“What flyer?” The bell rings. “Let’s talk at lunch.” She races toward her homeroom.
All I think about in homeroom is trying out for the team. How many girls will show up? Can I actually make the team? When I get to my first class, though, softball flies right out of my mind.
Jamie is there, standing by his seat, looking kind of pale. He’s holding his side and his face is all scrunched up like he’s in pain. When he notices I’m watching him, he drops his hands to his side and slides into his seat.
I can’t stop staring at him.
Jamie. Stealing.
Those two words again. He turns and glares at me. I try to look away, but my mind won’t let me. Abbie comes in and stands next to me by her seat, blocking my view of Jamie. I sigh in relief.
“Hey.” She puts her books down on her desk and leans against it, looking down at me. “Your face is all red. Are you feeling sick?”
“No. Just stupid.”
She sits. “For what?”
I shrug. “Nothing.” Then I remember the flyer. “Hey. Did you know your softball coach is looking for another player?”
“Yeah. We need at least one more to fill our roster, otherwise we can’t compete.”
I bite my lip. Tap, tap, tap my desk.
“What?” Abbie asks.
“I was thinking of trying out for the team.”
“Really? I know you love the game, but you have—” She stops, clears her throat. “I’m sorry, Izzy. You just took me by surprise. I think it’s a great idea.”
“You were about to say I have Tourette Syndrome and how can I play a sport when I can’t even get it together in gym, right?” I grunt. Bend over and touch the floor. Try to hide the hurt and anger.
“No. That’s not it—”
Before she can finish, Mrs. Morgan comes in.
I can see Abbie trying to get my attention, but I ignore her. A little later, she passes me a note with a stick drawing of a girl holding a baseball bat with my name under it. Beside it is a sad face with a teardrop and “sorry” written under that.
It’s a small thing, but it means a lot to me. The hurt goes away and my entire body relaxes. I smile and mouth, “That’s okay.”
Before I try out, I want to talk to Abbie to find out if her coach is the kind of person who would accept someone like me. When I tried out for the tennis team last year, I was so nervous that I twirled and touched the ground before every serve. The coach cut me on the first day. She said she had too many players, but I knew better. I saw her rolling her eyes and shaking her head after each twirl. Dad wanted to go see her. He said something about discrimination, but I told him no. I don’t want to go where I’m not wanted.
Same thing with gym. I’m pretty sure I could do better if the teacher had a little patience with me. But the class is big and time is limited. If the softball coach is like either one of them, I’m out of there.
Chapter 7
“Softball? Really? When are tryouts?” Hannah pulls an apple out of her brown lunch bag, sets it aside, and grabs a bag of chips.
My stomach flips. I so wish I’d asked Abbie not to mention anything in front of Hannah. What if there’s only one spot and Hannah tries out and gets it? I grunt and tap, tap, tap Abbie’s shoulder.
“What?” she asks me.
“Nothing.” I take a bite out of my sandwich and chew, chew, chew.
Abbie turns back to Hannah. “Do you play softball? We can use all the help we can get. Our team is pretty bad.”
I swallow the food and grunt at the same time. This cannot be happening.
“I’ve played before on a couple of teams at different schools.” Hannah glances my way. “Maybe we can go try out together this afternoon. It could be fun.”
I shrug. “Sure,” I manage to say though it’s the last thing I want.
“How about I meet you both at Coach Grant’s office?” Abbie asks. “I can introduce you to her. She’s really cool.”
Hannah high fives Abbie. “That would be great.” She turns to me, her hand up. I tap, tap, tap the table; grunt; manage a weak high five back. Hannah smiles. It’s getting harder not to like her.
The rest of the day drags. I can’t get the softball tryouts out of my mind. I’m having some serious doubts. Maybe this isn’t such a great idea. In fact, maybe it’s a stupid idea.
But Abbie did say that the coach was cool. And I’d love to be part of a team. Instead of watching baseball with my dad, I’d really love to play softball.
Play softball.
Play softball.
Play softball.
Ugh!
When the last bell rings, I take my time getting to my locker, still not sure if I should go to tryouts. But if I don’t, I might never get those two words—play softball—out of my head. I pack away my books and make my way, slowly, to the gym. No one is there. Then I remember we’re meeting at the coach’s office.
When I finally get there, Coach is talking with Hannah and Abbie. I hesitate at the door.
This is stupid. I’ll never make the team. She’ll probably cringe when she sees me tic.
I’m about to turn and leave when Abbie spies me. “Coach Grant. This is the other girl I told you about, Izzy Palmer.”
“Come on in.” Coach waves to me.
I disguise a grunt, turning it into a cough and make myself not touch the floor. I can’t seem to get my feet to move so I’m stuck, hanging onto the doorframe, looking stupid.
“I don’t bite, Izzy.”
I cough again. And stay put.
“Abbie, why don’t you take Hannah out to the field and introduce her to the other players?”
After they leave, Coach sits behind her desk. “Come sit.”
She waits while I struggle with the decision of staying or leaving.
Play softball.
Play softball.
“I want to play softball!” spills out of my mouth before I can stop it.
Coach nods. “Okay. That’s a great goal. Now come sit, and we’ll talk about it.”
I force myself to let go of the doorframe and walk across the floor. When I finally sit the first thing I do is pick up a pencil from her desk, toss it in the air, and catch it three times. Now I’m on a roll and can’t stop myself. I bend down and touch the floor, sit up, touch my chin to my shoulder, grunt, and pick up the pencil again. I take a breath, let it out slowly, and force myself to put the pencil down. I bow my head. The last thing I want is to see the look of disgust on her face.
“Izzy?” When I don’t look up Coach says, “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I have to ask. Are you just nervous or is something else going on?”
I lift my head enough to peek at her face. She doesn’t seem annoyed or anything. “What do you mean?”
Coach hesitates, then says, “I don’t want to presume, but I had a student once who did a lot of the same things you just did. He told me he had a neurological condition. I don’t remember what it’s called, but I was wondering if you have a similar problem.”
How do I answer this? Was she okay with that “other student”? Will knowing I have “a neurological condition” make her not want me on the team? Should I even tell her what that condition is called?
I’m not sure what to do or say. Then that awful sensation starts deep down in my belly and works its way slowly up through my throat, tickling it along the way. I swallow, but it won’t stay down. I know it will eventually win, so I finally give in to the grunt. Which leads to me bending, touching the ground, punching the air—and grunting again.
Coach watches and waits for me to finish. “Do you want to talk about this?”
“Does it matter?” I ask. “I mean, if I have a problem, does that mean I can’t try out?”
“No, Izzy. That’s not what I mean. When I had that other student I did some research. I found out that there are athletes, entertainers, doctors—all sorts of professional people—who have neurological conditions and are successful at what they do. I see no
reason you can’t be, too. I just want to know where you’re coming from.”
“Okay.” I tap, tap, tap her desk, touch my chin to my shoulder, and let loose with a grunt. Coach Grant doesn’t cringe or look away. I decide to take the chance and tell her.
“So, yeah. I have Tourette Syndrome. That’s what it’s called.” I look down at my hands. I’m holding them so tightly I can feel the nails biting into my skin. “But I don’t like talking about it. I don’t want to say anything to the team. I just want to try out like everybody else does.”
Coach nods. “That’s fine if that’s the way you want to play it. So what kind of experience do you have?”
I squirm in my seat. “The flyer said no experience needed.”
“You’ve never played?”
“No, but I know all the rules and watch a lot of baseball games.”
Coach Grant’s eyes catch mine. “More important to me than experience is commitment. I don’t want to spend time and energy teaching someone who quits just because it gets rough. And it will get rough. With your problem, it might be even rougher.” Coach hesitates, like she’s watching to see if I’ll look away, but I hold her stare. “If you’re willing to give 100 percent, then I’m willing to give you a chance.”
Relief fills my belly. I can’t stop the smile from spreading across my face. “Thank you, Coach. I—I really appreciate this.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” She stands and starts walking toward the door. “You haven’t been to one of my workouts.”
I’m not sure what she means, but I don’t care. I’m just happy to have a chance to prove to myself that I can do this. I’m still sitting in the chair thinking about all that Coach said when I hear, “Palmer! Get your butt moving. Now!”
“Yes, Coach.” I jump up and follow her out the door.
When we get outside, I allow Coach to get a few yards ahead. Then I let out a joyful grunt, followed by touching the ground, which I turn into a somersault. When I stand, I glance around to see if anyone was watching. Luckily, they‘re all in the dugout, talking to each other.
Coach didn’t say no. In fact, unlike the tennis coach, I think she’ll give me a fair chance. I might actually get to play softball after all.
Play softball.
Play softball.
Grunt. Punch. Punch. Punch. Somersault.
Play. Softball!
Chapter 8
When we get to the dugout, Coach says to take the field for warm-up. Hannah and I follow Abbie and plop down next to her on the infield.
“Why are we sitting?” I ask. “I thought this was practice.”
Abbie wrinkles her nose, rolls her eyes. “You’ll see. Be ready for a monster workout.”
“Great,” I grunt. And this time, it’s not a tic.
We start with stretching and warm-up exercises, which are pretty easy though some of my muscles are a little sore by the time we’re done. Just when I’m thinking this isn’t so bad, Coach calls out, “Ten laps around the field!”
Ten laps? Is she serious? I grunt and start running with the team.
Little by little, I fall behind, which is embarrassing and brings on the touch-the-ground tic, which makes me fall behind even more. Abbie and Hannah fall back and check on me, but I tell them to go ahead. I don’t want to hold anyone back.
I still have half a lap to go when the last girl is done. They’re all sitting on the field, watching me. Waiting for me to finish. Embarrassed, I run as fast as I can—which isn’t very fast—and force myself not to bend over and touch the ground.
When I reach Abbie and Hannah, I drop down next to them and bury my face in my arms, glad that the humiliation is over. I’m still panting when Abbie leans toward me and says in a whisper, “You better catch your breath fast. We’re not done.”
Before I can ask what she means, Coach calls out, “Jumping jacks!”
I am so tired I don’t have the energy to even tic. I force myself up and do the exercise, sort of. I clap my hands over my head, but my feet stay glued to the ground. Coach watches me but doesn’t say anything. After a bazillion jumping jacks—okay, maybe just 25 of them—my legs are so shaky I can hardly stand, even though I barely moved them.
I am so out of shape.
It’s those darn medications I have to take. They make me so tired I don’t feel like doing anything physical. Plus, they make me so hungry that I want to eat all the time. All my clothes are starting to get tight on me. I hate taking them!
“Everything okay?” Startled, I look up. Coach is standing over me. “You look a little pale.”
I glance up at her, shading my eyes with my hand. “I’m fine. Just not used to the exercise. I’ll do better next time. I promise.”
She tilts her head, studying me, then nods. “You need to get yourself a baseball cap for practice.” Stepping back, she calls out, “Okay, everyone. Take your field positions. Izzy and Hannah, come with me.”
We follow her to the dugout. She digs into a long, green bag and pulls out a couple of gloves. “You can use these for now, but you’ll want to get yourselves one as soon as possible.”
“Thanks, Coach. I have a glove somewhere in a box at home,” Hannah says.
Of course she does.
“Izzy, since you haven’t played before I assume you don’t have one.”
I shake my head and slip on the worn, old glove. I punch, punch, punch the sweet spot, loving the way it feels on my hand. So soft and warm. I take it off, examine it. It has creases and spots where the leather is worn, and—
“Izzy.” Coach’s voice brings me back to the room. “I’m sending you out to right field. Hannah, you can back up Ali on second base for now. You said you’ve played that position before, right?”
Hannah nods.
“Okay. Go take your positions.”
I walk-run to right field since my legs are still sore. Meghan, who plays center and I know from English class, throws a ball to me. It’s a good pitch, and I almost catch it, but it rolls out of my glove. My toss back to her is truly pitiful. It doesn’t even make it halfway.
I hobble over to it, pick it up, and throw it again. This time it almost gets to her. Meghan shakes her head and throws to Ali at second base. That’s the last I see of the warm-up ball.
After a few minutes, Coach stands at home plate and calls, “Heads up, everyone.”
She starts hitting balls to the different positions. One drops a few feet in front of me. I grab it and almost get it to Hannah. She scoops it up and throws it hard to the catcher. Right on target.
Will I ever be that good? A tinge of jealousy latches onto a grunt that makes its way up my throat and out of my mouth. I follow it up with a couple of grunt-coughs and hope nobody notices.
I try to stay alert for the next ball that will come my way, but the waiting is hard. I have to constantly fight the impulse to take off my glove and throw it in the air or bend down to touch the ground.
While I’m standing there trying not to tic, a bunch of guys run by the field, just on the other side of the fence. I turn and watch. The backs of their T-shirts read, “MKR Track.” Trailing at the end is Jamie Barnes.
I didn’t know he was on the track team.
As Jamie runs by he pulls up his shirt to wipe his face. His side is bruised. I guess that’s why he was holding it in class the other day.
Jamie Barnes.
God, he’s cute.
Jamie Barnes.
Jamie Barnes.
“Okay, let’s change it up a bit.” Coach’s voice brings me back to the field. She holds the bat out toward first base. “Abbie, come hit some balls. Meghan, take the mound.”
My stomach feels like it’s filled with marbles and they’re rolling round and round. Please don’t call on me to bat, Coach. Please. Please. Please.
I sigh with relief when practice is over and I’m still in the field. This is so much harder than I thought it would be. I’m not sure I’m up to it. In fact, I think trying out might have been a big—make th
at huge—mistake.
When I get to the dugout Coach calls me over. “That wasn’t so bad for the first day was it?”
“I did awful.” Punch. Punch. Punch. “I only caught one ball.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll get better.”
I hand her the glove she’d lent me, but she pushes it back at me. “No. Take it home with you for now. Use it until you get your own glove.”
I reach out and poke, poke, poke Coach’s arm, then throw the glove in the air and catch it three times.
Coach lifts an eyebrow. “You have something you want to ask me?”
I bite my lip, turn a grunt into a cough. “Do you really think I’ll get better? I mean, I missed just about everything. I’ll understand if you don’t want me on the team.”
Coach puts her hand on my shoulder. “You were so busy trying to impress me that you didn’t notice the other newbies. None of them did well, Izzy, and they have a couple of practices under their belt.” She gently taps my shoulder three times and smiles. “You’re going to do just fine. Now go on or you’ll miss your ride home.”
Abbie and Hannah are waiting for me when I come out. “Well? How’d it go with Coach Grant?”
“Coach is cool.” I grin at the memory of her tapping my shoulder, like she understood and it was no big deal.
“Yeah, she is. Come on. My mom said she’d give you and Hannah a ride home.”
I glance at Hannah. So this is the way it’s going to be. No more Abbie and me. Now it’s Abbie, Hannah, and me.
“I was thinking,” Abbie says. “How about I come over after dinner and practice catching with you? Hannah, do you want to come? I’m sure my mom wouldn’t mind picking you up.”
Hannah nods. “Sure. Sounds like fun.”
Fun for who? The two of them whipping the ball to each other while I run after all the ones I miss? I don’t think so.
“Thanks, Abbie, but I have a lot to do tonight. Maybe another time.”
Abbie shrugs. “Okay. Hannah, do you want to practice?”
“Sure,” Hannah says. “I’m a little rusty. It’s been a while since I played.”
Darn. This is not turning out right. “Well,” I say, “maybe I could put off some stuff until tomorrow.”
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