“I’ve only got lunch free.”
“Okay. I’ll find you.”
“We could meet in the library,” I offer.
“You don’t want to be seen with me?”
I gasp. “No.”
“Okay, okay.”
“It’s just we probably can’t work well in the cafeteria.” Plus, I don’t want Sally to see us.
“Absolutely.” He grins. “I get it. You want to be alone with me.”
I open the car door and wonder for a fraction of a nanosecond if he ever thought this was sort of a date, and if he did, would he want to kiss me? I lick my lips without thinking, then almost smack myself for being so obvious. How could I have done that right in front of him?
But he doesn’t say anything, except, “Hope you’re not mad about the wallet thing.”
“No, it’s fine. Really, it was more embarrassing to have lost it in the first place than to have you looking through it.”
He stares down in his lap. “No, Ella. I mean I took your wallet out of the grocery bag. Just as a game. I was gonna have it magically appear when we got in the car, and then I’d look through it in front of you and ask you questions.”
I’m staring at him.
“It was just a way to find out about you. Something fun to break the ice. You weren’t supposed to notice it was gone, but then you did, so I guess I went along with it.”
“And then you pretended to find it?”
“What was I supposed to do? Mrs. Pedicini was there and that manager guy.”
I’m confused and feel a spark of fury in my belly. “I can’t believe you did that.” I snatch the bag of bananas and sugar snap peas off the seat.
“Wait. Why? Nothing happened.”
“But I was embarrassed, and you thought it was funny.”
He looks at me like he’s really trying to figure it out. It occurs to me I’m not actually that mad. The store manager didn’t call the police and there wasn’t anything too revealing in my wallet. It’s not such a big deal. But I can’t find my way to telling him that.
“I’m sorry,” he says, frowning. “I guess that was really stupid.”
Now I don’t know what to do. “I have to go.” I get out and slam the door, not too hard to seem like a brat, but hard enough to seem like I’ve got my own ground rules and know who I am.
When I get inside, my mother is hanging up the phone. “Liz is driving me nuts with these wedding plans. Anyway, how’d it go?”
I take out our notes, hand her the bag, and say, “If $286.95 sounds like the right amount for one week of groceries, then I guess everything went just great.”
I stomp up the stairs in a final attempt at drama and throw myself onto the bed. Mom follows me and sits down. She doesn’t say anything, but it doesn’t matter.
“Mother,” I say into the pillow. “Leave me alone. For once.”
She hesitates, then gets up and closes the door behind her. I begin to sob as I realize I’ve now overreacted to both my mother and to Nate. And I’m not sure how to fix it.
Maybe I need to review my playbook.
Christine, Amy, and Jen call Sunday afternoon. They’re near Oz Park listening to some awesome band I’ve never heard of, and I can hardly understand them, they’re screaming so loud and laughing into Christine’s cell.
“We miss you!” they yell together.
“I miss you, too.”
“How’s Nate the Great?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“What?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“We can’t hear you, but we love you. Bye!”
And the line goes dead.
I’m so lonely my head hurts. I don’t have any friends. Not really. Not ones that hang out in my bedroom and rehash every dramatic moment of the day. Worse, it seems like I can’t even talk to my old friends, and it’s not because of the music. Part of it is trying to describe my new life without making it sound better than my old life. But meanwhile, they seem to be getting along just fine without me.
On Monday I make it to lunch without seeing Nate. I’ve got our notes typed up and tucked safely in my folder. I skip the lunchroom altogether and go straight to the library. I have no idea if he’ll show or not, but I find a table that looks out on the quad so I’ll see him if he leaves the cafeteria.
I put my head down on the table for a minute and close my eyes, hoping for Nate to come, and for me to be able to say I’m sorry about how I acted. For everything to go back to normal. If there ever was a normal for him and me.
This is a big week. Our first game is Thursday, and I want to play so badly, but I know there’s still a lot I don’t understand about what happens on the field. I’m not sure it’s possible to learn enough by Wednesday night, when Coach makes the lineup, to start Thursday. Maybe I can get Rocky to help me. Maybe she’ll give me lessons.
When I open my eyes, I feel better. It calms me to think about softball, even though it fills me with nervous excitement, too. Softball seems like something I may actually have a little control over. Something in my new life that isn’t impossibly complicated.
Then I see Nate on the quad with his friends. They’re throwing a football around, because all boys in Texas throw footballs whether they played on the team or not, and a few of them gather along the sidewalk in a group, laughing and leaning in at something.
Nate breaks away from the group, trots over past my window, and disappears around a corner of the building. I stand up. Then sit down. Then turn halfway in my seat so he’ll see me when he comes in.
He’s out of breath as he enters the room and catches my eye. His face grins, the whole thing—mouth, eyes, scrunched-up nose. He lifts his open palm to wave. I wave back.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” he says.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come. Sorry about Saturday.”
“It was dumb, what I did. I’m the one who’s sorry.” He sits down across the table from me, sees his buddies playing on the quad. Smiles.
I follow his eyes and ask about the guys huddled by the sidewalk. “What’re they doing?”
He laughs. “Burning pennies.”
I don’t say anything for a minute because I’m not sure I heard him right. Then, “It’s a game?”
“No. No, they just do it. You know, for fun.”
Burn pennies? That’s so random.
“Anyway, let’s go over the notes,” he says. And I think we’re back on track. Sort of.
Practice is grueling. Coach breaks us up into infield and outfield. I’m with infield. Frannie and Mo (and Sally—thank you, Coach) are with outfield. Kat and LeaAnne, our catchers, go off to help with outfield, hitting fly balls and grounders to two separate groups at a very fast pace. I can see Frannie hustling between the two lines, joking around. I wish I were with them because they look like they’re having fun. My group, on the other hand, is split up between starters and nonstarters. The starters take all the infield positions (except for catcher). And then the nonstarters get to be base runners. Oh joy.
We start off bunting—well, we simulate a bunt with a bat in our hands, since we can’t be trusted yet with an actual pitch of an actual ball. No. It looks something like this: Gwen winds up and fake-throws the ball; I stand at the plate and fake-bunt the ball; then Coach tosses out a ball up the third-base line or the first-base line. And everyone scrambles. Coach yells out who is supposed to be going for the ball and who should be backing up first or covering third in case a runner advances.
Next we work on base stealing. From first to second, then second to third. Coach explains every detail of where each position stands, who backs up, and so on. She tells us where to go next if the ball is overthrown—which, thank you very much, it is. A lot. We runners get clobbered. Sometimes, if we run too fast, our batting helmet falls off and Coach scolds us. She says, “This is not about stealing bases. It’s practice for the fielders so they know what to do in every situation.”
That’s nice
, but not a great way to make the runners feel important.
Next: rundowns between first and second. Again with the wayward balls. How much of this are we expected to handle? Meanwhile, I could use a water break.
Midway through practice everyone gets combined again, and we learn sliding techniques. Coach has Kat demonstrate. First bent-leg, then pop-up, then hook, and last, the dreaded headfirst slide.
Coach explains, “This is the fastest slide but it has drawbacks.”
“Like smooshing your boobs?” Frannie asks. We laugh.
“That, too. But also, it can’t be used to break up a double play and lots of times that’s exactly what you’ll want to be doing.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“Another reason is that the runner can’t recover quickly enough to go on to the next base if that’s a possibility.”
I look around at nodding heads. Does everyone understand?
“And never use it sliding home because the catcher can block the plate,” Kat says, swatting the dirt off her butt.
“Right,” Coach says. “And that is dangerous for obvious reasons.”
I can’t follow any of this. But then we’re moving right along to a grassy part of the outfield where Coach asks us to take off our cleats. Between the upper school and the library, my old friend Coach Dixon is driving a maintenance vehicle with a thick, cushy high-jumper’s mat flopped over the bed.
“Being the assistant track coach has its benefits,” Coach says. “Thanks, Dixie.”
“Anytime, Coach.” She unloads the mat. “Have fun, girls.” Then she climbs back into her tiny truck and rides off.
We practice sliding for what feels like hours, much to the amusement of the construction workers. Maybe an audience isn’t the best idea.
Finally we run the bases. Ten times with hardly any break to catch our breath. When it’s all over, we basically limp off the field. At least I do.
In Rocky’s car, I collapse onto the front seat, but she’s full of energy. “Great practice today,” she begins. “Wiped out?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“But seriously, that was important information for you. Not the baserunning part so much. More the positioning of the fielders. You know, for hits and bunts and steals.”
I can hardly look at her. Her enthusiasm blinds me. “Yeah. Sure.”
“And you learned a lot.”
I squinch my whole face up to silently question what she means.
She looks exasperated. “Look, every ball that’s pitched, every ball that’s hit, you have to know where to be and how to react. That’s crucial for you defensively. Even if that ball is nowhere near you.” She looks at me so long I’m afraid she’ll drive off the road.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay? You mean, you get it? So, if you’re playing first and the ball goes to left field and there’s a runner on second, you know exactly where that ball should be going?”
“Uhhh…”
“Home. It’ll be going home, but Debra Lester doesn’t have the best arm, so she’ll probably hit the cutoff, which should be Virginia Dalmeyer; she’s excellent at third, but she’s playing my position, so it’ll go to Jenny Yin, since that’s who the coach put at third today.”
“You’re confusing me.”
Rocky shakes her head. “You’re not trying hard enough.”
“Yeah? Well, Virginia Dalmeyer’s not playing your position anymore. That’s her position. You’re not on the team. Remember?”
Rocky’s eyes are on the road and her expression doesn’t change, but I know that I’ve probably said the worst thing I could say to her.
Theresa and the boys are noticeably silent in the backseat. I’m such a loser. Why did I say that? Why did I hurt her feelings on purpose?
“I’m sorry, Rocky.”
“No.” She looks at me, the shine gone from her eyes. “You’re right. I’m not on the team.”
“You’re helping me so much. But it’s hard to follow. I don’t know half of what you’re talking about. Or Coach. For instance, why can’t a headfirst slide break up a double play?”
“If you’re down low, the shortstop can still make the play, but if you’re sitting up you get in the way.”
I look out the window to process this.
“My guess is you were pissed about having to be a base runner for the whole practice.”
“Not the whole practice.”
“Okay, whatever. You’ve got to be good at that, too, you know.”
“Coach didn’t even want us to be good base runners. She told us we weren’t the ones that mattered in these drills. What mattered were the fielders and the accuracy of the throws and catches.”
Rocky’s voice gets loud. “And she’d be right. She’s the coach.”
From the backseat, Theresa says, “Could y’all stop fighting. You’re upsetting the boys.”
“I’m not upset,” Thomas says indignantly.
We hardly talk the rest of the way home. Now I’ll have to tell my mother the car pool didn’t work out, and she’ll want to know a million details.
In my driveway I say, “Could you get out for a second so I can apologize properly?” I seem to be doing a lot of this lately.
“Don’t worry about it,” Rocky says.
“No, please.”
“Fine.” She leaves the car running, gets out, and stands in the front yard, hands on hips.
“I don’t know why I said that. Everyone wishes you were on the team. It would change everything. Kat says we could dominate if you were playing short. And I could get good enough to play first, if you were there helping me.”
“You don’t need me,” she says. “You only need to listen and watch.”
“Isn’t there some way, Rocky?”
She shakes her head and glances back at the car. “No. I don’t play anymore.”
“But…”
There’s so much I’ve learned about Rocky from other people that I have to remember not to bring up her brother or aunt helping out since she hasn’t told me anything.
“I gotta get going,” she says.
I follow her to the driver’s side. “What about throwing with me. At your house. You could teach me to throw better, like a girl.”
Her eyes narrow. “You want me to teach you to throw like a girl?”
“A real girl. Like you.”
She laughs. “I don’t think so.”
“You could help me learn about positioning and crucial defensive playing.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She gets back in the car and slams the door. “Go take a hot shower. You’ll need it. You’re gonna be sore tomorrow.”
She backs out of the driveway with a screech and tears off into the sunset. But before she makes the turn off my street, she puts her arm out the window and waves to me.
We’re still hanging on by a thread.
Not only am I sore on Tuesday, but Wednesday, too. Waiting to find out if Rocky will throw with me sometime this week and if I’ll play against Fort Worth Country Day in our first game tomorrow makes the pain worse. Neither prospect looks too good. Rocky hardly talked to me the whole way home yesterday. And during the drills at practice today, Julie Meyers played first with the rest of the starting lineup.
I try to remember what Rocky told me. Listen to the coach and watch what the experienced players do. Try to be thinking about softball the whole time, not Nate or the fitting I have for a bridesmaid’s dress for my sister’s wedding or the fact that I seem to be off Sally Fontineau’s radar at the moment.
But then I overhear Gwen and Joy talking about Sally’s mother getting pissed off that Sally brought the car home late, since their BMW was in the shop. How many cars do they have?
Gwen says, “Her mom had to be at some fund-raising event downtown so she chewed Sally out for being irresponsible, once again. When Sally reminded her she was late because of softball, her mom went ballistic.”
; “What happened?”
Gwen shrugs. “She went on and on about how Sally wasn’t good enough to play in more than two innings last year, so why would she subject herself to that again? You know Mrs. Fontineau. We’re not talking Little House on the Prairie here.”
“God.”
“I know. Then she told Sally how worthless it is for girls to play sports and that she should worry more about getting herself into any college that’ll accept her so she’ll have something to do after high school.”
I stand there trying not to listen. I’m supposed to be listening to Coach. I’m up next in the three-player line-relay drill we’re doing. But all I can hear is Gwen talking about Sally’s mom. Nate’s mom.
My mother would never say something so mean to me.
I’m in a rotation with Kat, who absolutely fires the ball at me. I catch it, turn, and whip it as hard as I can to Jenny Yin. Which isn’t very hard. Or perfectly on target. But it gets there, and I trot off to get behind the last person in the next line. Coach is standing on the other side of the field, but she saw me catch Kat’s ball. She saw me pivot and throw. She says, “Good job, Ella.”
And this makes me very happy. What doesn’t make me happy is the reading of the lineup at the end of practice. We’re sitting on the bleachers passing around water bottles as Coach talks about the other team, their record from last season, their strong returning players. She talks about what we have to remember when we’re batting and fielding. And then she reads the lineup: Julie Meyers is starting at first base. I get that sinking feeling, but then I have a reckless moment of hope that maybe Coach might have put me in another position—right field, possibly. But she stops reading, and I’m not starting anywhere in tomorrow’s game.
I tried to prepare myself for this, but it’s still a blow. Even though I’m not good enough to throw on target or smart enough about positions, I still had this crazy little hope.
Mo and Frannie accompany me off the field. They aren’t starting, either.
“You okay?” Mo asks.
I nod, because if I speak it might come out squeaky, like right before I cry. They drape their arms around my shoulders to comfort me, and a small part of my frustration melts away.
Throwing Like a Girl Page 8