Throwing Like a Girl

by Weezie Kerr Mackey

  My mom drives up and has to lean over to unlock my door because the Blue Bomber is so old it still has manual locks.

  “Hi,” I say in a sing-songy voice. I shove my bag on the floor and say it before she can: “How was your day, Mom?”

  “Fine. How was yours?” She’s looking amused, with a half smile.

  “Good, really good.” I smile at her, and her face lights up. It’s amazing how easy it is to make my mother happy. “Can we stop somewhere on the way home?”

  “What did you have in mind?” my mother asks playfully.

  “Sport Town. I need to buy a softball glove and some cleats.”

  I don’t know what I expected. Maybe I thought she’d pull over and hug me or let out some wild, whooping laugh, then ask a million questions. But all she does is grin. “Sure, sweetheart. I think there’s one near the mall.”

  And for some crazy reason, that makes me extra happy. Probably because it means she knows me well enough to know I’m relieved to spill my secret at last, but I’ll talk about the details later. On occasion, moms can really get you.

  The cute check-out guy at Sport Town says something that makes me reconsider his looks and his brain. “This is a lefty glove,” he says, before scanning the price tag. “Which means it goes on your right hand, not your left.”

  I give my mother an Is-this-guy-for-real look.

  “You still want it?” This question he directs to my mother.

  She takes a deep breath. “If it were up to me, I’d say no, and then I’d ask to see your supervisor to tell him why the store has lost a customer. But it’s not up to me. It’s up to my daughter. The lefty.”

  I can’t think of anything better to say.

  “Yes,” my mother says annoyed. “We’ll take it.”

  The guy has no idea what’s taken place. Or how close he came to seeing the full fury of an insulted mother defending her daughter.

  In the parking lot she’s still fuming. “Don’t marry that boy, Ella,” she blurts.

  I burst out laughing. “Mom, he’s, like, twenty.”

  At dinner I tell my parents the details of tryouts, except the part about everyone making it. And then my mother completely embellishes the Sport Town episode. My dad’s cracking up so hard he has to push his chair out and lean over to catch his breath. It’s pretty funny. We sit at the table forever until my mother notices it’s almost nine and says, “Lord, Ella, it’s late. You’ve got homework and practice tomorrow. I want you in bed before eleven, young lady.”

  I can tell things are about to change around here. And I think I’m gonna like it.

  I see Nate in the cafeteria the next day. I’ve started sitting with Frannie and Mo (although today I’m also looking around for Rocky O’Hara), and when I get up to clear my tray, he comes over from his table of cool sports guys.

  “Hey, I forgot to get directions to your house yesterday in class.” He has a notebook open and a pen poised.

  I give him my address and the general area where I live. I still don’t know the exact street names.

  “Right, I’ll find it.”

  When we get out on the quad, Frannie and Mo give me the eye. “What was that all about?” Frannie asks, point blank.

  “What?”

  “Do you know who that is?” Mo asks.

  “I know he’s Sally’s brother, if that’s what you mean. He’s in my Behavioral Science class. We’re just partners on this project.”

  “The Marriage Project?” Mo asks, eyes wide.

  “Yeah, did you take that class, too?”

  “Everyone knows about the Marriage Project,” Frannie says. “You can’t believe the drama. Real-life couples breaking up. Jealous boyfriends. It’s insane. I’ve never taken the class personally.”

  I think of the evil eyes I receive daily and start to get the picture.

  “I think he likes you,” Mo says.

  “He’s only, like, jumping up from the jock shop to talk to you,” Frannie adds. “It’s Sandy and Danny Zuko all over again.”

  When I look clueless, she says, “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen Grease.”

  “Oh, right, that movie my parents loved a million years ago?”

  Frannie smirks.

  “We’re just going to Safeway on Saturday—that’s it!”

  Frannie gives Mo a knowing look. “It always starts at the Safeway.”

  Mr. Dominick breaks up the couples, girls in one corner, boys in the corner farthest from us. I don’t even look for Nate. We drag our chairs to our respective spots. As everyone settles in new seats, Mr. Dominick explains that we’ll be giving little progress reports on what we’ve accomplished so far, and that the others in the group may feel free to comment. He stresses that this is very informal. But still, I immediately feel sick.

  The girls all seem to be sitting with their friends, and I keep trying to remind myself that I haven’t even been here two weeks. I can’t expect people to treat me like a best friend. I take a deep breath and open my spiral notebook. Someone is already talking. She says, “Chris and I are so getting divorced. I can feel it.”

  Everyone laughs. I laugh, too.

  “He wants me to do everything related to the house,” she continues, “which is everything Mr. Dominick has assigned us: groceries, budgets, finding a place to live. I mean, please. I’m the surgeon. He’s only a struggling actor. I think he can fit in a few things between his auditions. We just yell at each other on the phone. He wants to live in a condo with a swimming pool.” She rolls her eyes.

  “So does Mike,” another girl says; I think her name is Alicia.

  “Kevin wants to live on a golf course and buy a flat-screen TV,” says another.

  It goes around like this. When it’s my turn I feel my face get hot. “Nate and I prepared a budget based on our salaries, and we’re going to Safeway on Saturday to figure out what we can afford to eat each week. That’s as far as we’ve gotten.”

  I look up and bite the inside of my cheek. Should I have made it seem like we don’t get along and everything he does bothers me?

  There’s a long, and what I would call uncomfortable, silence.

  “Are you meeting there?” Alicia asks.

  “What?”

  “At Safeway.”

  “He’s picking me up.”

  Alicia looks alarmed.

  “At your house?” another girl asks.

  I nod.

  A few girls look at each other like they’re completely confused. Another girl scribbles something on her spiral notebook and subtly pushes it to her neighbor. Two others scoff and laugh. And then it’s someone else’s turn. No one looks at me anymore. Thank God.

  After class I want to disappear, but Nate comes up to me. “Did you say nice things about me?” he asks as we walk out of the room together.

  “I…I didn’t say much,” I stammer. “I talked about our budget and getting groceries. That’s it.”

  He stops as we step out into the hallway. “What’s the matter?”

  I can’t look him in the eye. I know it sounds stupid, but I think I’m about to cry.

  “Ella,” he says. “What’s wrong?”

  Even though I’m feeling massively confused, I’m able to manage a clear thought: “Every girl in this class hates me because I got you as my partner, and because you’re actually doing the work, and we’re going grocery shopping together, and you’re picking me up at my house.…” I’m seriously on the verge of crying. It’s completely embarrassing.

  When I finally look at him, his mouth is open as if he’s going to say something, but he waits, his eyes warm and patient.

  “All the other husbands are losers,” I blurt out.

  This makes him laugh, chin lifted and eyes closed. After a moment he says, “Ella, don’t worry about them. Let’s go do our thing on Saturday and ace this project, okay? Ten o’clock?”

  “Right,” I say, but does acing this project mean ruining my chances of ever having friends here?

  In the
library, my hideout before practice, I look for Rocky near the windows facing the softball field, but I can’t find her, so I wander down to the desks by the stacks and unload my American History book. After a few minutes I hear voices. Girls. I hold my breath and don’t turn a page, hoping no one will discover me and my peaceful study spot. But they do. Sally Fontineau and Gwen and Joy: the holy trinity. I try to act casual as they come toward me like Charlie’s Angels with their lip gloss and pretty hair.

  “Chicago, I wanted to let you know that you’ll have to change jerseys,” Sally says, snotty and bored at the same time.

  I look at her blankly.

  “The softball number you picked yesterday? Five? It’s taken. That was my number last year.”

  “Oh…”

  “Joy is three, Gwen’s four, I’m five.” She shrugs. “That’s not too complicated, for you, is it?”

  There’s a pit in my stomach that I always feel when I’m nervous. It prevents me from being able to say anything remotely coherent, as if my brain freezes up. I have it now, that feeling. I’m incapable of arguing with Sally Fontineau.

  “Fine. Whatever,” I end up saying.

  She doesn’t raise an eyebrow, doesn’t even look disgusted at my inability to defend myself. She just smiles as if this was easier than she thought.

  “I’ve already told Miss Ruby you’re coming in. You should probably exchange it before practice because you don’t want to be late, right? Don’t want to disappoint the new coach.”

  I guess this is my cue, but I don’t move. A few seconds go by. She levels me with her evil eye, and I cannot believe Nate is related to her.

  And then, out of nowhere, Rocky appears from behind me. Sally looks up startled for a second then says, “Hey,” all cool.

  Rocky doesn’t acknowledge Sally or Joy or Gwen. She taps me on the shoulder and says, “Hi, Ella.”

  I turn and say, “Hi,” but I don’t quite have my voice yet.

  “Are you getting any studying done?”

  I don’t say anything. I can see this really isn’t about me.

  Joy and Gwen are already walking away when Sally throws out her parting words, “So anyway, don’t forget to see the Rubes before practice, Chicago.” She points at Rocky. “Don’t be a stranger.” Then she turns and leaves.

  After they’re gone I let out a sigh and say, “What’s up?” as if my whole life is no big deal and I’m just coasting along.

  Rocky laughs at me, which I appreciate, but not that much.

  “Don’t let her get a hold on you, Ella. She’s not mean on purpose. She can’t help it. She’s got her own set of problems going on at home.”

  I don’t ask details because whatever it is, it hasn’t affected Nate.

  “Anyway, I’ve been thinking maybe I could drive you home after practice, like a car pool. You get out at the same time we do. It’d save your mom a trip. You could tell me about softball.”

  “Wow. Really? That’s so nice.”

  She shrugs. “Yeah. Well, think about it and see what your mom says.”

  “I will. Thanks.” I start to shove my books into my backpack.

  “You heading off to practice now?”

  It sounds like she misses it. “Yeah. But I need to go change my uniform with Miss Ruby first.”

  “Is that what it was all about? With Sally? She’s making you change your number?”

  “She’s not making me,” I say. After a minute I add, “They’ve got some number sequence thing going, and it was her number last year.”

  “Look, I saw them yesterday, Ella. I saw them waiting for the team for a half hour. Obviously they skipped the part where Coach hands out the uniforms. That’s not your fault. You shouldn’t have to change your jersey.”

  “Well, at this point what am I supposed to do?”

  She’s quiet.

  “It’s not worth it,” I add.

  She nods. “Okay. I get that.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  She laughs. “I’ll remember that next time the Terrorizer Bunny comes down to visit you in the stacks.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “I meant what I said. She’s got nothing on you. And you’re a much better softball player, anyway. Trust me.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “And you’re sure it’s okay about the carpooling? I live past the mall. Plus, your sister. She won’t mind?”

  “Theresa? She’ll be fine.”

  In the locker room I go up to Miss Ruby’s window and begin to explain about the jersey, trying to be as vague as possible. She nods, turns, and hands me another one. “Will this do?” she asks, giving me a wink.

  I unfold it to check the size, and the number jumps out at me: SIX.

  “Uhhh…,” I say.

  I can’t be six with three, four, and five taken by Sally and her thugs.

  “I don’t think…”

  “Oh, darlin’, this is the perfect response to the whole ball of wax. You have to take some kind of stance.”

  Even the equipment room lady has an opinion. And more courage than me apparently.

  She looks at me for a minute, then says, “I have a few more numbers for you in case you change your mind. But why don’t you think on it a while and let me know?”

  I look Miss Ruby in the eye. She has a really pretty, round face, and even though her eyes sink into her wrinkly folds of skin, they shine when she smiles.

  “Thank you, Miss Ruby,” I say, shoving the number six jersey into my bag.

  “You’re welcome, Miss Ella,” she says right back.

  I hit the field with Frannie and Mo just before three thirty. We see the coach stomping around, picking up debris all over the field.

  Frannie says, “Coach, what is this stuff?”

  “Construction workers,” she mutters.

  “They’re throwing trash on the field?” Mo asks.

  “Not exactly.” Coach sighs. “But it’s from the construction site, this material or scrap or crap, whatever you call it. I’m surprised I haven’t found any nails or shards of glass.”

  “Well, at least we know they’re eating well,” Frannie says, raising a handful of fast-food cups and wrappers.

  Everyone who is here (and it’s just about everyone, except Sally, Gwen, and Joy—big surprise there) starts to help pick up.

  “Every day I get here early and clean this field,” Coach says. “Every day I tell my boss we need to talk to someone over there. Every day—nothing.” She dumps an armload of junk into the garbage can by the bleachers.

  “Why don’t you go over and say something yourself?” Marcie suggests.

  “Why don’t we stretch out and start throwing,” she says back.

  So we do. In the middle of stretching, Sally arrives. I completely ignore her. As we start throwing back and forth, I look at the library, and almost wave to Rocky, who might be watching.

  Coach, in the meantime, is looking up at the girders along the Peyton Plastics building, where our construction workers will gather after four.

  Suddenly she says to us, “Fine. I’ll talk to someone. I’ll go after practice today.”

  I glance at Sally. She has no idea what Coach is talking about, and I feel a certain satisfaction in this.

  “Why not go now?” Frannie says, happy to instigate. “Take us with you.”

  Coach opens her mouth.

  “Safety in numbers, right?” Frannie says before Coach can utter a word.

  Coach looks around at all of us. “All right. We go over, demand to talk to someone and,”—she glances at her watch—“get back here in ten minutes. Anyone not okay with that?”

  When one girl raises her hand, everyone near her slaps it down and tells her to live a little. And that’s that.

  In a clump, we do a team run down the school drive to the main road and take a right. We jog inside a row of orange cones and construction vehicles.

  Sally’s near the back, but I can still hear her panting, “Where-the-hell-are-we-going?”

&n
bsp; “Stay inside the cones,” Coach yells back to us. We follow her through an opening in the fence and slow to a walk as a group of construction workers notices us and one steps forward.

  “Can I help you ladies?” He’s got a big old grin on his face and a belly to match.

  “I need to talk to someone in charge about a litter problem created by Peyton Plastics, carried out by your construction company, and inflicted upon the Spring Valley campus. Can you help me with that?”

  His smile fades, along with the brightness in his eyes. “Right over there.” He points to a white trailer with ALCHEMY CONSTRUCTION written on the side. “You go on in, and tell Gloria about your complaint.”

  We move like a huge blob to the trailer. It’s strangely exciting to be protesters.

  Inside, it’s tight with all of us standing there. Coach pushes up to the front and I can’t even see the lady called Gloria, but she’s got a thick accent. “Good Lord in heaven,” she says, laughing. “I’ll be right with you ladies.”

  She says good-bye to whoever she’s talking to and hangs up the phone. “Now, how can I help you?”

  “I need to meet with the person who runs this job site,” Coach says.

  Oh, that was good. Forceful.

  “That would be Mr. Elliot. Let me look at his calendar.”

  “This won’t take long at all. I guarantee.”

  “And your name?”

  “Addie. Lauer. I’m the softball coach at Spring Valley, and we have a bit of a trash problem on our field.”

  “Oh, you’re the gals playing right in our armpit, aren’t you?”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “And you say you’ve got trash on the field?”

  “Every day. And every day I pick it up, and it’s getting worse. Not to mention there would be a great liability for Peyton Plastics and Alchemy Construction if any of my girls were to get hurt by some stray piece of debris.”

  “Or a flying McFlurry cup,” Frannie says, always the comic relief.

  Gloria takes this in stride. “Let me see if I can get ahold of Mr. Elliot for you.”

  The tiny trailer full of girls is silent as Gloria picks up the phone. And just as she does, the door beside me opens and this totally gorgeous construction guy walks in. He’s dirty and sunburned and completely undaunted by the gaggle of girls, obviously amused by the chaos. He calls out, “Gloria, are you in here somewhere?”