Throwing Like a Girl

by Weezie Kerr Mackey

  “We’ll pick you up at seven?” Mo offers.

  “Sounds great!” I exclaim, excited to have plans on a Friday night. I wonder if Nate will be there, but don’t ask.

  I grab my stuff in the locker room and race out to the lower school, where I see Rocky’s little brothers waiting. I wonder if I should say something, introduce myself. But they take care of it for me.

  “Hi, I’m Thomas,” the older one says.

  “I’m Ella. Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m Mikey. I’m eight.”

  “Hi, Mikey.”

  “Rocky says you play softball. Are you as good as her?”

  “Not from what I’ve heard.”

  Their car swings around the loop and screeches to a halt in front of us.

  “Cheese, you’re gonna kill somebody,” Theresa says from the front seat. She opens the door, climbs out, and gets in back grumpily.

  “Nice hit out there today,” Rocky says as I get in.

  “Thanks.” Then I turn to Theresa. “Are you sure you want to sit back there? I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Whatever,” she says, without looking at me.

  “Theresa’s cranky because she doesn’t get her license for two years. Just ignore her.”

  We drive for a little while, and I give Rocky directions. But then there’s a whole long stretch where she talks about practice. About the mistakes and the weaknesses. About how I can improve my hitting, catching, and throwing.

  “I’m sure the coach would really appreciate your input,” Theresa grumbles from the back.

  I realize that I probably could use some help, even though it’s hard to hear the bad stuff.

  Rocky glances at me and smiles. “I don’t mean to get all preachy.”

  “No, I’d love a personal coach.”

  When Rocky drops me off, Theresa gets out again and climbs in front. She doesn’t even look at me, but it’s hard not to stare at her because, even frowning, she’s so pretty.

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Sure,” Rocky says.

  “See you Monday.”

  I practically dance through the front door.

  My mother is verbally trying to force a taco salad from my plate to my mouth. I keep telling her I’m not hungry. But we’re both so excited I’ve been invited somewhere that she abandons the fight to get me to eat, and I abandon my wrath at being forced. Standing before the fridge in bare feet and wet hair, I drink a glass of milk and grab a handful of carrots to make her happy. I don’t tell her about tomorrow morning’s Safeway rendezvous for the Marriage Project—which she’ll call a date. I have to focus on one thing at a time: what to wear to the pep rally.

  The few weeks I’ve been here I’ve watched carefully the clothes kids wear to school, but I have no experience with the après-school attire. I call Christine’s cell for help and leave a message. I call Jen, who’s in the middle of an argument with her mom, and she says she’ll call back. But time is of the essence. Amy’s not much of a clotheshorse, so I skip her, and call my sister Beck in Boston. She’s eating pizza with friends and puts me on speakerphone. Not the kindest moment in the history of sisterhood.

  “Beck, I’m serious. I need to look casual and cool. But I don’t want to stand out in any way.”

  Laughter erupts and I can do nothing but wait for her reply. I’m desperate.

  “Jeans and my old light blue tie-dyed shirt.”

  “Not tie-dye,” someone groans in the background.

  “It’s a subtle tie-dye, just blue and white,” Beck defends. And then to me, in a quieter voice off speaker, “That shirt looks really good on you. It’s skimpy and faded and shows off your body. Seriously, it’s perfect.”

  I’m momentarily shaken by the compliment. This is rare for us. But I take her advice.

  When I come downstairs my mother glances at the outfit but doesn’t comment. Dad hasn’t gotten back from work yet and I’m watching the clock, hoping Mo gets here before he does.

  “Beck recommended I wear this,” I say.

  I’m not asking her opinion and it’s clear she understands that, when she says, “No later than ten thirty tonight.”

  I nod my agreement as Mo and Frannie pull into the driveway and run up the walk. They introduce themselves, bright and proper, to my mother, and I can see her relax a bit, relieved they appear to be good girls like Christine, Jen, and Amy. Mo looks adorable with her hair in pigtails and a Spring Valley sticker on her cheek, and Frannie’s casual in jeans and a T-shirt.

  We blast music in the car, not country western the way I pictured myself in cars with new Texas friends, but normal music—rock and rap. When we’re five minutes from the stadium I can already see the lights beaming into the sky as if an alien ship landed across the street from school. The lot is packed, and cars line the busy boulevard so Mo parks in the teachers’ lot, and we walk across the dark campus surrounded by kids of all ages, parents, even family dogs.

  “I didn’t think there’d be so many people,” I say.

  “They’re getting primed for the fall,” Frannie responds drily. “Don’t mistake this as support for the soccer team.”

  Mo tries to soften Frannie’s prejudice. “But at least people come.”

  “It’s something to do in the off-season,” Frannie says.

  “So, you hate football?” I ask Frannie, thinking about the fact that Nate played.

  “Not football, per se. It’s the principle of the thing. Should anything at any school be this adored and overfunded? I don’t care if you’re in Texas or Hawaii or wherever; all sports should be equal. Boys and girls.”

  Mo says, “We have this conversation a lot.”

  “And I don’t care if the football alums give a ton of money to the school. Good for them. Maybe if every athlete were treated the same, they’d all give money. Or maybe they already do and nobody remembers to mention it.” She shakes her head. “No more football talk. Sorry.”

  “Agreed,” Mo and I say together.

  The stands are full of people wearing purple and green. It’s hard to look at it for too long without shielding your eyes. The cheerleaders, Frannie explains, come out of retirement for this event and act put-out the entire evening. “They hang out with the football players until it’s time to go on, and then they have to fake like they’re into it.”

  Mo nudges Frannie. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about football anymore.”

  “There’s your boyfriend,” Frannie says, pointing out Nate.

  He’s standing with a group of football players, wearing his jersey, which after tonight I’m guessing he won’t put on again.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, giving her a playful punch on the arm.

  “Sorry, fiancé.”

  I smirk but can’t look away. I watch as his animated face gets swallowed up by a ring of secondary people—boys and girls, some from our Behavioral Science class—around the inner circle of broad-shouldered boys. I wonder if I’ll have a chance to talk to him tonight.

  We get caught up in the festivities—the school band, speeches by the headmaster and athletic director, an introduction of the spring coaches. I see Dixon and Coach side by side snickering like teenagers. Just as Frannie said, the bored cheerleaders get up and do their thing halfheartedly. Then the soccer team gets introduced by their coach, followed by a frenzy of cheers, and the team captain gives a speech littered with inside jokes and abbreviations I don’t understand. Finally, a confusing muddle of grown-ups insists on congratulating the football players on their previous season. Frannie just grunts. The whole thing takes about an hour.

  When it’s over, we move slowly down from the stands, to the infield, where kids our age are milling around as if there’s a destination, when there really isn’t.

  I literally bump into Nate without even knowing he was behind me.

  “Ella Kessler!” he shouts.

  “Hi,” I say as he gives my sister’s shirt an approving once-over. I’ll have to remember to thank h
er.

  “Big day tomorrow. Shouldn’t you be home getting some sleep?” He winks.

  Mo and Frannie stare at me. (And, if I’m not mistaken, a few random girls who are off to the side give me a good glare, too.)

  I ignore the girls beyond Nate. “Do you know my friends Maureen and Frannie?” I ask him.

  He’s the perfect gentleman. “I don’t think we’ve ever formally met.” He shakes hands with both of them and says, “I’m Nate Fontineau,” as if there might be any confusion.

  Later, in the car, Frannie concedes, “He’s not too bad, for a football player.”

  I tear through my entire closet trying to find another combination of casual, classy, and hip for my Safeway non-date, only to discover I shot my wad with the blue tie-dye. There’s nothing left.

  My mother, who I’ve filled in on the details, is carrying a laundry basket through the hall when she catches sight of the disaster. “Everything okay?”

  “No!” I shout.

  She laughs. “Oh, Ella, wear a black T-shirt, that faded denim mini, and black flip-flops. Clip your hair up; it looks prettier off your face. And wear a watch; they’re so practical. Done.”

  I have to slam my door so she won’t think her advice is worth listening to. Even though I do exactly as she suggests.

  He arrives right on time. I can see him from my window, parking on the street instead of the driveway, running a hand through his hair as he comes up the front walk. And then I realize, horror of all horrors, that I’m upstairs and my parents are downstairs. The doorbell rings and my father walks through the front hall in his, oh my God, slippers.

  The door opens, there’s a conversation I can’t exactly hear, and then Nate laughs. He laughs. I better make my move now. I take one last look at myself in the mirror—not bad—and fly down the stairs two at a time, tripping on the last three and sprawling there on the parquet floor at my father’s slippered feet.

  “And she’s safe,” my father yells, then kneels down.

  “Dad.” My voice betrays my disdain at his use of the baseball metaphor, and either I’m hallucinating, or he’s wearing his slippers and his bathrobe. Please, no.

  Nate says, “Are you all right?”

  I stand up and brush myself off, try to be Frannie, and make a joke. “How’d I do?”

  Nate and my father both beam at my mature ability to make fun of myself.

  My mother comes into the hallway, looks at my outfit approvingly, and asks, “What’s all the racket?” But before anyone can answer, she says, “You must be Nate. Nice to meet you.” She sticks out her hand and he shakes it, looking her in the eye.

  “We won’t be long,” I say to my parents.

  “Could you pick up something for me while you’re there?” my mother asks.

  “Sure,” Nate answers sweetly. Then, right in front of him, my mother gives me this look of approval and a slight nod. She may as well have just yelled, What a nice boy, Ella!

  She hands me a five dollar bill. “Bananas and a bag of sugar snap peas.”

  “Okay,” I say. “See you later.”

  We drive to the Safeway in silence until Nate says, “That was quite an entrance.”

  “Thanks. I practiced all morning.”

  He laughs again. I think Frannie is on to something.

  I notice he’s a very careful driver, which seems out of character, not that I know him that well, but he seems like the type to be roaring off into the sunset. When he comes to a complete stop at a stop sign, he looks over at me like he wants me to applaud. Even my mother doesn’t do that.

  When we get to the store he puts the car at the far end of the parking lot. “My dad always says to park far away from everyone so you won’t get clipped.” He shrugs. “It’s about the only piece of advice he’s ever given me.”

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  We walk in together and pause at the line of carts. “Should we get one?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Let’s just go crazy,” I say.

  He yanks out a cart and I reach into my back pocket for our shopping list and a calculator. “I forgot a pen,” I say, irritated.

  He leans over the cart and begins to push it into the produce aisle. “No prob. We’ll add as we go.”

  “But how are we gonna record everything?” I’m a tiny bit annoyed; I mean, he didn’t bring anything, not even a piece of paper.

  He thinks about it. “I’ll go up to the service desk and see if I can borrow a pen.” And he leaves me there with the cart.

  When he comes back he sees the bananas and sugar snap peas. “Look,” he says all sentimental. “Our first groceries.” And I crack up.

  An hour later we’re in the checkout line with our big cart and only two real items.

  “Maybe we should get a Milky Way to fill it up more,” I say.

  “Definitely. And a Snickers.”

  At the register I pay for everything, including his Snickers, and put my mother’s change in my wallet. Now I can throw everything into the plastic bag—our list, our notes, my calculator, my wallet.

  “Here,” I say, handing him the pen.

  “Okay. I’ll return it and meet you outside.”

  He comes to the watermelon bins in front of the store, where I’m standing eating my Milky Way.

  “Hey, you started without me.” He digs in my bag for the Snickers bar, and we lean against the bins, savoring the chocolate.

  “Does $286.95 seem kind of high for one week’s groceries?” I say.

  “Not if we don’t have to pay rent.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t eat meat every night?”

  “We should clip coupons,” he says.

  “I can’t believe how much cereal costs.”

  “I know. And milk.”

  I stuff my candy wrapper in the bag and notice my wallet’s not there. I get nervous and try to remember where I last saw it.

  Nate misunderstands my obvious look of panic. “Don’t worry,” he says. “We can eat mac and cheese until we figure out the budget.” He’s got this warm, funny, about-to-laugh smile, and before I tell him about my wallet, I think: I could marry him for real. But then I think of Sally and reconsider.

  “I lost my wallet,” I say.

  “You just had it inside.”

  “I know.”

  “Okay, let’s think about this.” Then he basically takes control, the way my dad would. He asks what it looks like, did I put it in my pocket or my bag? What was in it? Could it have somehow dropped into the watermelon bin?

  After a brief discussion, we lean over and carefully sort through the bins until a manager comes out to give us a hard time. I’m mortified. Could they call the police on us?

  Some lady comes up and asks if there’s a problem. Nate says, “Oh, hi, Mrs. Pedicini,” like it’s nothing that we’re here crawling around with the watermelons. “My friend Ella lost her wallet and we’re trying to find it.”

  The manager seems uncertain what to do. People are starting to gather because surely this must be some health violation, two teenagers pawing through the produce.

  Then Nate spots it. “I got it,” he says as his whole arm disappears into a sea of watermelons. “Must’ve just toppled out of your bag.”

  “Are we all through here?” the manager asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m really sorry.”

  As we head back to the car, Nate’s about to hand over my wallet, but doesn’t. “Wait a minute. When I asked you what was in your wallet, you told me ‘nothing.’” He opens it. “But this doesn’t look like nothing.”

  I groan. “Come on. It is nothing.”

  He rifles through my things, pulls out a card. “Chicago Public Library card issued to Eleanor Hamilton Kessler.” He looks at me. “That’s a pretty name, Ella.”

  I like his flirting, but at the same time I want him to stop. I don’t want him to find anything embarrassing. I don’t want him to ask me about home.

  “No, really. What’s Hamilton from?”


  “My grandmother.”

  “Gotta love the family names. Oh, here we go. A Blockbuster Video card. And a business card: Jane Burrows Kessler, Advertising Sales Rep.”

  “My sister.”

  “You have a sister.”

  “I have three.”

  “Three?” he says.

  Clearly one is enough for him.

  “They’re older. They don’t live here.”

  We finally get to his car, which is really nice, by the way, nicer than the one that Sally drove onto the field the first day of try-outs. It’s an SUV of some kind, black with darkened windows and a thin white line running along the side.

  “Please give my wallet back,” I plead, not really meaning to be so babyish or dramatic.

  He unlocks the car and opens my door for me. A nice gesture if he wasn’t holding my wallet hostage.

  We both get in. “Millennium Park Skate ticket stubs?”

  “From last Christmas. With my girlfriends.”

  “Ice skating?”

  “Yeah. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

  He chuckles. “You know, we’ve got a professional hockey team in Dallas now. And we’re doing better than your Black Hawks.”

  I still refuse to look at him, but I’ll have to ask my dad about this later.

  “And these would be?” he says, as he hands me a strip of pictures from a Navy Pier photo booth.

  I look down. “Oh.” I feel a little pinch of melancholy. “Yeah. That’s Christine, there. And Amy and Jen.”

  “And who’s the cute one?”

  I smirk.

  “Ahh. And here’s eleven dollars.”

  “My life’s savings.”

  He laughs and hands over the wallet. “That’s not nothing in there.”

  “No,” I say. “You’re right.”

  We don’t talk much on the drive home. In my driveway he leaves the motor running, and I know that whatever this was (not a date) is over.

  “Well, that was good,” he says. “Should we type up the notes?”

  They’re in my bag, of course. In my handwriting. “Sure,” I say, which clearly means I’ll be typing them up.

  “Do you have a free period before Mr. D’s class on Monday? We could go over our report together before we hand it in.”