Throwing Like a Girl

by Weezie Kerr Mackey

  Joy and Virginia both fly out, Kat gets on base by an error, and Rocky strikes out. Not a great beginning, but we hold them to a scoreless inning.

  Still, we’re lukewarm compared to the first two games. By the fourth inning we haven’t really snapped out of it, and Rocky pulls me aside.

  “How are we gonna keep up our energy and focus long enough to last two days at SPC?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But let’s play one game at a time.”

  She grins. Like it was a test, only it wasn’t. “Good advice, Ella.”

  Rocky gets a double her next at bat, but I haven’t gotten on base all game. I also don’t have any errors, so I’m not complaining. By the start of the last inning we’re losing by three, and I finally get a walk. On base I watch Coach, and she gives me the steal sign, which is touching her shoulder, shirt, or shoe, but it has to be “live,” which means she must give an indicator first. (Otherwise, it means she doesn’t want me to steal—it’s only taken the entire season for me to understand this.) The indicator is fist to palm or hand to hat. I always hate this, because I’m never sure if I catch the indicator or not. And then if I do, I wait for the sign and get confused about that. If someone on the sidelines could whisper it to me, it would make my life so much easier.

  This time, though, I take the chance that the sign is live and on the next pitch I go. Coach’s words pound in my brain: Don’t turn your head; don’t look down; run hard. I do, and as the catcher throws to second, I go for the slide. I can hear Coach yelling, “Down, down!” I’m sliding on my butt, leg tucked under—it’s clean—but the ball comes in right when I do. Not into the shortstop’s glove, but bouncing in the dirt, then up into my mouth.

  The pain is sharp and then dull. My eyes water and blur. The ump calls me safe and then calls a time-out. Coach comes running out to check on me and is followed closely by a trainer.

  “Ella, you okay?” She brushes dirt off me.

  “I think so.” Already I can feel my lip inflating and imagine my mother freaking in the stands.

  “Let’s take a look at that,” the trainer says. He holds my jaw in both of his hands and lifts my chin up like he’s gonna kiss me or something. He’s pretty cute, but way old, like at least thirty-five. “How does that feel, Ella? Does it hurt if I turn it this way?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “What about now?”

  I shake it again.

  “Okay,” he tells Coach, “she’ll have a fat lip, but other than that, she’s fine.”

  “A fap lip?” I look desperately at Coach.

  Her face reflects my horror. “It’s prom night,” she explains to the trainer.

  They leave me out there on the bag. At least I’m safe. The team is standing on the sidelines waiting for the prognosis. “Just a fat lip,” Coach yells. I can see Sally smirking as if this was part of her master plan. Then there’s Frannie doubling over in laughter, and Mo smacking Frannie’s arm in my defense. Only Rocky stands up and gives me two raised fists like I’m a hero.

  I do eventually cross the plate. I am our only run. But we lose, anyway. It isn’t slaughter rule this time. Four to one is pretty respectable, considering our first game against them five weeks ago.

  After the game, the catcher says, “Sorry about the lip.”

  “No prob.” I’m trying to be a good sport.

  Her coach comes up, too. “Good game, First. Ice that all night and you’ll be fine by morning. Ten minutes on. Ten minutes off.”

  I’ll get right on that—as soon as I get back from prom!

  After my parents survey my damage and decide I’m okay, I get on the bus and Coach counts heads. When the bus pulls out, Coach comes over and crouches by my seat. “You okay?”

  I nod, barely. The ice pack on my lip has numbed my whole head.

  “Look,” she says, trying not to smile. “Only the coolest guys take athletes to prom. He’s gonna love that lip. Trust me.”

  I ride back to campus in silence, because I’m tired and because no one can understand what I’m saying. I close my eyes and lean my head against the seat. I can’t believe I’m going to my first dance, the prom, with a fat lip. I try not to think about anything else except the beautiful dress that’s hanging on the back of my closet door with a little tag that reads, color: sea foam. And it helps to ease the sting, for now.

  Standing in front of the mirror in a towel, hair still wet from the shower, lip still huge from the game, I wonder if I can manage this: get dressed up, do my hair, eat dinner (with the lip), and go to the dance. I mean, I wondered the same thing before, like how would I talk to Nate with such a skimpy dress on, that sort of thing. But the lip adds a whole new dimension to the picture, literally.

  My mother comes into my room. “Ell?”

  “In here,” I say.

  When she enters the bathroom, I see the concerned look on her face in the reflection of the mirror. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine,” she says. “You can hardly notice.”

  “Mom.”

  She smiles as if she’s trying to hold back the laughter. Seriously, she is, because when she talks, it’s that bubbly sound you can’t hide. “Honey, Nate’s not going to care about it.”

  “You can say the word, Mom. You can say lip.”

  “Come on. I’ll help you with your hair.”

  “I can do it. I’m fine. Really.”

  And so she leaves me alone. I turn on music and pull on my beautiful sea foam dress. My sister Beck would tell me to wear a robe and put the dress on last so I don’t muck it up. But I decide to do it my way. It’s time to establish a few more ground rules for myself. By myself.

  Okay, so I might need some help with the makeup. I actually have a makeup case, which I got for Christmas when I was like ten. It came with all the fake kid stuff such as bubble gum–flavored lipstick and sparkly blue eye shadow. The red metal case looks like a mini tackle box, with a slotted shelf that lifts up when you open the lid. I’ve put earrings in its compartments, and they look like little fishing lures. The bottom part of the case has my makeup, only slightly improved from when I was ten: blush, mascara, eyeliner, and lip gloss. If Christine, Jen, and Amy were here, they’d help. If any of my sisters were here, they’d jump right in, too, though they’d be much bossier than my friends. They’d say, “Ella, don’t do it like that.” Then they’d impatiently do it for me, rather than show me how it’s done.

  Leaving the case on the edge of the sink, I go to my bedside table and call Christine. She’s there, thankfully, because she’s the only friend I’ve got in two cities who can help me with makeup.

  “What’s wrong with your voice?” she says.

  I explain the situation.

  “Oh, no.” There’s a long silence. “How much time do you have?”

  We set to work, washing, moisturizing, covering up. Thank God there are no zits in sight. At one point, when I list the contents of my makeup case, she says, “That’s it? I thought you were in Texas.”

  “Funny.”

  “Okay, okay. Let’s keep going.”

  We skip the eyeliner since Christine says I’d do it wrong, anyway. Mascara on top lashes only. Blush on the “apples” of my cheeks (who knew my cheeks had apples?) and dusted onto my nose for a “sun-kissed” look. I don’t tell her that all that playing softball has me sun-kissed for real.

  Finally we get to the lip.

  “Okay, is it top or bottom that’s…fat?”

  “It’s top and bottom on the left side.”

  “Okay, apply gloss with care, obviously, dabbing on the swollen part. And then just roll your lips together if you can. Make the best of it. Act like it’s an asset, not an obstacle.”

  “An obstacle to what?”

  She pauses. “Sounds like you already know.”

  And we’re giggling as we hang up.

  It’s nearly seven. I hear a car in the driveway. I peek out the window. Nate’s too beautiful in his tuxedo. My mother rushes in. “Ella, he’s he
re. Is that how you’re wearing your hair?” She’s practically hyperventilating.

  “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  “It doesn’t look like you’ve even brushed it.”

  “I don’t brush my hair. I just let it dry. And I put some of this in it.” I hold out a small bottle of what my sister Beck calls “product.” “It calms your hair down. You might think about using it.”

  She says, “Very funny.”

  I take one last look in the full-length mirror on the back of my closet door. The sea foam looks grayish blue at the moment and matches my eyes. I put on tiny fake diamond earrings, and they work well with my tousled-hair look. All in all, as long as I don’t rub my eyes and smear the mascara, and as long as no one stares at my mouth, I look okay.

  My mother says, “Your father is going to take pictures of you and Nate.”

  “Mom, no.”

  “Yes. Ella, it’s your first date, your first dance. You’ll thank him later for taking a few pictures.”

  “Not with this lip, I won’t.”

  She ignores me.

  The dress swishes as I glide downstairs. Nate is leaning over my dad’s shoulder to show him something with the digital camera. Then he stands up and sees me.

  And I’m extra careful not to trip down the last step.

  I’ve never seen anyone look at me this way—a long, wordless gaze like in the movies. I’m not sure if it’s the lip or the dress or the fake diamond earrings that catch the light.

  “Ella,” he says.

  “Hi.”

  We stare at each other for a minute, and the strangeness falls away. I can’t believe how happy I am to see him. There’s been so much going on with me and Rocky and softball, and, of course, Sally lurking in the background, that I worked myself into a panic over his intentions and whether I could safely like him or not. But here he is.

  “I have something for you,” Nate says, taking two long strides and grabbing a corsage from the table by the door. Opening the clear box, I see the pretty, purplish flower with baby’s breath around it.

  My mother says, “Oh, Nate, that’s lovely.”

  “It’s for your wrist. I wasn’t sure if the pin-on kind…well, I didn’t know if it would work with what you’d be wearing.” He smiles.

  I take it and slip the band around my wrist. It anchors me in a way. I tell him, “I got a fat lip.”

  He tries not to laugh. “I heard. Are you gonna be all right?” he asks.

  I pretend to consider this for a moment. “I think so.” The truth is, I don’t even care about the lip anymore. I’m too happy.

  “Okay, then,” my father interrupts. “Three pictures. That ought to cover all the bases.” He winks, and I roll my eyes.

  When we’re done, my father clears his throat. “Midnight, Nate.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In the car, I say, “Sorry about my lip.”

  “Ella, please. That’s crazy.” After he starts the car and turns down the radio, he says, “You look really beautiful.”

  We drive slowly down the street. He keeps looking at me, smiling. Finally he says, “So I had this idea for dinner.”

  “Okay.”

  “Wait, I didn’t tell you yet.” We both laugh.

  “So,” he continues. “I used to bus tables at this diner. I know it’s not romantic, but I thought it might be fun, and we’d get first-class service because I know everybody there.”

  “Sounds great.” And I take a deep, relieved breath, because that’s something I hadn’t thought about: how to eat at a fancy restaurant without your mother there to tell you what fork to use or to stop drinking out of someone else’s water glass.

  The diner is a fifties kind of place with old-fashioned music and lots of neon signs. Frannie will love for me to describe it in detail because of her Grease obsession. I try to start memorizing things: the mini Coke bottles; the jukebox with Elvis songs; the waitresses in short, pink uniforms. A hostess takes us to a booth in the back, and various members of the staff come over to chat with us, waitresses and cooks and dishwashers. Nate introduces me, and they’re all very polite, not mentioning my lip once.

  Without looking at his menu, Nate orders a double cheeseburger, curly fries, and a strawberry shake. I decide on a hamburger, cheese fries, and a chocolate malt.

  Then everyone leaves us alone to stare at each other. It’s strange being here in our fancy clothes, but it’s fun, and it helps me relax a little.

  Nate says, “I know you’ve got SPC in Tulsa this weekend, so you won’t be around for Show Boat, but I was wondering if you’d like to go to the dress rehearsal on Thursday night. It’ll be like the real thing, except the seats won’t be full.”

  Everything he says, every time he opens his mouth, my heart soars. I just can’t get over the fact that he’s talking to me, that we’re on a date together, that we’re going to prom tonight.

  I realize I’m so excited I forgot to answer him. “I’d love to go,” I tell him.

  And then we start talking about the musical and how it’s going. About softball and Rocky and how much I love playing and being on the team. He tells me he knows Anthony and how hard it was when he blew out his knee. We talk about Nate going to SMU in the fall and trying to be a walk-on for the football team. We talk about how good the food is here and how cool this place is. And we don’t talk about Sally at all.

  I feel like Cinderella, and I wish Prince Charming and I could stay here the whole night, because it’s just us. Because he doesn’t make me feel embarrassed about my lip or the fact that I’ve never been to a dance or worn a fancy dress. But it’s nearly nine when we finish the hot fudge sundaes. He pays the bill and leaves the tip, and then there’s no other reason to stay.

  Back in his car, I say softly, “That was really the best dinner I’ve ever had.”

  He looks over at me, and says, “Me, too.”

  Prom is at the downtown Hyatt. We’re almost there when Nate says, “I know things have been weird with you and my sister.”

  That’s one way to put it.

  “I’ve wanted to explain it to you for the longest time. So you wouldn’t be…I don’t know, scared off by her.” He glances over to see if I’m still with him. “I know I give her a lot of slack, but there’s more to it.…” He stops for a minute. Thinks.

  I study my hands in my lap, the huge corsage on my wrist.

  “My mother is pretty crazy and she drinks too much. And I barely see my dad. Sally seems to get everything dumped on her. I don’t know how that happened. She used to be the princess in the family. Back when everyone was happy and my parents were still together.” He sighs, like it feels good to say it. “If she didn’t have me to stick up for her, she wouldn’t have anyone.” After a moment he adds, “Do you think that’s messed up?”

  “No,” I say honestly, unable to imagine what life is like living with an alcoholic. I think back to the day I overheard Gwen and Joy talking about Sally’s mom, and the whole picture becomes clearer.

  “I have to look out for her,” he says.

  “I understand.” And I actually think I’m starting to.

  He reaches over and takes my hand. The corsage blocks my view of our clasped fingers, so I close my eyes and just feel the warmth radiating up my arm. We don’t talk the rest of the way, but he hums again and that makes me smile.

  At the hotel, people are arriving in limos like it’s a red-carpet film premiere. And the girls do look like movie stars bound up in their dresses and hair clips. The guys, though, still look like kids playing dress up. Except Nate, who drives us carefully through the chaos and parks far away from the fray. He grabs my hand to help me out of the car and holds on tight as we walk past people huddled in the parking lot, who are probably drinking or smoking before going in.

  In the lobby a sign reads: WELCOME SPRING VALLEY DAY SCHOOL PROM-GOERS. I want to make a joke about how lame

  that is, but I don’t. A nice lady directs us to a wide, winding staircase. She says, �
��You’re in the second-floor ballroom.”

  Nate looks at me. “Is it that obvious that we’re prom-goers?”

  I just want to kiss him. I mean, not so much with my embarrassing fat lip. But come on, he said exactly what I was thinking. I love that.

  Lucky for me, the room is pretty dark. It’s decorated with fairy lights and two huge, dimmed chandeliers. We go to a table where a teacher asks for our tickets. Nate drops my hand to dig into his coat pocket, and I look around, feeling slightly unhinged. My chest and lip are thumping in time to the loud music.

  In the few seconds before we disappear into the crowd of people, I wonder if I’ve truly changed since moving here. Then Nate takes my hand again, and we walk through the crowd, the huge wrist corsage bobbing between us, and I feel I’ve found something I lost a long time ago. Like a new sense of myself. A confidence I never had before.

  I don’t see one person I know. But all these guys keep coming up to Nate, slapping him on the back, saying hi to me, leaning into him and whispering. Maybe they notice my lip. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter. He seems a little distracted by these interruptions and finally says to one buddy, “Hey, listen, Ella and I just got here and we haven’t had a chance to get out on the dance floor.”

  And so, it’s come down to this. Dancing is like singing for me. In the shower, in front of the mirror, I’m unbelievable, but would I ever sing in public? No way. I’ve been blocking out this part of the night, but now it’s in my face.

  I do know how to dance. I went to dancing school in seventh and eighth grade. I learned the waltz, the fox-trot, and the box step. But that’s a big difference from an actual dance where I’m with someone I like and want to impress. And no one will be doing the fox-trot. There are no steps to follow here.

  This makes my lip throb.

  I guess he can tell. As Nate drags me out onto the dance floor, he says, “This isn’t gonna hurt a bit.”

  But, actually, everyone seems to be having fun and making it up as they go along. Prince Charming, I’m happy to report, is slightly off the beat. He’s actually kind of a bad dancer. I start giggling, and he nods his head, as if to say, I’m the man. Which makes me laugh harder.