Throwing Like a Girl (6 page)

Before I can answer, he says, “Remember, she’s gonna be your sister-in-law. You’re gonna be family.”

I blush. “She’s fine, Nate. I don’t really know her yet.”

“You think she’s a spoiled brat.”

Those wouldn’t have been my words exactly. “No, I—”

“She is. And she can be rude and obnoxious. You should hear her at home. It drives my mom crazy. Of course, Mom drives her crazy, too.” He shakes his head, laughing. “But she’s all right, Ella. You’d like her if you got to know her.”

I hardly think so.

And then Mr. Dominick interrupts, and it’s time to exchange our wedding vows. We have to face our partners and hold hands. I could die. I’m about one inch from Nate’s face, and even he seems a little embarrassed. His hands are warm. I have to look down. When I look up again everyone has their attention on Mr. Dominick, so they don’t have to look into their partner’s eyes and see into their souls. I turn, too, and quietly repeat the words we’re supposed to say. Everyone cracks up. After the
till death do us part
, Nate squeezes my hands then lets go.

Just another day in high school.

After classes I go to the locker room as an actual member of a team for the first time. Christine, Amy, and Jen are gonna give me such a hard time and call me a jock, but they’ll be proud of me, too. And they’ll love the
Nate the Great
wedding update.

In the gym, stacks of boxes line the wall. A sign written in Magic Marker reads: S
OFTBALL
T
EAM
—
MEET HERE FOR UNIFORMS
. And a few people are already gathered. I sit down, and one of the younger girls, a ninth grader, says, “Hi, Ella.”

“Hi,” I say. “Are we getting uniforms already?” It’s a stupid question, but I’m trying to make up for the fact that I don’t remember her name.

Her eyes widen. “Yeah. The uniforms are kind of a joke around school.”

“How come?”

“You’ll see.”

Frannie and Mo waltz in and find a spot beside me. I’m beaming; I can’t help it. I’m just so happy that someone wants to come and sit down next to me.

“Here we go,” Frannie says, as Coach walks in with her clipboard.

“First, I want to congratulate everyone. I truly believed that everyone who showed up for tryouts was worthy. So, be proud of that.”

We’re all nodding, smiling, hip to the situation and cool with it. Except for three obvious no-shows: Gwen, Joy, and Sally.

But Coach doesn’t dwell. She starts pulling out purple socks and caps from the first box. “Inside the hat is a number written in black,” she says. “The stirrup socks also have a number on the
inseam. Take one of each, and when I call your name tell me the number on the hat first, and then the socks. Okay? Everyone got it?”

She goes alphabetically. Kim Adams. Gwen Arden (not here yet). Maureen Bartlett (new friend). Virginia Dalmeyer. Marcie Egan (twelfth grader). Sally Fontineau (also MIA). Tammy Haljun. Karen Hernandez (the ninth grader whose name I now know and will try to use in our next chat). Frannie Howard (other new friend!). Kat Hunter (the best player). Joy Jaffee (not here, either). Holly Keith. Ella Kessler…

When she gets to the end, she asks us, “Anyone know where Joy and Gwen and Sally are?”

Nicki Porter, who seems to be a friend of Sally’s, says, “They don’t change in the locker room.”

“Where do they change?”

“They think it’s gross.”

“Thank you, Nicki. Where do they change?”

“In the library bathroom, I think.”

“Okay, moving right along. Next box.” She opens it and pulls out a pair of white polyester pants with a purple and green waistband. Yikes. But not
too
bad. “Please take your size.”

By four o’clock Sally and company are still not here.

“Last box has the shirts. Those of you who played last year and had a number already, please take it. Twelfth graders first.”

Kat and Marcie, who were voted co-captains last year, dig through the box for their old numbers as Coach holds up one of the jerseys—purple with a small green number over the left breast—and then turns it around to show off the back. The larger number is underlined by a colorful, cursive
Lady Peacocks
.

I gasp. I don’t mean to, but it’s horrible. Just awful. It may as well be sequined.

“I had the same reaction.” Coach tries to comfort me. “I asked for some new ones, but unfortunately the uniform budget went to the new baseball squad.”

“What scares you more, the rainbow colors or the fact that they call us Lady Peacocks?” Frannie asks.

Mo chimes in, “Technically, we should be peahens.”

“You live with it,” Kat Hunter says, tugging her jersey from the box, “it makes you stronger.” And we all start giggling.

I end up with number five. Frannie says she always wanted two, but it didn’t exactly run in her size.

“Girls like me get numbers in the forties and fifties,” she says.

Coach taps Frannie on the head with her clipboard. “Girls like you hit the ball out of the park.”

It’s the first time I see Frannie speechless. And maybe even blushing.

I expect Gwen, Joy, and Sally to be hanging around the field when we get down there, but they’re not, and Coach doesn’t mention it. We have a short practice, lots of running and hand-eye drills. She has all of us wearing our new baseball hats and I love mine. I just love it. It fits perfectly. I realize practice is fun today because I’m no longer worried about making the team. And also, of course, because Sally Fontineau is nowhere to be found.

Maybe she and Gwen and Joy have decided to quit the team. I can only hope.

After I change, I rush to the lower school to wait for my mom. She’s usually right on time, but if I get there a few minutes early I can pull my books out and pretend I’m studying so she won’t worry about me.

Today there are two little boys waiting in my usual spot. One of them is clearly a lower schooler, but the other one looks like he could be in sixth or seventh grade. They quit fooling around when they see me coming, as if I’m a teacher or something.

I sit on the curb in front of them and get a textbook from my backpack.

The younger one says, “I’m hungry.”

“Rocky’ll have something in her bag for you. Don’t worry.”

“I’m thirsty, too.”

The older one ignores this comment and looks over his shoulder. “Here she comes.”

An old, dirty white station wagon with fake wood on the sides, nearly as decrepit as the Blue Bomber, rolls up. In front are two high-school girls. Even from this distance I can see they’re all brothers and sisters.

I get off the curb before they run me over and step back onto the sidewalk. The girl in the passenger seat looks up for a second,
then back at whatever she’s reading in her lap, but I catch that she’s beautiful, with dark, shiny hair and light eyes like the brothers’. The driver puts the car in park and comes around the front to help the boys in. She nods at me, and I nod back. She’s wearing black jeans and red high-tops. It’s a cool look.

“Rock,” the little one says. “Thomas told me you might have a snack in your bag.”

“I might,” she says. “Put on your seat belt.”

She slams the door and gives me another nod. I smile this time, because she’s the big sister but she sounds like the mom, and I think that’s neat since I’ve always wanted little brothers and sisters. Especially brothers.

From the driver’s side she reaches in for her bookbag, surfaces with a few granola bars, and tosses them in the backseat. Before she gets in, she catches my eye over the top of the car. “You need a lift somewhere?”

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, no. Thanks. My mom’s gonna be here any minute.” I don’t feel like I have to cover up the ugly truth with this girl.

She looks as if she’s about to duck into the car and take off, and at that moment I have two distinct feelings. One is that I wish I could drive, too, even if the car was the Blue Bomber. The second is that I don’t want her to leave.

And the funny thing is, she doesn’t. She says, “I think I saw you.”

“I’m sorry?” I’m not sure I heard her right.

“Playing softball. You’re on the team, right?”

“Right.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen you from the library. I have to stay late
because my sister’s on the ninth grade debate team and my brothers do this after-school program. The new coach looks halfway decent.”

“Uh, yeah. She seems really nice.” I’m not sure where all this is going.

“The old one was pathetic. She had no concept of how to run a practice. So everyone just ignored her. When it came to a game, she didn’t know how to judge the other team’s strengths and translate that into our game, you know what I’m saying? Basically, she couldn’t coach.”

Who is this girl?

I glance down at the sister who is shaking her head slightly. Rocky sees this and adds, “Theresa hates when I talk about softball.”

“Did you play on the team?”

Her pale green eyes flicker. She looks beyond me. “I did. In eighth and ninth grade.”

“Did you not like it?”

“No, it just cut into my schedule. I needed to change my priorities. You have to have your priorities, right?”

“Right.”

“Rocky,” one of the little brothers calls.

“I should go,” she says. “I’m Rocky O’Hara, by the way.”

“Ella Kessler.”

“Okay, well, good luck this season. And keep working on that arm, Ella. It’s getting better.” She climbs into the car, and they rumble out of the parking lot.

I’m slightly annoyed by that arm comment, but curious, too, in a way. She sounds like she might know about softball. But she stopped playing in ninth grade. How good could she be?

My mom drives up and has to lean over to unlock my door because the Blue Bomber is so old it still has manual locks.

“Hi,” I say in a sing-songy voice. I shove my bag on the floor and say it before she can: “How was your day, Mom?”

“Fine. How was yours?” She’s looking amused, with a half smile.

“Good, really good.” I smile at her, and her face lights up. It’s amazing how easy it is to make my mother happy. “Can we stop somewhere on the way home?”

“What did you have in mind?” my mother asks playfully.

“Sport Town. I need to buy a softball glove and some cleats.”

I don’t know what I expected. Maybe I thought she’d pull over and hug me or let out some wild, whooping laugh, then ask a million questions. But all she does is grin. “Sure, sweetheart. I think there’s one near the mall.”

And for some crazy reason, that makes me extra happy. Probably because it means she knows me well enough to know I’m relieved to spill my secret at last, but I’ll talk about the details later. On occasion, moms can really get you.

The cute check-out guy at Sport Town says something that makes me reconsider his looks and his brain. “This is a lefty glove,” he says, before scanning the price tag. “Which means it goes on your
right
hand, not your left.”

I give my mother an
Is-this-guy-for-real
look.

“You still want it?” This question he directs to my mother.

She takes a deep breath. “If it were up to me, I’d say no, and then I’d ask to see your supervisor to tell him why the store has lost a customer. But it’s not up to me. It’s up to my daughter. The
lefty
.”