Water Balloon (21 page)

"You are like the perfect baseball hat girl," he says after I put it on my head.

"And by that you mean..."

"Not everyone can pull off a baseball cap. Like puffy-haired people? They should not wear hats. But you have baseball hat hair."

"I'll work to view that as a compliment."

"It was meant as one," he says. My stomach:
flip, flip, flip.
So okay. He got me a hat. In some worlds, that might be perceived as a gesture of some kind. It's probably not fair to assume, though, that the Hadley family speaks the same language as mine. The Baird Family Language of the Gesture is complex and unique. The official ruling from the judges: a nice thing to do. Not necessarily loaded with emotional meaning.

"You want something to eat?" Jack asks.

"Not yet, thanks. What do you eat here?"

"Peanuts. Crackerjacks. Hot dogs. Baseball food."

"Mmm," I say. My stomach:
flip, flip, flip. NO!

In the outfield, there's a screen where they show video of fans in the stands between innings. It's so funny to watch, because people suddenly see their faces up there, and then turn, as though to find the camera, but then they realize that when they're turned, duh, they can't see themselves on the screen anymore, and they turn back again really fast. Like a toddler trying to catch his shadow. I guess it depends on where you're sitting, because some people start jumping up and down, faces still forward, looking like they've won the lottery twice in a day. It's surprising to me that this isn't only true for little kids, but for older people too.

It's a great ball game. Every time the other team goes up a run, the Yankees come back in the bottom of the inning to tie it or go ahead again. The crowd is really into it. I'm having as much fun looking at all the people as Jack is watching the game.

There's a row of four guys in front of us, all wearing Yankees baseball caps in different shades of blue. The guy sitting in front of me sticks a red Coke bottle cap on top of the hat of the guy sitting in front of Jack. The other three just keep yukking it up, sneaking sideways glances, and slapping each other and their own legs when they realize it's still there. It's so stupid, but for some reason, Jack and I keep cracking up about it.

There are a lot of things, like stadium rituals, that everyone else seems to know instinctively. It's hard to get the knack of it, though. Like, everyone will start clapping that clap/clap, clap/clap/clap, clap/clap, clap/clap rhythm at once, and then repeat it, and then they'll all stop at once, while idiot me is still sort of clapping, and then looking around to see if anyone saw me clapping after everyone else had stopped. There's no pattern to it—sometimes they'll clap out the rhythm once, sometimes three times, or twice. Everyone around me seems to get it. Then there's me.
Clap, clap, clap. Oh.

All these people—adults!—shout out players' names when they're at bat, cheering them on. They don't look even the tiniest bit self-conscious. Even Jack does this when his favorite player comes to bat.

I must be missing some basic genes. I can't pull off a patented Leah Stamnick Casual Arm Touch or Flirty Hair Flip. I can't look people in the eye when I meet them for the first time. And I most certainly cannot cheer out loud without feeling like the world's biggest idiot.

The guy in front of Jack pats his head—what makes him do that?—and finds the cap. He looks at his friends as though he wants to kill them, but in a good way.

The Yankees do it again in the bottom of the sixth—they're down by two, and then they go ahead by a run. The guy in front of Jack has another bottle cap on top of his hat. I didn't see them put it there, but there it is.

The seats are pretty close together here, and though I couldn't tell you a thing about the woman sitting to my left, I think I've memorized everything about the guy to my right. Jack's legs are pale and thin. They look especially thin in his baggy, dark blue shorts. He crosses one leg over the other, bouncing his black low-top Converse-clad foot in a slow, basic rhythm. The shoelace on his right sneaker is frayed. When he leans toward me, his clean almond smell rises above all the baseball smells, to my nose's great pleasure. In fact, all my senses are in a state of heightened, deeply contented awareness. I want him to reach out for my hand, or casually put his arm around me. He doesn't. I could just grab his hand, but what if I'm just his good old
Marley-and-Me-
dog-movie baseball-loving neighbor-friend?

After the third out in the inning, there's a commotion to the right of us, and I see that the man on the outfield screen is actually sitting two sections away. He's dancing this awful hip-shaking dance (and he has very ample hips to shake), and I see his daughter, about my age, sinking down in her seat, leaning all the way to the left, to try to stay off the screen. Finally, she just stands up and walks away.

There are some really lame fathers in this world.

And some really bratty daughters.

I look away from the real dad to watch the dad on the screen, but the camera's panning now, and there's something familiar up there. It's my shirt. It's me. It's me and Jack. On the giant screen in the outfield of Yankee Stadium. Yes, of course. Why not? What next? Jack grins, looking at the screen, not me. I just stare, because that giant girl up there looks so different from how I think of myself. Look at her in her new Yankees hat! She looks perfectly comfortable. At ease. Happy and relaxed. Here at Yankee Stadium with one fine-looking guy.

And then the camera slides back to our right, where that dad, the big-bellied one, is still doing his hip-rolling boogie.

"Wow," Jack says.

"Amen," I say.

"You want to walk around a little?"

"Sure."

We go downstairs, where there are concession stands and carts selling everything from hot dogs to blender drinks and beer and cotton candy. "What can I get you?" he asks.

"Not hungry," I say.

"You will eat," he says.

"Aren't we going out with your brother? I'll just eat then."

"You're always supposed to eat at a ballpark."

"I see your point." I buy us two pretzels and a Coke, trying not to think about the fact that it costs nearly a day's worth of my twin-watching salary. "Mustard?" I ask.

"On a pretzel?" he says.

"Some people do."

"Not this people."

"Yeah, me neither."

We go back to our seats and watch the rest of the game. At one point, Jack leans forward and puts a soda bottle cap on the head of the guy in front of him. The guy feels it immediately, and turns to give his friends some grief. Then he turns around to Jack with a big laughing smile.

I just sit back and take in the baseball scene, glad I never said anything to Jack about maybe not being such a big Yankees fan. Because I like this. I really do. It's not just sitting next to Jack. It's the whole thing, this place where everyone's sitting together in their little groups, but also part of a big, 50,000-person crowd.

I keep thinking about the giant Marley on the screen. I'm so glad I saw her. She looks like she's doing great.

I have never in all my thirteen years been in a crowd as thick as this one. I wouldn't have described myself as the claustrophobic type, but as we move along, carried by the masses, I long to rise above it and walk on everyone's shoulders. To pull in a deep breath of fresh air. I'm crammed on all sides. I concentrate on staying next to Jack and breathing.

Once we're out of the gate and we round the side of the stadium, a lot of people head to the subway and the crowd thins a bit. Jack points with his chin at the McDonald's across the street. I nod.

We walk around the outside of the building and then check inside. Dean's not there yet. Jack grabs us some fries and we sit on the concrete outside and watch the people leaving the stadium. There are all these little boys in their Yankees shirts, each with a player's name and number on the back. "I think my dad always wanted a son. A little Yankees boy, you know?"

"Why do you think that?"

"He doesn't exactly get me. The things he likes to do are all just boy things. It's like we don't have a single common interest."

"Well, I'm glad you're not a boy."

I hate to quote Leah, even in my own head, but OH! My God!

Jack stands up—ts his face flushed red? He peers down the street both ways, then sits down again.

"You want to call him?"

"He's probably just stuck in traffic. It's hard to get here when a game lets out. I hope you don't mind just hanging a bit. He'll get through eventually. What time is it?"

I pull out my cell phone. "Ten to five," I say. "What time did he say he'd be here?"

"Four thirty."

The streets are clogged with cars trying to get out of parking lots, lined up to get on the highway.

"Yeah. Let me give him a call."

He dials a number and waits, then hangs up. "I didn't even get voice mail. I don't know—sometimes he doesn't pay his bill. He might not even have service right now."

"Do you want to call your parents and see if he left a message?"

"Nah, I don't want to freak them out. Let's give it a little longer."

So we sit there, talking about nothing and everything. But it gets later and later, and I can see him growing quieter, more upset, angry-looking.

"You want a soda?" I ask. "I'm going in for a Diet Coke."

"No, thanks."

Inside I use the bathroom, taking a quick look in the mirror. It must be the hat, but I really look like some other person, a smaller version of Marley on the Screen. When I come outside again, Jack's holding his phone, looking even more pissed.

"Did you call anyone?"

"Yeah. I just called my parents to tell them I'd be later than I said. I didn't mention anything about Dean not being here, but they didn't say anything either. Listen, I don't want you to freak out your dad, but do you think you should call him?"

Ugh. I guess I have to. I'd rather not. He was so nervous about me being here. I can't just not come home when he expects me. I call, but he's not home. Where is he? Over at the Krolls'? I just hang up.

"So what do we do?" I ask.

"I don't think waiting is going to do it," Jack says. "I'm really sorry. He can be such a..."

"No, listen. I had a great day. I would have come even if I'd known there was no dinner and no Dean to take us home. Should we just take the train or something?"

"Do you think your father might flip out?"

"Yeah. Let me try him again." I call, no answer. I leave a message this time, telling him what's going on, that we're taking the train, around when I expect to be home. I also mention that he might want to think about entering the millennium we live in and invest in a cell phone all his own.

"I'm sorry about all this. I'm so pissed. I can't believe he stranded us in the Bronx. Dean is such a total—"

"It's totally fine. I've never been on the subway. It'll—"

"Shut UP!"

"Excuse me?" I'm startled, but he said it in a friendly way.

"You've literally never been on the subway? Did you grow up in some foreign kingdom?"

"Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't."

He smiles. We cross the street and he leads me through the turnstile, using his MetroCard to pay for my entry. We only have to wait about five minutes before a train comes. It's crowded but not full, so we share a seat near the door.

I'm just looking around, taking it all in, the little signs, the freaky people, the hyperhip New York people, when, of all things, my cell phone rings.

"You're okay?"

"Fine, Dad. Really. Where were you?"

"Out getting a cell phone."

"Oh my God, really?

"No, but that would be funny, wouldn't it?"

"Your kind of funny. Are you freaked out?"

"Do you want me to come and get you? Where are you now?"

"We're already on our way home. I'm on the subway. We'll catch a train home out of Penn Station."

"Are you sure you're going to be okay?"

"What happened to 'Nothing like the train'?"

"When you know which train you're on, give me a call. I'll pick you up at the station. Jack's with you, right?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I just feel better knowing that you're not alone."

"Okay. I'll call you. Bye."

"Is he pissed?" Jack asks.

"No, but I got the distinct impression he might have been if you weren't here with me."

"What do you mean? Here, we get off at the next stop." We stand and hold on to the rail by the door as the subway's brakes screech us to a jolting stop.

As we wait for the next train, I have some time to figure out why my dad's concern bothers me. "He didn't seem at all worried when you took the train here by yourself. He just doesn't know what to do with a girl. A daughter. It's like I'm foreign. Like, that night Leah was over. He felt so out of place with all that girl talk and girl stuff in the house that he ran outside."

"I don't know, Marley. Maybe he was trying to do a nice thing, give you some privacy. Like he didn't want you to feel he was on top of you guys or anything."

Here we go again: Jack is on my father's side. I should make it a practice not to talk to my father about Jack and not to talk to Jack about my father. Something about hearing each one talk about the other really gives me the willies.

As we take train after train to Penn Station, our talk finds its way back to our families. At one point, when he's talking about Dean, he gets totally angry, red-in-the-face mad and then he looks at me and shuts down.

"What?" I ask him. "What is it?"

"I just hate that my brother's so screwed up, that he left us like that. It's not the first time he's screwed up and it's just ... embarrassing. Like, Will's family was just normal and yours is normal and I have this brother who's constantly—"

"Hello? Jack? What normal family? How many parents live in my house? How many live in yours? I'm just another loser kid whose parents aren't together. I know there's nothing unique about it, but it's really not normal."

Jack nods. "Well, I'm sorry that I have a total jerkoff brother who makes promises and doesn't keep them. It's one thing when he screws up and messes with my plans—but I'm just so pissed that he let you down too. I hate that when someone in your family screws up; it's not like you can just walk away. I'm stuck with my family. I'm really sorry for how tonight turned out."