Announcing Trouble

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Announcing Trouble Page 4

by Amy Fellner Dominy


  “I’m not changing my mind, Garrett.”

  He balances the box in one arm as if it weighs nothing. “You are. I just have to figure out your why.”

  “I’m afraid to ask what that is.”

  “Why you do what you do. It’s like baseball. Every guy on the team is there for a different reason. Some love to play. Some want the glory and the girls. Some are there because their parents want it. It’s their why. It’s what motivates them.”

  “And what’s your why?” I ask. “The spotlight?”

  “I look good under the lights, no question.” His cocky flash of smile fades beneath something much more intense. Much more real. “But for me, I love the game. More than anything.”

  He’s so much like my father that it hurts to look at him. “Maybe it’s not a why,” I say. “Maybe it’s a why not.”

  “Because you hate baseball?” He does that lip-biting thing again. “You can’t hate a sport that is everything good and beautiful on this earth. And how is it that you know so much about a game you supposedly hate?”

  “I’m a woman of mystery. Now can I have the books back?”

  He hangs on to the box. “Or maybe your dad taught you.”

  The word dad triggers a flow of ice through my veins. I yank the box out of his arms and set it on a table. “How do you know that?”

  He pulls his cell out of his pocket. “My friend Google and I have been getting to know you. Your dad is Clay Walters.”

  Just hearing his name stings, and I struggle to keep the hurt from showing. “I know who my dad is.”

  “There’s a picture of the two of you.” He holds up the phone, but I shake my head.

  I don’t need to see it. I know the one he means. It’s always the first photo to come up in a Google search. I’m about three. My father is walking out to the field and I’m carrying his glove. It’s almost as big as I am. It was my favorite picture, the one thing I unpacked first in every new house. The picture I kissed good night whenever Dad was on a road trip. When Mom and I left Florida for the last time, I broke a framed copy of that photo over my knee and nearly sliced off a finger when the glass shattered.

  “I also know your name isn’t actually Josie. It’s Joe. After Joe DiMaggio.” He rests a hand over his heart as he says the name. “Joltin’ Joe. The Yankee Clipper. Married to Marilyn.” He sighs dramatically. “Did you know he was actually named Giuseppe?”

  “I’m aware.” I fold my arms over my chest as a memory tugs at the never-healing scab on my heart. Dad playing catch with me in the backyard, grinning like he’d always be there. My favorite girl, named for my favorite player.

  “Think how proud your dad will be when we win this thing,” Garrett is saying. His gaze hooks mine, the blue irises liquid with dreams. “Clay Walters’ little girl, calling the game that he taught her. Josie, you have to say yes.”

  It takes me a second to swallow the bitterness of the past. In an even voice I’m proud of, I say, “Here’s the thing, Garrett. My dad is a selfish ass who never gave a shit about anything but baseball, so you know what? I don’t care about making him proud.”

  Finally—silence. He slides the phone away as his throat works over a long swallow. “I see Google fell short this time.”

  “Just a bit. Now would you please leave me alone?”

  He swallows again. “I’m sorry. Really.”

  I’m still breathing hard as he walks out. At least now I’m rid of him for good.

  Chapter Seven

  He’s standing outside my house the next morning.

  I’m in a rush as I pull the front door closed. I’ve got my teeth around a half-eaten slice of jelly toast while I struggle to slide my phone into the pocket of my skinny jeans. When I catch sight of him, I freeze.

  My backpack doesn’t.

  It swings forward and knocks into my other hand that’s holding a can of apple juice, spraying the liquid into the air and all over my fingers.

  “Shit,” I sputter around the toast, but at least it’s jarred me out of my shock.

  Garrett is wearing a black tee, jeans, and a smile as blinding as the sun. “I thought you’d be a morning person.”

  I glare, because my mouth is still full of food. Tucking away my phone, I grab the toast and shake juice off my hand. “I’m late and I hate being late. Whoever invented the snooze button should be shot.”

  “I’m guessing they’re already dead. In case that makes you feel better.”

  His smile does not make me feel better. Nothing about him does. Last night, the old dream returned. The fear. The panic. I need my suitcase—where’s my suitcase? Waking up to find myself breathing hard, my legs dangling from the bed as sweat chilled on my skin. Always that damn suitcase.

  It’s Garrett who’s bringing it all back. Garrett with all his talk about baseball and his naughty-boy smile and wavy neck hairs. Now he shows up here looking all Mister Golden Guy and I’m breathing hard again. I need him to go away.

  “What are you doing here, Garrett?” My gaze sweeps past him to the black four-door idling at the curb.

  “Let me help.” He takes my half-eaten toast, which throws me off, but I do have a juice disaster to deal with. I finish the can in two big swallows, set it at the corner of the driveway to trash later, and pour water over my hand from the bottle I always carry to school. Finally, I release a sigh and hold out my hand for my toast.

  He’s licking strawberry jelly from his thumb.

  “You didn’t!”

  He bites his lip. “Sorry.”

  “You are not.”

  “I’m not,” he admits. “That was really good.”

  “Garrett!”

  “Let me make it up to you. I’ll drive you to school.”

  “You’re acting like we’re friends and we’re not. How do you even know where I live?”

  “Google, again.”

  “That’s creepy stalker behavior,” I say as I brush past him. “You need therapy.”

  “And I’m going to get some as soon as you say yes to broadcasting.”

  “Listen up, Blondie.” I spin to face him. “There. Is. No. Why.”

  He acts as if he hasn’t heard, jogging ahead to open the passenger door of his car. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

  “I walk with Mai.”

  “The girl at the baseball game? We’ll pick her up, too.”

  I waver. I don’t want to spend any more time with Garrett, but I’m also running late and in danger of missing first bell. “Fine. Six houses up on the other side of the street. She’s standing outside.”

  I slide in the seat, and a second later he’s beside me, buckling his belt. I set my backpack on my lap as I take a quick look. It’s cleaner than our truck and smells good—like the cedarwood soap that Mom used to carry.

  He puts the car in drive. “Nice shirt.”

  I have to look down to remember which one I’m wearing. There’s a giant whale and above it the speech bubble reads: “Who are you calling Dick?” “It’s from a book.”

  “I’m aware,” he replies drily.

  I widen my eyes and flutter my lashes. “You read?”

  “Only if the words are written across a girl’s chest.” He widens his eyes and flutters goldish-brown lashes in the same exaggerated way.

  Smartass. And quick.

  Then he surprises me by adding, “Melville today and Orwell yesterday.”

  It takes me a second to remember that I was wearing a quote from Animal Farm yesterday. And a reader, too? “Well. Maybe you’re not as dumb as you look.”

  “Thank you.” His grin is good-natured as he rolls to a stop in front of Mai.

  I like that he can handle my snark—and give it back. But I’m still not saying yes.

  Mai pops open the back door. She’s wearing lipstick again. “A chauffeur? You shouldn’t have.”

  “He’s trying to break me so I’ll say yes to broadcasting.”

  “Has he tried drugs? I’ve heard those work.”

&
nbsp; As she slides in the back, I quickly open and close two doors, and in an impressively short amount of time, I’m sitting next to Mai.

  Garrett slides an arm over the seat. “You’re really going to sit back there? Both of you?”

  “Drive on,” Mai says with a little wave of her hand. Her glossy hair is a few shades lighter than the black upholstery as she leans back with an air of superiority as if she were born to be driven around.

  Garrett sighs but maneuvers us onto the main street and into the line of cars heading for the school.

  “So are you a baseball player, too?” Mai asks.

  “I am.”

  “He was.”

  “Which verb is it?” she demands.

  “I shattered my arm a year ago.”

  “He broke it in two places, tore his shoulder muscle and needed surgery to repair everything over the summer.” When his eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, I shrug. “You’re not the only one who’s friends with Google.”

  Mai is not done with the interrogation. “So which one were you?”

  “Which one was I?” Garrett repeats.

  “On the team. Were you one of the guys on the bases or with the bat?”

  Garrett bursts out laughing. My brilliant best friend really knows nothing about the game.

  “I was a pitcher,” he says. “I stood on the mound in the middle of the field.”

  “Oh,” she says dismissively. “I don’t think it’s fair that one player is higher than the others.”

  “Riiiiiight.” Garrett meets my eye in the mirror, and a moment of shared humor flashes between us. He clears his throat, probably to cover a laugh. “I can see that. But it’s, uh, helpful, when you’re the guy throwing the ball.”

  “That’s what you did?”

  “Pure heat.” There’s arrogance in his voice. I’m expecting that—I’ve had a taste of Garrett’s ego. But his left hand has snaked over to the scar on his right elbow, rubbing as if it still hurts.

  “Oh, wait,” Mai says. She smacks the back of Garrett’s seat. “You were that guy. At the school assembly last year. You broke your arm right after a big game.”

  “We won the Division.”

  “They handed you the trophy. It was a pity thing, right? I felt sad for you.”

  “Does she have a filter?” Garrett asks me.

  “Nope.”

  “And now you’re announcing?” Mai continues.

  He parks in the school’s back lot. “That’s right. And I’d like to earn a trophy the real way.”

  Mai elbows me in the ribs. “So he’s not actually a baseball player.”

  “Ow,” I mutter. I know where she’s going with this. That lipstick she’s wearing is a neon sign that she’s still stuck on Anthony. If I say yes to Garrett, then I’m saying yes to more baseball. Traitor.

  “She doesn’t like players?” Garrett asks Mai.

  “Hates them.”

  “Then I’m officially retired.”

  She shoots me a victorious smile. “We can double date,” she says. “Do you play pool chicken?”

  Her question has obviously confused him. “Remind me not to pick you up again before I’ve had caffeine.”

  I open the car door. “Ignore her.”

  “Don’t ignore her,” Mai says. She follows me out. Garrett is locking the car when a guy calls his name. Does anyone not know him?

  “Give me a sec,” Garrett says.

  We nod and then immediately join the stream of other kids moving toward the south doors. We’re nearly there when Garrett jogs up beside me.

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask.

  “I do,” he says. “But I also have your why.”

  “You think you have my why.”

  “Hey, G!” A girl I don’t know launches herself at Garrett and grabs him around the arm. “You’re going the wrong way. Class is down here.”

  “My locker is that way,” he says.

  “No time.” Another girl grabs his other arm, laughing.

  He opens his mouth and then shrugs and lets them pull him back. “Let’s do lunch, Walters. Off campus.”

  “I have second lunch.”

  “I’ll make that work.”

  I roll my eyes. “Do you get to do anything you want? You play the athlete card, is that it?”

  “There are cards?” he calls. “I just use my charm.” He points another finger gun. “By the flagpole at the start of lunch. You’re going to want to hear this. And if I’m wrong, I promise I’ll leave you alone.”

  “You’re wrong!”

  “I’ll see you at the flagpole. This time show up!”

  He turns away, and I stare after him and the girls who are still hanging onto his arms.

  “You hate ballplayers,” Mai says.

  “I do. I especially hate that one.”

  “Then why are you staring?”

  I blink, fighting the burn of a flush as I wave off her comment. “Because I’m disgusted. Did you see the finger gun? It’s truly awful.”

  “It is. But he bites his bottom lip when he does it. It’s kind of sexy.”

  “It is not!”

  My treasonous mind whispers, It’s a lot sexy.

  Chapter Eight

  Lunch is a sub shop tucked into the corner of a strip mall. It smells like meatballs and fresh bread and my stomach rumbles. This is a big step up from the school cafeteria where Mai and I eat every day.

  “You’re buying,” I tell Garrett as I study the menu. “I’ll have the steak and cheese.”

  Garrett inches forward with the line. “Coincidentally the most expensive thing on the menu.”

  “And a large drink,” I add. “And a brownie.”

  It’s his turn at the counter, and he orders my lunch and a Cobb salad for himself. I fill my cup with a mix of Sprite and lemonade, collect napkins, and find us an empty booth. The bench seats are covered in red vinyl and squeak as I sit. With nothing to do, I find myself watching Garrett at the soda fountain. His hair has flopped over one eye and he pushes it back, even that small movement a mix of confidence and grace. My dad had that, too. He probably still does. I wouldn’t know.

  How did I end up here? When Garrett ordered me to the flagpole this morning, I was determined to do anything but.

  During first hour, it was hell no.

  Second period, absolutely not.

  Third period, no way.

  Fourth period, in his dreams.

  And then, inexplicably, I was walking to the flagpole. I scowled when I saw him, waiting for one smirk, one smug comment so I could bolt. Instead his expression lit up. He stepped forward, ignoring the group he’d been standing with. “Walters, you make my heart sing.”

  “Blondie, you’re so full of shit.”

  He laughed and we fell into an easy rhythm on the way to his car. As pathetic as it may be to admit, I’ve never left campus for lunch. So yes, the whole thing was weird and kids were staring and I should have felt nervous or awkward, but I didn’t. I’m not even nervous now. I think it’s because I don’t want to impress Garrett Reeves. He has me off-balance and I don’t like it. I want to get him out of my life.

  They call our number at the counter, and Garrett detours to bring our lunches. He sets down his healthy green salad and slides me a red basket with my meaty-cheesy-gooey sub. I breathe in the toasty bread and garlic. Mmmm. “Where’s my brownie?”

  Shaking his head, he hands it over. Even though it’s wrapped, it smells heavenly. It’s covered in powdered sugar and has my other favorite feature of a brownie: it’s huge.

  But first things first. I lift half of my sub, which weighs as much as a Harry Potter hardcover. Garrett is watching me like an exhibit at the zoo. “What?” I say. “You ate half my breakfast.” I lick a trail of cheese that’s leaked over my hand.

  “You can’t eat all of that.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  “No,” he says. “I spent all my money on your lunch.”

  I grin. “So let’s ge
t this over with. What’s my why?” I take a huge bite and then nearly choke when he answers.

  “Your dad.”

  I swallow. “Way to ruin my appetite. I thought we already went over this? I don’t want to talk about my dad.” I take another bite because even if this conversation is slightly nauseating, the sandwich is seriously better than anything I’ve eaten in weeks. Mom is a distracted chef, which means home-cooked is usually over-cooked.

  Garrett’s finally done pouring Italian dressing on his salad and mixing it up. “I promise it’ll be worth it.” He pauses to eat a forkful of salad. “So your dad’s career is a yo-yo of moves from team to team. He hangs around the league for a long time but never reaches the majors. Finally, he’s released and takes a coaching job. Seems like an opportunity to put down roots, but not long after, Clay Walters is offered a chance to play ball in Japan, halfway across the world. What about his family?” He eyes me speculatively. “That couldn’t have been an easy decision.”

  My fingers tighten around the sandwich, squeezing cheese out both ends. “You’d be surprised.”

  Garrett nods as if that confirms what he’s already guessed. “Two months later, the Japanese press introduces the Nippon league’s new power hitter, Clay Walters. The next articles show him with various women and it’s mentioned that he’s newly single. I’m guessing you and your mom didn’t want to go, and he left anyway.”

  It feels like a meatball is lodged in my throat. I lift a shoulder, let it drop like it’s no big deal.

  “And the reason he goes is because he thinks a big year there might prove he can still play in America. After everything, at age thirty-two, he still wants to play in the majors.”

  I shove the basket away. “What does this have to do with the contest?”

  “Stick with me, Walters. I’m getting there.” His blue eyes radiate intensity. “He comes back to the States two years later and gets a coaching job. But where?”

  “In the minor leagues.”

  “Which is where he is today. Passed over again this season.” Garrett leans forward, his elbows on the table, his fingers curved nearly into fists. His hands are solid—strong. I can imagine him gripping a baseball. I can imagine that it would have been a beautiful thing to watch him throw. “What if his daughter was the one to get to the majors first? What if the girl he left shows him up by making it to The Show?”

 

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