When Summer Ends

by Jessica Pennington

  What are you doing, Aiden?

  Focus!

  Get this over with already!

  I’m the fastest pitcher in our district, by just one percent. And if I could simply focus—do what my dad is begging of me—this game could be over.

  Focus, focus, focus. I squint my eyes against the glare of the sun, and cock my head to the side. Better.

  I wipe my fingers down the side of my blue pants and pat my palm against my thigh. Left. Right. I crank my neck back and forth, as if that’s going to fix the knot in my arm, the pain in my head, or the real problem—the blurriness as I stare straight ahead at the worn brown glove of my catcher, Zander. He’s clad in black and blue gear, flashing me a two, then four, then two, with his fingers between his knees. Two is my curve ball, and I shake my head at him, telling him it’s a no-go. I don’t trust myself today. He flashes it again and jerks his mitt to where he wants the ball, close and inside.

  “Two up, two down!” Mani, our shortstop shouts to our teammates, letting them know we’re going to get these next two outs. We’re up by one with runners on first and second, in our last game of the regular season. The last win we need to take us into regionals. Back-to-back-to-back titles could be ours.

  I bring the ball to my chest and feel the power charge through me as I release it toward the plate. I can feel that one percent. Feel it racing through my arm, feel it slip past my fingertips. This. Is—

  I hear the unmistakable groan as leather meets skin. A grunt, a lurch, as the batter crumples to the ground, the ball falling off of his bicep down to the plate.

  The ump stands. “Take your base,” he yells in a booming voice. There’s a special tone that umps save for pitchers who hit batters. There’s always a warning to that particular command: Don’t do it again.

  “Emerson!” my dad yells, the metallic clang of the fence in harmony with him. His voice has an edge of knowing sympathy. “It’s just muscle memory! Focus!”

  Zander throws his face guard back and puts his hands in a T over his head as he trots out to the mound. I jab my toe into the hard dirt.

  “Shake it off, bud.”

  Despite his best efforts, Zander and I really aren’t buds. We’re more of a codependent two-person ecosystem. Without me, he can’t do his job. He can’t be amazing until I am. You can be an amazing catcher, but without the right pitcher, you’re just catching the ball. With a bad pitcher, you’re chasing the ball.

  He grabs my head in his hands and pulls it toward him. Zander loves these big shows. The whispers of, “Look at him, bringing Emerson back down, getting him focused.” People love the idea that we’re some sort of dynamic duo, on the field and off. “Shake it off. He had it coming. He leaned into it, man.” I know he didn’t, I know I was off, too tight, too wild. I shouldn’t have tried for inside. I told Zander. I don’t say it, because this is a show, not a conversation. “You’ve got this next guy. You hold them here.” I twist my head and pull away—I don’t like his little shows. I nod, because I know he won’t let up until I do.

  My best chances for a strikeout are now on first, second, and third, and the top of the lineup is striding out to home plate. He stops behind the plate, rolls up his sleeve, and pats his bicep. He’s inviting me to hit him, egging me on, mocking me. The all-state pitcher who just nailed a batter. All they need is one run and it’s over. I grit my teeth, and remember what my dad said.

  Muscle memory, muscle memory, muscle memory.

  I lock my eyes on Zander’s mitt and lean back. I try to relax, let my arms and legs do their thing. The same thing they’ve done for the last ten years. Thousands of batters, tens of thousands of pitches, probably.

  I let the sticky leather roll around in my hand, squeeze it tight, and let it roll off the tips of my fingers. When I was a kid, I had to remind myself what to do after the ball left my hand. I’d count it out step by step: present … cock … knee up … release … pivot … so much of it is natural momentum. But at the end, when you bring your body back to the center, position your glove in front of you, and stand ready—that takes thought. But even that is muscle memory now. I’m not even thinking as I let my weight shift to my left leg; as my right comes down and swings to the side. There are no thoughts as my glove comes up to my chest and my leg pivots out. Not a single thought as the white blur of leather leaves the bat and makes contact with my face. No thoughts as I hit the ground, my mother’s shriek hanging in the air.

  Chapter

  Two

  OLIVIA

  Baseball games are so not my thing. The uncomfortable metal bleachers, the bees that always seem to be hovering around the concession stand, following me and my ritual sixth-inning hot dog. We’re all squished into this one tiny set of bleachers, and I have to make a conscious effort to keep from grazing the hairy dad-arm next to me. Gross. Why couldn’t Zander have picked basketball—or any sport, really, that doesn’t take place out in the blazing sun? Of course the only thing worse than sitting in the hot sun, watching his back while he catches a ball, is sitting in the cold, watching as he’s pummeled again and again on the football field. Oh, the joys of fall.

  “He needs to chill.” Emma jabs her head in the direction of our dugout, where Mr. Emerson has taken his usual spot along the fence outside. If she had ever gone to games before this year, when she started dating the shortstop, Mani Flores, Mr. Emerson would be background noise to her by now. I don’t even hear him anymore; I’m sure the coaches don’t either. It really does drive Zander nuts when he gets like this though.

  Next to me, Emma shakes her head, her brown eyes squinting at the middle-aged man who bears a striking resemblance to the Hornets’ star pitcher, Aiden Emerson. The chain-link clangs every time his open palms slam into it, screaming “Come on, Emerson,” or “Focus!” Which has been a lot this game—Aiden is struggling. He’s been struggling for weeks, ever since he showed up to a game with an unexplained black eye. The black eye is gone now, but it seems our all-state pitcher has disappeared along with it.

  I hit Emma’s knee with mine. “Emma.”

  “Olivia.” She draws out my full name, long and slow.

  “Stop staring.”

  Emma doesn’t turn away. “How is anyone supposed to concentrate with all the yelling?” Her voice is loud enough that I expect Mr. Emerson to look at her—to come tearing into the stands toward us, to shake us like he does that poor fence—but his eyes stay glued to his son, out on the mound. We’re background noise to him too. The woman in front of us looks back at Emma with annoyance in her eyes. “Not you,” Emma whispers, with a sweet smile and shake of her head. Emma’s boyfriend, Mani, turns from his spot between second and third and looks at the outfielders. He yells, “We got this, two up, two down,” just as Em screams, “Nice butt, Flores!” He smiles and she laughs, amused with herself.

  And I wish I could magically sink down under these bleachers. I shake my head and Emma smacks my leg with a smile. “Your boyfriend’s isn’t bad either.” She winks one blue eye at me. “Wouldn’t kill you to get into the spirit of things.”

  “I don’t think the objectification of players is the ‘spirit’ of baseball.” I take a sip from my water bottle—it’s unseasonably warm for Memorial Day weekend in Michigan.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  I groan, and it sounds like there’s a baby bear stuck in my throat. I’m not telling my boyfriend he has a nice butt—which he does—in front of a bleacher full of students, teachers, and parents. His parents. My head instinctively tips toward their location two rows behind us. I sat with the Belles before Emma started coming to games. Those were quieter, less embarrassing days.

  Just as Zander takes his spot behind home plate again, Emma does what I won’t. “Nice butt, Belle!”

  Zander shakes his head as his mitt stretches in front of him, readying himself, and I can’t help but wonder why he puts up with me and my shameless plus-one.

  “Ball two!” the umpire yells, eliciting more screaming from Mr. Emerson and
glares from Emma.

  “Two up, two down!” Mani yells, once again reminding everyone on the field that only two batters might stand between them and regionals. There are runners on first and second and a tied score. Please let this be over soon. Zander’s mom, Trudy, catches my eye and gives me a little wave as she passes a paper bag of neon yellow popcorn to her husband, Dean, sitting behind her. I give a little wave to her and Becca. I would be surprised by most college juniors driving three hours to watch their little brother’s baseball game, but not Becca. There is nothing average about the Belle family. Which is what I love most about them.

  Smack! Another ball hits Zander’s mitt, pulling me out of my thoughts.

  My phone buzzes, and a white box pops up. It’s a text from my Aunt Sarah, who was supposed to be here an hour ago, taking the place of Hairy-Arm Guy, who is still disturbingly close on my right.

  Aunt Sarah:

  Concession stand

  I turn to make my way out of the bleachers.

  “More hot dogs?” Emma doesn’t wait for my answer before starting to make her way to the aisle. “These baseball games are serious business, I’ve gained ten pounds this season.”

  I follow her, trying to keep my eyes on the game as we walk to the bright blue two-story stand that holds the concession area down below and the announcer’s nest overhead. Just as we reach the counter, I hear a loud grunt, and gasps fill the stands.

  “Did he just hit a batter?” I say to Emma, who is craning her neck to see over the man behind us. I haven’t seen a pitcher hit a batter in years. I’ve never seen Aiden hit a batter.

  The ump stands. “Take your base,” he yells in a booming voice.

  Zander throws his face guard back and puts his hands in a T over his head as he trots away from home base. The two stand on the mound, Zander clearly giving Aiden the pep talk he needs.

  Next to me, Emma sighs. “I adore concession-stand nachos.”

  My eyes are still on Zander making his slow-walk back to his spot. Giving Aiden every extra second he can. I catch his eye as he reaches the plate and smile. He meets my eyes but he still looks angry. Even so, it’s a little barb that he can’t just suck it up and smile back.

  Aunt Sarah appears at the metal counter just as I’m given my pop and gumballs. She fidgets with her phone, then quickly shoves it into her pocket. I hand her a can of Diet Coke and am turning back for the bleachers when a tug at my wrist stops me. She pulls me a few steps in the opposite direction and looks at me nervously. “I have to tell you something, and I’ve been meaning to, but then there’s never a good time.” She rambles nervously. “And I’m going to be gone this weekend, so…”

  “Tell me what?” I pop a piece of baseball-shaped gum into my mouth, my eyes still fixed on the back of my boyfriend’s head, over Aunt Sarah’s shoulder.

  “I got an amazing job offer. In Arizona.” The words make me flinch. My eyes dart from the batter to my aunt, standing in front of me looking like she’s about to throw up all over my shoes. The feeling is so mutual.

  I’ve never heard Aunt Sarah mention Arizona before. Or wanting a new job. “Why would you want a job in Arizona?”

  “Well, it pays better, and it’s with a bigger company. And there are more opportunities for me if I get out of Riverton.” Okay, I guess I have heard that before. Aunt Sarah is a programmer, and rural Michigan is not a technology mecca.

  “Do I have to move to Arizona?” I can’t. Not my senior year. Not with Emma and Zander here.

  “We’ll … figure something out,” she says, but she doesn’t look as optimistic as she sounds.

  Behind her, the whir of the bat catches my eye. Arizona?

  The ball flies, and from our spot behind the fence it almost looks as if it’s going straight for Aiden. But he’s not moving, and when I see it happen—the way the white leather deflects off of his perfect cheekbone—I can’t help but gasp. He crumples to the ground and it feels a lot like I’m right there next to him—both of us victims of something we didn’t see coming.

  AIDEN

  When I enter the locker room on the last day of school a week later, the sour smell hits me like a line drive to the face. I wish I didn’t know what that felt like, but my face still says otherwise. I’m lucky all I got was some serious bruises and broken skin, and that my eye didn’t explode, or something. Has it always smelled this bad? It’s lunch hour on the last day of school, so the locker room is empty, but I know Coach Martinez will be here. He teaches freshman algebra, and is always in his office during lunch time. It’s usually open tutoring time, for guys with at-risk GPAs. Not at risk of not graduating, just dangerously close to being kicked off the team. But those guys are usually cleared out by now, making their way toward classes. They’re not sticking around one second longer than they have to.

  “Hey, Stevens,” I say to our third baseman—the biggest asshole on the team—who is leaving Coach M’s office as I come down the dark tiled hallway. He nods as he passes me, and keeps walking. Everyone acts like this is all my fault, and it’s hard to even argue. Losing the game meant the end of practices, so aside from the occasional side-eye from Zander in our physics class, I’ve gotten off pretty easy.

  I knock on the window before I step through the door. Coach M is sitting at his desk, a Riverton Hornets hat pulled over his shaggy black hair.

  “Emerson, you’re just in time.” A giant grin fills his face; if the loss is getting to him, he hasn’t let on. “We’ve got a few minutes. You need a quick session?” He laughs, because I’m far from needing tutoring, and he knows it. Our team was academic all-state last year, thanks to GPAs like mine pulling up slackers like Stevens.

  “I’m good.”

  His eyes drop to the pile of blue in my hand, and scrunch up in confusion. “Problem with your uniform, kid?”

  I swallow, trying to make the words come out. I’ve played baseball since I was four. Summers of tee-ball, then little league, then three years of varsity. I have a shelf around my ceiling, lining my room with metallic trophies—red and green and blue—all topped with bat-wielding gold or silver men, ready to swing. Now I’m standing here, after the last game of my junior season, and I can’t say the words that I know I have to. Even though it took me fifteen minutes to force myself into that smelly hallway. Even though I feel like I might puke all over the tiled floor.

  “Emerson?” Coach M tips his head and perks his brows. He looks nervous, like maybe I’m about to tell him I decided to run track and I’m going to miss a few games. That shit really pisses the coaches off. There’s nothing they like less than a guy who’s lacking 110 percent allegiance. God forbid anyone be multitalented.

  “I’m … out,” I mumble, not sure that the words were actually audible.

  Coach M looks around him, like he’s missed something. “Out of what?”

  “Out of baseball.” I set the uniform on his desk and look at the clock. There’s exactly ninety seconds until the bell sounds. Ninety seconds until I have to flee, no matter what. I’m not an idiot, there’s a reason I skated in just under the bell. Because I can’t take being berated about this. I’m maxed out on guilt.

  “Like hell you are, son.” Coach M is out of his chair, two hands planted on the desk, leaning toward me like he’s trying to keep himself from lunging. His face is already turning red, the way it looks when he screams “Gimme one more” as we run wind sprints—third base line to the mound and back, first base line and back, right field fence and back, our arms pumping until they’re tingling and almost numb. Only he doesn’t scare me then, because all I have to do is run. Just run, run, run and the screaming will stop. Run, run, run and eventually you get to go home. But I can’t run now. There’s still sixty seconds until that bell sounds, and even when it does, I don’t know that he’s going to let me leave. “You’re our starting pitcher. Have you lost your fu—” He looks around like he forgot he was in the school. His voice gets just a hair softer but it’s just a different kind of yelling. When it comes to
yelling, it’s actually about tone, not volume. That’s what people don’t get about my dad yelling. I know what my dad sounds like mad; really mad, like I’ve done something wrong. It’s different from the frustrated yelling I hear from behind the fence every game. “Have you lost your mind, Emerson? You’re not quitting right before your senior year.”

  “I just did.” The bell sounds, and I feel like a racehorse just set free, the metal gate pulled away. Except that I’m not running toward anything, I’m being chased—by everything I could have had. I turn to the hallway and walk away as Coach M slams something in his office behind me. I exit the locker room hallway and head into the bright expansive gym. There are signs plastering the gym walls, left over from the last pep rally. The blue walls are spotted with white rectangular blotches. Banners, likely filled with player names and numbers, and notes reading GOOD LUCK, YOU CAN DO IT and WE’RE #1. By September they’ll be gone—everyone will have forgotten the last game and the big loss. The same way they’ll have forgotten about me, and everything I could have been. I hope.

  * * *

  When the final bell of junior year rings, the hallway is filled with excitement. Locker doors are slamming and feet are pounding as everyone darts outdoors. Everyone has somewhere to go. Usually I’d be headed to the gym to lift weights. Even on the last day of school. We wouldn’t get much done, but we’d still sit on the equipment, lifting half our usual and shooting the shit. Martinez would come in to lecture us about being responsible over the summer and not getting soft and worthless, lying at the beach and eating concession hamburgers. The guy always has something to say about concession food. So who has the real problem?

  Zander passes me with a nod, and I know he doesn’t know. For now. Because no chance he’d let me just pass by if he did, and no way Coach M doesn’t fill everyone in. I guess the guys will get a different kind of warning this summer. Eat all the hamburgers and nachos you want, just don’t lose your shit like Emerson.