Throwing Like a Girl (5 page)

On Tuesday we have a fire drill during Behavioral Science so I hardly even see Nate. I stare at him, though. I try not to, but I can’t help it. He smiles at me once, I think—no, actually, I’m not sure. And then I realize I’m just like all those other girls who worship him. When the siren finally stops and we’re allowed to return to class, Mr. Dominick tells us the wedding will be put off until tomorrow, and Nate’s out of the room before I get a chance to pick up my books and catch his eye.

Am I actually disappointed the mock wedding got postponed?
Please. No
.

Today at tryouts, things seem better. Sally and the coach are ignoring each other, which works for me. I’m throwing the ball with some quiet girl, hitting my target most of the time. I stretch out, groan like everyone else because we’re all sore from yesterday. During our first drill, I stand in line with Frannie and Mo as they talk about the old coach, who left to take a job in Austin, where her boyfriend lives.

I ask, “So, was she a good coach?”

“She was okay,” Mo says.

“But she was tentative,” Frannie adds. “Tentative doesn’t work with teenagers.”

Just then, I notice Dixon coming down to the field. She waves at me, and I look away as if I don’t see her, even though I just had P. E. about twenty minutes ago. I feel bad, but I don’t want anyone thinking I’m the coach’s pet. Dixon and Coach talk by the bleachers for a little while, laughing and gesturing, until Coach calls us in for another drill.

And then it happens.

As Dixon’s leaving, she yells, “Give ’em hell, Chicago!”

I look around at everyone else like I have no idea why that crazy coach would yell something like that. In totally different circumstances, I’d think it was really nice. But here, when you don’t want to stand out in any way and then someone announces your presence, then it’s not so nice.

Coach laughs. “She means well, Ella.”

That pretty much drives the nail in the coffin. Frannie and Mo already know I’m new, but they’re not the ones I’m worried about.

On cue, Sally Fontineau looks at me like I’m her new object of ridicule. “Why’d she call you that?”

I want to shrug my shoulders and pretend I have no idea. But I’d definitely get busted, so I say, “I’m from there.” My voice shakes. I could die.

“You’re new?” she says.

Duh
, I want to shout, but of course I say nothing.

Coach jumps in. “Okay, news flash, it’s still practice here.” And on we go.

But something feels different. Like I’m being watched. I’m not sure I want to be noticed—not right now anyway. Not by
her
. It seems as though it should be up to me whether today I blend in with the scenery or star in the show. It’s obvious that with a
person like Sally Fontineau, I don’t get to choose.

As I stumble around during the next drill, Kat Hunter, one of the older girls who’s easily the best player on the field, comes up from behind and pats me on the back. “Good job,” she says as she jogs by. For what, I’m not sure, but now she’s my hero, and any time I do anything halfway decent I glance around to see if she saw it.

At the end of practice, with the construction workers up on their perches looking down at us and cheering again, Coach thanks us for working so hard during tryouts. My mind races ahead to an immediate plan of defense. Do I lag behind and run the risk of becoming Sally’s target? Or do I whip off to the locker room, grab my clothes, and sneak out to the lower school?

Coach dismisses us and everyone walks toward the school in little groups. Everyone but me.

I decide to lag. Sally is far enough ahead that to come back and harass me might be too much of an effort. Plus, it looks like Frannie and Mo are waiting for me again.

“So,
Chicago
, how do you think you did?” Mo asks.

I wish she wouldn’t call me that. “I don’t know.”

Frannie laughs. “Everyone makes the team. A few’ll quit. A few’ll get hurt. You’ll probably be starting by the end of the season.”

“She
is
a new coach and she doesn’t have to pick everyone,” Mo says cautiously.

“Right, but she needs at least eighteen players to scrimmage,” Frannie says. “There’s no point in shooting yourself in the foot. She wouldn’t cut you anyway, Ella. You’re good.”

“Yeah,” Mo agrees.

I’m completely shocked by this and can’t think of anything
else to say but, “I am?”

They both stare at me in disbelief.

“Yes, you are, slightly,” Frannie says.

“Really, don’t you know that?” Mo leans into me the way a friend does when she wants to make you feel better or trust what she’s saying.

At the top of the little hill between the library and the upper school, Sally stops with her posse, Gwen and Joy, and they look down at us. Or down in the general direction of the field. I almost stop in my tracks, but I have my two foot soldiers beside me so I keep going.

On the quad, a safe distance from Sally Fontineau, Frannie says, “Don’t be too worried about her.”

“Who?” I’m cool as a cucumber.

Frannie grins, but doesn’t say anything.

“We’ve known her forever,” Mo adds. “Everyone feels the wrath sometime.”

“But why? Why is she like that?”

As Mo pauses, Frannie says, “So you
do
know who we’re talking about.”

“I just don’t see how she gets away with being so nasty,” I say.

“She’s always been popular. People let her make the rules and do whatever she wants.” Mo shrugs.

We don’t say anything for a minute.

“Her friends don’t seem as mean,” I offer.

“Gwen and Joy?” Frannie says. “Yeah, they’re okay. We just try to steer clear in general.”

At dinner that night my father checks in again. “So, how are you liking school?”

“Fine. It seems good.”

“Any troubles with your studies?”

“No.” I give my mother a look.

“And the other kids seem nice?”

“Everyone’s great, Dad.”

Just then, the phone rings and it’s probably my sister Liz calling my mother about wedding details, and then my father won’t ask any more annoying questions because we’ll be alone together and it’d be too awkward.

My mom gets the phone in the kitchen. “Ell, it’s for you.” She’s smiling ear-to-ear as she comes back into the dining room.

“Is it Christine?” I ask, leaping up.

“No, it’s a boy.”

A boy?

“Who?”

“I didn’t ask.”

My stomach flips as I take the phone and walk into the family room. “Hello?”

“Ella? It’s Nate Fontineau.”

Could there be any other Nate? “Oh, hi.”

“I was wondering if you wanted to go to Safeway this weekend for Mr. Dominick’s project, since this part is due Monday.”

“Right, okay. When?”

“How about if I come pick you up on Saturday morning? Around ten?”

“Ten? That sounds good.…”

“You can give me directions to your house in class tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure.” And then we hang up.

I sit back down at the table. My parents wait for me to say
something, but I can’t really breathe. How did he get my number? I can hardly remember it myself. Why didn’t he ask me in school? Is it a date? I really need to go to my room to think about this.

“May I be excused? I have so much homework tonight.”

I look at my mother. I know this is killing her. Why can’t I tell her that I’m anxious about softball, and a really cute boy just called so now I’m anxious about that, too?

My father breaks the silence. “Sure, honey. Go ahead.”

I put my plate in the sink, and go through the family room and front hall to avoid going back through the dining room. Anything to save me from having to look my mother in the eye.

When you’re fifteen and your siblings are out of the house, your parents suddenly have all this time and energy to dump on you. As if they need to overcompensate for not always having time for everyone when the house was crazy and there was a line for the bathroom and everyone was fighting over stupid stuff. Now they want to sit at dinner for hours and talk with you. They want meaningful conversations, for you to bare your soul.

Everyone always says that the youngest has it so easy. But no one ever talks about the dark side, about being the one to shoulder your parents’ fears as they start to realize that once you’re gone, they’re on their own. Yeah. It’s what I live with every day.

I IM my friends in Chicago to fill them in on softball tryouts and Nate calling about going to the grocery store for the Marriage Project. No one makes a comment about softball. They only want details about
Nate the Great
. And I don’t have any stories about cute things he does, only the way he looks and the way other girls treat him—is this the new shallow me?

They ask if I’m liking Texas better and I wonder myself. Because Texas is not what I thought it would be: tumbleweeds and country music, cactuses and southern accents. Sometimes I feel like I could be in any other flat state, like those in the Midwest or Florida, not that I’ve ever been there. Dallas is just a place with new people to meet, and many of them seem to be from other places and haven’t been here very long, either.

The thing I miss the most, aside from you guys, is being able to go places without my mother driving me in the Blue Bomber
, I write them. I omit the part about not having anywhere to go yet. I want them to feel sorry for me, but not
that
sorry.

In school on Wednesday, I’m dying to know if I made the team, but I wait until after third period to head down to the locker room. No one’s there except a teacher I don’t know. She’s talking
to Miss Ruby in the equipment room. I slip behind a row of lockers and pretend to be looking for something. The bulletin board is at the end of the row. I try to stand back a ways to read it but can’t see the names clearly. So I take a few more steps and there it is. My name. In alphabetical order. Thirteenth name on the list.
Ella Kessler
. And Mo’s name is there. And Frannie’s. And Sally’s. Nineteen. Everyone made it.

Okay, so maybe that’s not a huge deal, but who cares?
I MADE IT!

In Behavioral Science, Nate sits across the circle from me, as if I don’t exist, until Mr. Dominick reminds us that we need to sit with our partner for the ceremony. Nate stands to come to me just as I stand to go to him. We look at each other and both start to laugh.

“You? Or me?” he says.

I just want to vault across the room, but I don’t. I say, “You.” Then I realize I’m not sure if that means, you come to me or I go to you.

Luckily, he nods and comes to me. “Who’s wearing the pants in this family, anyway?”

And now I’m happy again, even though I think I’m getting evil glares from every girl in the class. I smile.

“Hey, guess what?” he says. “You’re looking at the new Gaylord Ravenal.”

I stare at him blankly.

“Gaylord Ravenal, handsome-but-troubled riverboat gambler.”

“I…what are you…talking about?”

“Gaylord Ravenal. He wins the hand of the beautiful Magnolia Hawks, played by Alison Finn, by the way. It’s
Show Boat
, the musical this year.”

“
You’re
in
Show Boat
?”

“Have you seen it before?”

“No. But I think my mother knows it by heart. I didn’t know you were an actor.”

“I’m not really. But I’m graduating this year. Football’s over.” He shrugs. “The theater teacher, Mr. Archibald, subbed in English for a few weeks last fall. He thought I had
dramatic flair
.
I
thought I’d try something different, you know? Everyone thinks it’s crazy. What do you think, Ella Kessler?”

“Great. I think it’s great.”

As I look at his open, warm smile it dawns on me that he’s the type of person who just has things happen for him. On a whim he tries something and, go figure, it works out. I bet all the drama kids are hating him right now.

“Hey, how’d it go with softball?” he asks.

“Just like you said. Everyone made it.”

“Even Sally?”

“Yes, even Sally.” Much to my surprise. Maybe Coach thinks softball will save Sally.

“She said the coach doesn’t like her. But she says that about everyone.”

I don’t respond.

He looks at me. “What do
you
think of her? My sister?”

I’ve dreaded this moment and hope we can stick to the realm of softball. “She’s not bad,” I say. “I think she plays outfield, and we did a lot of infield drills, so she may’ve been a little out of her element.” Uncharacteristically, the words keep coming. “Of course, I’m not a great judge since I’ve never played softball before.”

He laughs. “I’m not asking about her athletic abilities. I already know she sucks. I’m her brother. But if she focused on it for one
minute she could be a hundred times better than she is right now. No, I was asking what you think of
her
. As a person.”

I pause. It’s clear he cares about his sister because even though she’s bad—and she really is, way worse than I am—he still thinks that if she focused, she’d be better. But even I can see it’s not really about focus in her case. It’s attitude. She’s completely bored and lazy and irritated all the time. Still, I find it interesting that he’s asking what I think of her as a person. Maybe it means he’s more aware than he lets on. But does he really think I’ll be honest?