Announcing Trouble

by Amy Fellner Dominy

  Garrett Reeves is a good guy.

  Just not the right guy.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  People have the mistaken belief that anticipation is a good thing. But really, if you look up the definition, all it says is “the act of anticipating something.”

  It could be good.

  Or it could be humiliatingly bad.

  Such as, let’s say, when you have an awkward almost-kiss with a guy and then have him drive you home in complete silence while you pretend there’s something so fascinating on your phone that you can’t possibly look up. When you get out, you mumble a goodbye without meeting his eyes. Without knowing if he was willing to meet yours. And then you see him the next morning in the halls, and do you acknowledge his existence? No. You pretend not to see him.

  Now it’s three in the afternoon, school is over, and here’s what I’ve discovered: the longer you say nothing, the more you anticipate having to say something.

  Even though Mai and I are walking very slowly toward the baseball field, we’ll be there in a few minutes. I’m going to be stuck in the broadcast booth with Garrett for two hours. I can’t not speak to him. Once the first word is out, I’ll be fine. It’s just that first word.

  “Hi,” I say.

  Mai shakes her head. “Bitchy.”

  I clear my throat. “Hi.”

  “Surprised.”

  I stop walking. The grass is wet around my sandals and seeps into my toes, making me even more irritated. “How did you get ‘surprised’ from that? I was going for ‘casual.’”

  “Wrong inflection.” She rolls her eyes as if it’s so obvious.

  “It’s not that easy,” I say defensively. “The word is only two letters—it’s not as if there’s a lot to work with.” We start again, and I spare a glance at the cloudless blue sky. Where’s a big thunderstorm to cancel a game when a girl needs it? “I’m not even sure what I should be going for. Friendly. Bored. Cool. Cold.”

  “You’re going to give a weather report with one word?”

  “Don’t make fun of me. This is important.” We round the fence and head up the metal ramp toward the booth. “What if I get the inflection a little bit wrong and he thinks I’m upset?”

  Or that I’m still thinking about a kiss that didn’t happen?

  She straightens the hem of her sleeveless gray button-down. “You’re making too much out of this.”

  “Of course I am. Because that’s what happens with ballplayers. All those muscles in one place turn our brains into gelatin.”

  “Scientifically speaking, I’m pretty sure that isn’t true.”

  “It turned your brain to mush.”

  She glances out to the field where Anthony is warming up his arm. “But look at those biceps. Can you blame me?”

  “Thank you for proving my point.” I hesitate outside the broadcast booth, my hand on the door. “Hi,” I murmur, refocusing. “Hiiiiii.”

  Suddenly, the door jerks open and I stumble back. Garrett appears. His eyes meet mine for one undecipherable heartbeat before we both look away.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “I need another cable,” he mutters. He takes off at a run toward the school.

  My heart is pounding in my ears, but not loud enough that I don’t hear Mai’s disappointed sigh.

  “We didn’t even work on ‘hey.’”

  The good thing about the missing cable is there’s no time to talk before the game starts. Garrett is busy doing his thing, and I’m busy letting him. I study the line-up sheets each team has provided for today’s game. I recognize one of the coach’s names for Saguaro: Kyle Masters.

  It only takes a second to spot him by the visitors’ dugout. He’s wearing a ball cap and the team uniform, but it’s the same guy who came into the deli when Garrett and I were having lunch.

  I glance at Garrett and catch him staring at me. A look passes between us. It’s one of those: I-see-what-you’re-seeing-and-I-know-what-you’re-thinking-and-I-know-that-you-know-what-I-see-and-I’m-thinking.

  Our mouths tighten at the same moment, and we both look away. It feels as if battle lines have been drawn. It’s stupid. I have no need to fight with Garrett. If he wants to ruin his arm, then fine. He’ll end up like coaches I knew from the minors. Guys with such bad arthritis from overuse injuries that they moved like their joints were made of metal. Probably they were.

  Not my problem. I’m keeping my distance. Metaphorically speaking, since he’s just finished all the tech work and is now sitting next to me, his stool so close I could spit sunflower seeds ten feet past it. And I was always the worst spitter on every team.

  “Welcome, Wildcat fans,” Garrett begins. He’s wearing a maroon baseball shirt with gray sleeves and his last name stenciled across the back as if he’s someone special. You’re not, I want to say. I’ve known a hundred guys like you. But that’s a complete lie, and it makes me sad and angry at the same time. It’s such a waste. Another guy chewed up and spit out by a sport that doesn’t give a shit.

  He leans forward, elbows on the counter. As he runs through the opening routine, introduces the players and covers the team records, his fingers massage along the line of his scar. I don’t think he knows he’s doing it.

  “This is an important game for the playoff situation,” I say, focusing on my job. “But it’s also a big rivalry. Saguaro is only five miles away, and each school wants bragging rights.”

  “A lot of these guys grew up playing each other. Don’t expect them to be fooled by Scott Kingston’s breaking ball.”

  “Even knowing it’s coming, the question is whether they can hit it,” I add. “Kingston has one of the best arms in the league.”

  Garrett stiffens, tension radiating from him. His fingers press into his shoulder, and I wonder if he’s reinjured his arm. I try and focus on the game, but we’re stilted and clumsy as we get through an uneventful first inning.

  “Well, that was good,” I say sarcastically.

  “You’re flat today.”

  “I’m flat? You sound pissed off.”

  “Well, I’m not. I’m having a great time.” He flashes a fake smile and turns up the volume so our microphones are hot.

  I bite back a retort. Let it go, Walters.

  Jeez. Now I’m calling myself “Walters.”

  We make it through the next four innings the same way. Between changeovers, when Garrett usually turns off the volume, he leaves it on. Good. Fine. We don’t have to talk to do our job, and that’s what this is. A job.

  After the sixth inning, Scottie bangs on the wall. “What’s up with you two today? Sounds like you’re calling a funeral, not a game.”

  I bang the wall back. “Your funeral, if you don’t be quiet!”

  There’s a muttered jeez, which I’m pretty sure I deserve.

  Garrett says nothing but quickly lowers the volume. The booth is so thick with tension it’s a wonder we’re able to breathe. The teams switch positions on the field, and we both watch as if a bunch of guys jogging across grass is exciting stuff.

  “So,” Garrett finally says. “I jotted down a few ideas for interview questions today. I thought I could get some video on my own.”

  “And I can use my phone to record Mai asking about the pitching mound. You don’t need to be there for that.”

  “Good.” He doesn’t look away from the field. “We also need to schedule pictures.”

  “What?”

  “Pictures. I told you about that.”

  “When you insulted my sandals? I thought you were kidding.”

  He ignores that. “Can you do it Friday after school? That works for Annette.”

  “Annette?” I repeat. “Your ex-girlfriend.”

  “Annette, my friend.”

  Hurt wraps around my lungs, stealing my breath. The way he says her name—the way he says friend as if he’s reminding me that they are and we aren’t. The way they must obviously be more than friends if he’s scheduling his Friday around her. Pretty fast work even
for him, since yesterday he almost kissed me. “Sorry,” I snap. “I didn’t know we were working around your friend’s schedule.”

  He looks at me, his eyes as cool as glass. “She’s going to take the picture. She’s into photography and she has a nice camera. Is that a problem for you?”

  “No problem.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.” I turn back to the field, but I don’t see anything more than the stiff outline of Garrett beside me. “You’re the one with the problem.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been rubbing your shoulder ever since we sat down, so either you think if you rub hard enough a genie is going to appear, or else you’re in pain.”

  “My shoulder is not your problem.”

  “You’re right, it isn’t. It’s none of my business if you ruin your arm with your stupid Plan F or G or whatever it is now.”

  “I’d rather ruin my arm than spend my life in a cubicle.”

  I bark out a disbelieving laugh. “You think you’re too good for a regular job? And when baseball doesn’t pan out, then what?” I glance at his backpack and notice it’s zipped shut today. “How are you going to get a job as an accountant if you’re failing tests?” I pause as a thought flickers in the back of my mind. “Or, is that the plan? Make sure you can’t work as an accountant?”

  His lips press together, but the answer is clear in the defiant glare of his eyes.

  “Very mature, Garrett. Flunk out on purpose. That’s brilliant.”

  “I’m not flunking.”

  “You sure? Or are you dreaming that along with everything else about your future?”

  His mouth twists. “At least I won’t live a soulless life.”

  “Soulless?” The word stabs at me. Hard. “You think I’m soulless?”

  The volume goes up on our mics.

  Conversation over.

  Stupid jerkface. Tears burn behind my eyes. How could I have thought I liked him for even a minute?

  Thankfully, it’s a relatively quick game. We lose, three to one.

  It only takes a second to grab my backpack and slide my stool in place. I reach for the door, but before I leave, I say, “Bye.”

  I’m pretty sure it sounds like Eff you.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I’m wearing tutu undies,” Ciera says. “Want to see?” Without waiting for an answer, she flings up her pink skirt and yes, she is wearing undies with a fluffy white netting that looks tutu-ish.

  “Ciera,” I say. “Pull down your skirt.”

  “But aren’t they cool?” she asks.

  “I like them,” Kate says. “Mine have butterflies on them.”

  Annie looks worried. “I don’t know what’s on mine.” Her head dives down between her legs to check.

  There are only six girls this week, and none of the moms are in the room right now. This one is on me.

  “Girls!” I say, and all eyes pop up. “It’s not polite to show your underwear.”

  Ciera drops her skirt. “Why do they make them so pretty if no one else can see?”

  I pause for a second, because that’s actually a good question. “Well. You get to see them. And you know they’re pretty.”

  “But I want everyone to know.”

  “I understand, but underwear is private.”

  “Because it covers our private parts?” Annie’s eyes are wide.

  “Yes, that’s right!”

  “Boys don’t have pretty underwear,” Julia says. “But they have privates.”

  I am now officially out of answers. I’m also smiling ear-to-ear on the inside because how can you not?

  “Time for cleanup,” I announce. “And then cookies.”

  Immediately, the girls are in motion, scrambling for the art supplies scattered across the table. Thank heavens for short attention spans.

  We made our own stories with finger puppets, and it turned out to be a tea party with puppies, kittens, and one monkey. The best part is that for the past hour, I haven’t thought about Garrett once. Our argument yesterday left me miserable all day. Soulless?! Because I know the dangers of dreaming? Because I’m choosing to keep my feet on the ground and avoid the hard falls? That’s smart, not soulless. But I was so worked up, I even snapped at Mai. I wince as I think back to our short conversation this morning.

  “No finger gun?” Mai questioned when we saw Garrett before first period and he barely acknowledged me.

  “We’re not on shooting terms anymore.”

  “Anthony said Garrett is in a crap mood. He thinks it has something to do with you.”

  “It doesn’t,” I said flatly. And then I turned the spotlight on her. “And what’s up with you and Anthony?”

  “We’re still having fun.” She shrugged lightly. “I don’t want to be one of those girls who kisses and tells. But.” She shot me a grin. “I am no longer in danger of reaching the age of eighteen without ever having been kissed.”

  “Mai—really?” Excitement warred with surprise. She’d been flirty with guys before but never let it get that far.

  “He is an excellent kisser.”

  That’s when worry joined the mix. Flirtation was one thing, but was she getting her heart involved? I let my bad mood and every bad memory I had of baseball players crowd my mind. “Probably because he’s had a lot of practice.” It wasn’t fair and wiped the smile off Mai’s face. “I don’t want to see you hurt,” I added, my heart in my throat.

  She’d stopped and waited until I faced her. “If you actually looked, Josie, you would see me happy.”

  “Josie, we’re done,” Ciera says.

  I blink, a little surprised to find the art table completely cleaned. “Wow. You guys are fast.”

  “Do we get a prize?” Annie asks.

  “Absolutely!” Some days I have little extras for the kids. Stickers or bookmarks, that sort of thing. Today I grabbed a stack of pencils that were donated.

  “Kissing pencils,” Ciera says when I hand her one. They’re white with red lips running down the barrel. She proceeds to kiss each set of lips.

  Julia clutches hers in both hands. “Where’s the cookie man?”

  Annie nods. “The one from last week.”

  “Could he have a kissing pencil?” Ciera asks.

  My traitorous brain conjures up an image of Garrett’s lips. Almost kissing my lips.

  Almost, I remind myself. As in didn’t happen, will never happen.

  “No,” I snap, more sharply than I mean to. “He wouldn’t want a kissing pencil.”

  “I think he would,” Ciera insists.

  “Well, he isn’t here, and he isn’t coming back.” I force a smile to soften my words. “That was a one-time thing.”

  “If you gave him a kissing pencil, he’d come back,” Kate says. She’s the shyest and the one I’ve been trying to bring out. She’s clutching her pencil tightly over her heart as if she can wish him here.

  God. He’s got them mooning after him along with half the population at Cholla.

  “Cookie time,” I deflect with a big smile. Their expressions say, Fine, we’ll take a cookie. But we’d rather have the cookie man.

  Traitors. All of them.

  We finish up as the parents wander back in. “Until next week,” I say, “find magic in books and in the world.”

  I’m dragging the throne back to the corner when a familiar face sticks his head in.

  “Hey,” Bryan says. “How’d it go?”

  I hold up a pencil and smile. “These were a huge hit.”

  “What’s not to like about lips?”

  His grin is a little flirty, and so are his words. Is this the next step after origami? There’s an awkward pause because I don’t know if I should flirt back. “So what have you been doing this morning?” I ask, taking the safe route.

  “Logging in the trade books and updating the schedule.”

  “Anything good coming up?”

  “Actually.” He steps closer and leans against the opposite si
de of the door. He shifts the folders in his arm and crosses one black loafer over the other. He’s preppy but not in a stiff, starchy way. And there’s something unruly about his curly brown hair that makes me think he has an unbuttoned-down side, too. “There’s an author coming next Wednesday.”

  My heart skips. We are moving on from origami.

  “No dinosaurs or little kids, but the author who’s speaking is supposed to be interesting. She writes sci-fi. I don’t know if you like science fiction, if you like events, or if you’re free…” He trails into silence.

  He’s obviously a little nervous but mostly adorable. This is what I need. Book-loving, origami-making Bryan. “I haven’t read a ton of sci-fi, but I like it, and I like events, and yeah, I’m free.”

  His eyes smile into mine. He has nice eyes. Brown and wide-set. His smile makes me like him even more—it’s relieved and hopeful, the same things I’m feeling myself.

  “It’s at seven. I’m working until then, so maybe we can meet here?”

  My heart lifts. “It’s a date.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “My hands feel like they’re covered in skin.”

  Mom laughs as she puts the kettle on to boil. “They are.”

  “Not my skin. Old skin.”

  “One day your skin will be old.”

  “And I probably won’t like touching it, either.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake. It wasn’t that bad.” She sets out all the tea things. Mugs, spoons, metal infusers for the loose leaf and a plate to place them on when we’re done steeping our tea. I like our Thursday night ritual. What I don’t like is old person skin.

  “Why’d you make me do the moisture mask?” I ask. “You know I hate that the most.”

  “Because you’re going to be my partner on May fourth, and you need to be comfortable doing everything.”

  “There’s plenty of other stuff I can do. I don’t need to rub all that goo into bony, wrinkled necks.”

  “Either they’re bony or they’re wrinkled.” Her gaze narrows in disappointment—with me.