Stealing Bases

by Anne Key

  I guess so.

  “SO? WAS it great?” Kaylee’s all messed up—her hair’s gross, her lipstick is gone.

  If Poppy sees her, he’s going to have a meltdown of epic proportions.

  “Upstairs,” I hiss. Christ, don’t be stupid.

  “Girls? That you? I’m making midnight pancakes!” Poppy sounds so pleased with himself.

  “Yeah? Cool. We’re gonna get comfy clothes and get these shoes off and stuff!” I push her harder and she’s all fighting me. “Move. I swear to God….”

  “Pancakes!” she giggles, and God, her breath.

  “Get your ass in your room. You’re drunk or high or something, and you let that guy…. God, Kaylee.”

  “Just because you were with the preacher’s son, don’t get all high-and-mighty. You’re never getting laid if you don’t stop pretending like you don’t want it!”

  “Shut. Up.” I want to hit her and that’s totally not cool.

  Besides, I don’t want it. I mean, not…. Fuck.

  Bitch.

  She lands in the bed and kicks off her shoes, spread out like some sparkly, underwater mermaid deal. “It’s true. You’re like one of those gymnastic Olympic girls. No body fat, no hormones. You need to start getting yourself off more. Maybe then you’ll get boobs.”

  I strip off Granny’s dress, hang it up, and put on my SpongeBob pajamas. “Poppy’s making pancakes.”

  “So go down and be the good daughter. He loves you best anyway.”

  “What?”

  “Go down. Tell them I’m sleeping. Tell them I’m stoned. I don’t care. They’ll be expecting it from me, just like they’ll expect you to be fucking virginal.”

  “Kaylee!” Jesus, I hadn’t done anything wrong.

  “Go on. I just want to be alone for a second. I’ll be down, okay?”

  “You….”

  “Go on and keep them from bothering me, please.”

  “Okay….”

  I head downstairs, chewing my bottom lip. “Hey, Poppy. She says she’ll be down later. She’s a little….” Tired? Drunk? Well-fucked? “… urpy.”

  “Ah. Too much fun and rich food, I imagine.” Poppy’s face is red, and I sorta want to say “no, she’s drunk, like you,” but that’s totally uncool.

  “Yeah. Pancakes?”

  “My specialty!”

  We sit at the little breakfast table, my legs tucked under me, and there’s real maple syrup and butter, both.

  “So did you have a good time, Charley?”

  “I think so. I mean, it wasn’t a no-hitter….”

  He laughs like I want him to, and we end up talking about the playoffs instead of about the dance, because I don’t know what Kaylee will say. Were we there all night? Did we end up at the Huddle House after?

  I’m fairly sure that making out in the cemetery isn’t the story she’s going to tell and I know I’m not telling anyone but Kaylee about my conversation with Brant.

  I help Poppy clean up, hug him, and get a cold Coke to take to Kaylee upstairs. She’s sleeping, spread out on her back drooling, still in her dress and I think about taking it off her, but….

  Then I think about what Brant said.

  I mean….

  Am I? Like him? Is it creepy to get Kaylee undressed?

  Would Kaylee still let me spend the night if she knew? Would Shaundra? Would anyone?

  Is it my hair?

  I don’t have it short to look like a boy. It’s hot and stiff and curly.

  Maybe it’s because I don’t have boobs. Maybe flat-chested girls are prone to….

  I can’t even think the word.

  I don’t know what to do. I’m supposed to find a guy I like, hang out, get all hot and bothered. More than anything I’m supposed to and I don’t want to.

  Hell, it was a relief that Brant didn’t. A relief and a little funny because he told me we were going to fake it because Kaylee and Steve were getting their clothes off and he got close and we pretended to be macking on each other. I almost ruined it with laughing.

  Is this how it’s supposed to be and I just missed something? Why can’t it be easier? Straightforward?

  I want to be normal, right? I mean, in something?

  Come on, Kaylee. Wake up. There’s so much to tell you and I don’t know what to do.

  I get into the far side of the bed, turn Kaylee’s TV on, and watch an old episode of Kitchen Nightmares, hoping the light and the noise wakes her up, but if it does, she doesn’t let on and finally I just fall asleep.

  Chapter 9

  IT’S KAYLEE getting in bed that wakes me up. Her hair is wet and her skin is chilly.

  I look out the window—okay, morning; that’s cool—but I don’t know what to say to her, so I just stay still.

  “So, I was a total bitch last night, huh?”

  What am I going to say to that? I don’t even bother to shrug because that hurts.

  “Yeah. I was drunk and… you know. I’m sorry. I was just totally wigged. It’s so hard, sometimes, knowing what to do, and I just, I was mean.”

  “You think?” I roll over, look at her. “I’m not a goody-two-shoes. I just… I’m not like you—I’m not supersmart, there’s no money, no random gee-you-rock checks to show up. I have to do everything right to get into school.”

  “I know. I’m proud of you, Charley.”

  I think that’s a lie.

  She looks at me for a long time, then nudges me with her painted toes. “Hey. Forgive me. I’m totally a giant bleeding suck. Like literally. I started this morning. It’s like God’s going, ‘okay, you slut, first you puke your guts out, then you bleed’.”

  I don’t want to laugh. I don’t, but I do, because it’s Kaylee and I love her. “You’re a dipshit.”

  “No, you think? So, tell me everything. Did you like him?”

  “Brant?”

  “No, silly, your deep intimate conversation with Bigfoot.” Kaylee rolls her eyes. “Of course, Brant.”

  “He’s okay. His dad’s a preacher.”

  Kaylee nods. “Yeah, forgive me, but I thought he’d be a good first-time date for our late bloomer. Was he like ‘oh praise Jesus’ when you kissed?”

  I open my mouth to tell her the truth, that even the kiss was a fake, but what comes out is, “No. No, he was surprisingly normal. Nice.”

  “Yeah?” I have to say, Kaylee looks disappointed.

  “Yeah. He asked me out again. I might go.”

  Now the expression on Kaylee’s face is pure relief. “Yeah? For reals?” I nod and she rattles on. “Oh, good. God, I’ve been…. Well, you know how those bitches on the squad are, and they’re starting to question me. ‘Is she a lesbo? Does she go carpet munching?’ I just tell them they’re jealous because you’ve got, like, negative body fat, so you aren’t doing the crazy hormone thing like the rest of us, but they’re stupid. If you’re not boy crazy, you must be gay.”

  All I can think is, carpet munching? Seriously? Do people say that?

  “Now they’ll see you have a honey and you’re just like them and they’ll lay off.”

  “You.”

  She blinks at me. “What?”

  “They’ll lay off you. They don’t talk to me.”

  “Well, no, ’cause I have your back and I defend you.” She grabs my hand, squeezes. “Gossip is real, you know. If they say it long enough, people start to believe it. It gets into things like a… like a bug or a virus or something. Suddenly it’s on Tumblr and Snapchat and everyone knows it, even when it’s not true and that’s when it stops being a lie, Charley.”

  And what if it’s not a lie?

  What if I….

  God, I don’t know what to say, so again, I don’t. I sit there with my teeth in my mouth because I’ve got nothing.

  I’m going to pretend to go with a gay boy because he’s got crazy parents and I don’t want to get my girl in trouble.

  The screwed-up-ness of that makes me hurt, deep in my belly.

  Is it always like th
is? Where you can’t breathe because it’s like the world’s pushing in on you and squishing you?

  “Did you have fun last night?”

  “I guess. Too much cherry vodka makes Kaylee a… something, something.” She winks at me, using her best Homer Simpson voice.

  “Get cranky?” I play along. It’s my job.

  “Don’t mind if I do!” She pounces on me, tickling me hard, fingers digging in and making me cackle and, I hate to admit it, but it makes it all okay.

  For now.

  I’ll take it.

  Chapter 10

  I DON’T tell Kaylee about Brant.

  I don’t tell Jeri or Niesha or Sammy or Shaundra.

  He takes me out twice a week—Friday nights and Sunday afternoons. I’m back at work Saturday through Wednesday now, five to eleven, and Kaylee’s taking tutoring with half the cheer squad so the semester averages don’t drop. UT only takes the top 7 percent if you don’t have a deal like me, so Kaylee’s got to work it. It’s okay, I guess.

  I guess.

  Brant picks me up from school and we stop for a limeade before we start wandering the back way to Dallas—crawling up 78.

  “You looking forward to tonight?”

  “I’m a little wigged.”

  We’re going to a place in Dallas where they just let queer kids hang out. Like everyone.

  “It’s cool. It’s gonna be mostly guys and we’ll watch the World Series and have food.”

  “You mean guys like you watch baseball? O. M. G.” I give it my best little girl shocked look, wide eyes and everything, and Brant cracks up.

  “I know, right? I mean, limp-wristed fuckers like me? Holding that great, big”—he slows dramatically, flaming—“hard, wooden bat.”

  “Ew! You queen!” I’ve never had someone except Kaylee that I could just be goofy with and Kaylee, well, she isn’t into that. Not anymore.

  “Yep. That’s me. Hell, it can be my stage name! Queenie McBaseball Pants!”

  “You need a stage name?”

  “Honey, everyone needs a stage name.”

  I guess Charley will be mine. Just plain old Charley.

  “You think…. Do you think there”—will be lesbians there? Like lesbians my age? Do you think anyone will try to come on to me?—“will be lots of people?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. I mean, it’s a dinner, but it’s Dallas. There’s lots more gay guys in Dallas.” He throws me a quick look. “You do play softball, right? I mean, everyone knows the leagues are where you girls hook up.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I’m serious. You do have softball friends, right?”

  Do I? Not really. I know all the ladies, but friends? The ponytail gang thinks I’m too boyish. The batters tend to stay away from the pitchers. The older ladies avoid me like the plague.

  “I know all the catchers, all the other pitchers.”

  It’s a competitive sport.

  “You have to make friends, Charley.”

  “I have friends!” It’s just… everything’s changing. Everyone’s different and this is our senior year and it’s not supposed to be so different, right? Not between me and Kaylee, anyway. Jeri’s always been boy crazy, and Shaundra’s always been, well, Shaundra. She’s big. Like big-big. Like big and tough and if she was into a boy, she’d probably hit him in the face or something. Kaylee, though…. Sure, she’s dated, but it wasn’t like this. It was a bunch of us laughing and goofing off, not getting drunk and having sex in a truck with some guy she never even really talks about.

  “Who? Kaylee? She’s… she’s not like us, honey.”

  “What does that mean? She’s way more like me than you are.” She’s a girl, first of all, and she knows everything about me, or she did until I met Brant.

  “It means she’s going to get married and have two point three babies. She’s going to live in a two-story house with a foyer and drive an SUV and get her toes done every two weeks while she plays on her phone. It’s inevitable. You’re different.”

  “I don’t want to be.” I can’t decide whether to cry or get mad. I guess I sort of do both.

  “No. Fuck, Charley, who wants to be like us? I mean, it’s on the TV, but that’s a lie. Nobody wants to be queer. We just are. Can you get the top off my Coke?”

  I sniffle, nod. “Sure.”

  The worst part is I don’t know if I’m an “us” with anyone.

  What if I’m never an “us” again?

  What if I’m really, genuinely a freak and there’s no one else anywhere like me?

  “Stop crying. Your face will get puffy, and you’ll never attract the perfect girl.”

  I start to growl, but he’s trying to get me to laugh. I can see it. “You’re a… a… buttmonkey.”

  “A butthound, maybe,” he answers.

  “Ew!” I’m laughing now, though, so it must be okay. “You’re gross.”

  “Hey, I don’t have all those slimy parts you have that bleed and get wet and stuff. That’s gross.”

  “Slimy parts? Seriously? You’re going there, Mr. Butthound?”

  He takes a turn too fast, and I poke him. “Slow down. The spot between Josephine and Nevada is a speed trap, I shit you not.”

  “Thanks.” He slows down. “And yeah. You guys… milk squirts out your nipples.”

  “It doesn’t squirt out mine!” I can’t even imagine that.

  “It might. If you and your girlfriend, Helga the Studly and Broad, decide to have babies. Oh! Oh, I know, you can have twins and one can come live with me and my incredibly rich husband and… nah. I think I’d rather have a ferret.”

  “Ferrets are cute, but sugar gliders are adorable.”

  He chuckles. “Are those like honey badgers?”

  “Nope.” We pull into the parking lot, and it’s not scary, considering it’s like this community-center thing. I sort of imagine them to be like jails. I don’t know why.

  Weird, huh?

  “You ready?” he asks and I’m not. I’m totally not, so I shake my head. “It’ll be okay. I swear. We’ve got each other, right?”

  “Right. I… I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “I have, in Houston. Be brave.” He grabs my hand and squeezes. “Step out of the closet.”

  I don’t know how to tell him I don’t even know yet if I’m in a closet.

  We go in, sign in with our driver’s licenses, get our guest passes, and we’re inside.

  Inside a place for gay kids.

  Oh my God.

  Nobody talks to us for a second, and then some guy who’s older than us but not old comes up, says hi. “I’m Kim. Welcome.”

  I’ve never met a guy named Kim, and he doesn’t look real Japanese or Chinese or anything. Must be a family name. I’ve seen more people with bad names just because Uncle Dipshit was someone’s favorite uncle.

  Brant grins, just as cool as a cucumber, slick. “I’m Brant; this is Charley.”

  “Well, come on in. Have a seat. We’ll eat in an hour or so. Where are y’all from?”

  “I was in Houston, but we’re both on the other side of the lake… huh….”

  Brant looks to me, eyes wide, so I rescue him. “Ray Hubbard.”

  “Ah. Redneck country.” Kim winks. “This is Chris and Steve, Duke, Reg, and BT. Alicia and Lady Bee are playing pool.”

  “Do you want to go, Charley? I won’t mind.”

  I do mind, though. I care. I don’t want to go somewhere else. “I’ll just sit.”

  “Meaghan can show you, if you want.”

  I look up and, oh. OMG. I know her. I mean, she’s one of the ponytail brigade from softball. Meaghan Adamson. One of those pretty, perfect girls you can’t even look at, and she’s staring at me too.

  “Charley? Oh, holy shit moly! You’re like, here!”

  “I… it’s my first time.”

  “Cool. I’m here a lot. You want to meet the other girls? These guys are giant dorks.” She holds her hand out, and I take it. She gets her n
ails done, and they’re smooth and shiny, reminding me of Kaylee’s. “Lady Bee is a wrestler and Alicia’s a doll. Sweet and dear, a little bit of a dingbat, but harmless.”

  “A wrestler?”

  “I know, right? Like for real. Like the stuff in the Olympics, not WWE or MMA or anything like that.”

  “Huh.”

  Okay, that’s new and relatively cool. I like it.

  There is a pool table—old and with one leg shored up—and a vending machine, a couple of couches. It’s not dirty, just a little worn. Like my house. Two girls are playing pool, one a big burly woman with a buzz cut and a nose ring, the other one this tiny little thing.

  “Who’s this?” The big girl comes up, and Jesus, she’s tall and wide.

  “Charley. Charley Lemain. She’s does slow-pitch and fast-pitch both. She’s amazing.”

  My cheeks heat at the praise. “Hey.”

  I hold out my hand and hers swallows it. Gulp. “Bonita, but everybody calls me Lady Bee. This here’s Alicia.”

  “Hey, mama.” Alicia has a gold tooth.

  Do people have gold teeth not on TV?

  “We’re almost done with this game. Y’all gonna hang around?”

  “Yeah, the boys have fresh meat, so it’ll be swimming with the sharks for a bit. Chum city.”

  What the fuck does that mean?

  “Is Brant okay?”

  “Sure. It’s just, they all have to get their queen on, you know. Figure out where everyone fits.” Meaghan doesn’t sound worried. “They’re still boys. Are you a jock? A size queen? Actor? Player? What? It’s harder for them to figure out, you know?”

  I don’t. I have no fucking idea, but what am I supposed to do? I nod. “Yeah. He’s cool.”

  “Are you his beard?” Alicia asks and I nod again.

  “I think so. His folks are scary-religious.”

  “Hey, I hear you. I’m Catholic, mama.”

  Lady Bee snorts, the sound weirdly like a bull’s. “And I’m black. You know how many black girls are out?”

  “Wanda Sykes.” It falls out of my mouth before I can stop it, and I hope that’s not offensive somehow.

  “Yeah, she’s cool. Where are you from?”

  “Greenville.” People either know it or they don’t. Either way, it’s where I’m from.