standing on the sidelines waiting for the prognosis. “Just a fat lip,” Coach yells. I can see Sally smirking as if this was part of her master plan. Then there’s Frannie doubling over in laughter, and Mo smacking Frannie’s arm in my defense. Only Rocky stands up and gives me two raised fists like I’m a hero.

I do eventually cross the plate. I am our only run. But we lose, anyway. It isn’t slaughter rule this time. Four to one is pretty respectable, considering our first game against them five weeks ago.

After the game, the catcher says, “Sorry about the lip.”

“No prob.” I’m trying to be a good sport.

Her coach comes up, too. “Good game, First. Ice that all night and you’ll be fine by morning. Ten minutes on. Ten minutes off.”

I’ll get right on that—as soon as I get back from prom!

After my parents survey my damage and decide I’m okay, I get on the bus and Coach counts heads. When the bus pulls out, Coach comes over and crouches by my seat. “You okay?”

I nod, barely. The ice pack on my lip has numbed my whole head.

“Look,” she says, trying not to smile. “Only the coolest guys take athletes to prom. He’s gonna love that lip. Trust me.”

I ride back to campus in silence, because I’m tired and because no one can understand what I’m saying. I close my eyes and lean my head against the seat. I can’t believe I’m going to my first dance,
the prom
, with a fat lip. I try not to think about anything else except the beautiful dress that’s hanging on the back of my closet door with a little tag that reads,
color: sea foam
. And it helps to ease the sting, for now.

Standing in front of the mirror in a towel, hair still wet from the shower, lip still huge from the game, I wonder if I can manage this: get dressed up, do my hair, eat dinner (with the lip), and go to the dance. I mean, I wondered the same thing before, like how would I talk to Nate with such a skimpy dress on, that sort of thing. But the lip adds a whole new dimension to the picture, literally.

My mother comes into my room. “Ell?”

“In here,” I say.

When she enters the bathroom, I see the concerned look on her face in the reflection of the mirror. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine,” she says. “You can hardly notice.”

“
Mom
.”

She smiles as if she’s trying to hold back the laughter. Seriously, she is, because when she talks, it’s that bubbly sound you can’t hide. “Honey, Nate’s not going to care about it.”

“You can say the word, Mom. You can say
lip
.”

“Come on. I’ll help you with your hair.”

“I can do it. I’m fine. Really.”

And so she leaves me alone. I turn on music and pull on my beautiful sea foam dress. My sister Beck would tell me to wear a robe and put the dress on last so I don’t muck it up. But I decide
to do it my way. It’s time to establish a few more ground rules for myself. By myself.

Okay, so I might need some help with the makeup. I actually have a makeup case, which I got for Christmas when I was like ten. It came with all the fake kid stuff such as bubble gum–flavored lipstick and sparkly blue eye shadow. The red metal case looks like a mini tackle box, with a slotted shelf that lifts up when you open the lid. I’ve put earrings in its compartments, and they look like little fishing lures. The bottom part of the case has my makeup, only slightly improved from when I was ten: blush, mascara, eyeliner, and lip gloss. If Christine, Jen, and Amy were here, they’d help. If any of my sisters were here, they’d jump right in, too, though they’d be much bossier than my friends. They’d say, “
Ella
, don’t do it like that.” Then they’d impatiently do it for me, rather than show me how it’s done.

Leaving the case on the edge of the sink, I go to my bedside table and call Christine. She’s there, thankfully, because she’s the only friend I’ve got in two cities who can help me with makeup.

“What’s wrong with your voice?” she says.

I explain the situation.

“Oh, no.” There’s a long silence. “How much time do you have?”

We set to work, washing, moisturizing, covering up. Thank God there are no zits in sight. At one point, when I list the contents of my makeup case, she says, “That’s it? I thought you were in Texas.”

“Funny.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s keep going.”

We skip the eyeliner since Christine says I’d do it wrong, anyway. Mascara on top lashes only. Blush on the “apples” of my
cheeks (who knew my cheeks had apples?) and dusted onto my nose for a “sun-kissed” look. I don’t tell her that all that playing softball has me sun-kissed for real.