I sighed and went to my desk. The trash can was gone. Mom must’ve taken it last night. I clenched my fists, thinking back on all those hours bent over my sketchbook. It felt like I’d actually killed Hogan and Willoughby and everything else I’d imagined.
But maybe I could do something better. I dug my pencil case out of my backpack and found a blank sketch pad. Back at my desk, I started a rough outline of the cover page for a new comic.
When I was done, I sat back and held it up.
It felt good to draw again. I was thinking I could still use a lot of my earlier ideas. Willoughby would be in it, of course, because I loved drawing him. And Selena would be the brains of the operation, so Hogan could be even funnier. They’d banter in a way that showed they liked each other, but there didn’t have to be a romance. They could just be really great friends. I’d treat this more like a series, with different adventures on different planets. Instead of trying to save Earth, which was kind of depressing now that I thought about it, they’d be forging ahead into unknown territory. Each planet could be unique, like one would be entirely covered with ice, and on another, everything would be huge, so Hogan and Selena were like ants in comparison.
So many ideas came flooding in that I got really excited. I was so involved that I barely noticed when the doorbell rang.
A minute later, I heard a familiar voice. I got up and ran into the living room. Dad was standing there, peeling off a jacket. “Man, it’s hot down here. Hey, kiddo!”
I threw myself into his arms. “Dad!”
“Big game tomorrow, right? Thought we’d make a weekend out of it.” He gave me a hug. Over his shoulder, I saw Summer standing in the hallway, looking uncomfortable.
“You must be Summer,” Mom said stiffly, reaching out to shake her hand.
“Yeah, hi!” Summer pumped Mom’s hand vigorously. She was wearing crisply ironed shorts, a fancy-looking shirt under a blazer, and lots of gold necklaces. “I’m sorry we didn’t call. I know this is a surprise.”
“It’s fine,” Mom said with a thin smile.
Dad rumpled my hair. “Still in jammies, huh? Is it a school holiday or something?”
Mom and me exchanged a glance. “You didn’t tell him?”
“I figured you might get angry if I called him,” Mom said apologetically.
“Tell me what?” Dad asked.
“I’m not playing in the game,” I said, staring at the floor.
“Why not?” Dad sounded surprised. “I thought you were their star pitcher.” He examined me more closely. “Are you sick?”
“Not exactly. I, uh—” I glanced at Summer. “It’s kind of private.”
“Got it,” she said, holding up both hands. “I’ll go wait in the car.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Mom said. “Come into the kitchen for a cup of tea.”
The way she said it made it clear that tea wasn’t optional; Summer’s smile faltered. But she followed Mom into the kitchen.
I took Dad into my room to explain. As always, he was incapable of staying still; he moved around lifting this, poking that. At my desk, he picked up the sketchbook and said, “Hey, this is pretty good!”
“Thanks,” I said, resisting the urge to take it away; he was putting his fingers on it instead of holding it by the edges.
“So, a comic book?”
“Yup.”
“Cool.” Dad set it down and asked, “So what’s this about you not playing?”
I told him the whole story, even the part about them throwing gum at me. By the end, his hands were fists and the vein in his temple throbbed, even though I’d made it through without crying.
“I told your mother that lying was a mistake,” Dad said, shaking his head.
“But if everyone knew right away, they might’ve been like this all along,” I said defensively. “I probably never would’ve made any friends.”
Dad sighed. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. I’m sorry, kiddo.” He gave me a pained look. “I hate not being able to fix things for you like I used to.”
“That’s okay,” I mumbled, thinking it was funny that Mom had basically said the same thing.
“So are you going back to school?”
“I don’t know,” I said, examining my hands. “I guess.”
“Because you could always come live with me and Summer,” he offered. “We’d be happy to have you.”
“She moved in?” I asked.
“Last week.” Dad looked guilty. “I should’ve called to tell you about that, huh?”
“I guess we’re not really good on the phone.” Which was true; our Skype conversations usually only lasted a couple of minutes. He’d ask about school and baseball, I’d tell him everything was fine. I’d ask what level he’d reached on a video game, and he’d tell me. And then we’d hang up.
“Well, I want to change that.” Dad reached out for me. “Come here.”
I leaned into his shoulder. He smelled like aftershave and eucalyptus. I flashed back to a memory of being carried to bed, snuggled against his chest.
His offer for me to move back to San Francisco and start over in a new school was tempting. But Alejandra was right: there was no guarantee it would turn out any different. “I should stay here,” I said. “Mom would miss me too much.”
“Okay.” A long pause, then he added, “I’ll come down more.”
“That would be cool.” I almost said that I’d have a lot more time on my hands now that I was done with baseball, but just thinking it gave me a pang.
As if he’d read my mind, Dad said, “Since you’re not going to the game, maybe we could do something fun instead. Summer really wants to get to know you better.”
Hearing her name made me think of Mom. What were they talking about? It was probably seriously awkward. “We should check on them.”
“In a second.” Dad leaned away so he could see my face. “You’re okay?”
“I will be.” Saying it out loud made me realize it was true. This had been a terrible week, but I didn’t feel hopeless anymore. It wasn’t going to be easy, or fun, but Alejandra was right: I had choices. And people who loved me for who I was. The rest would work itself out somehow.
Dad and Summer took me out to my favorite Mexican place for dinner. It was loud and bright and filled with people. Summer made a face when they handed her a sticky menu, but she dug into the food once it arrived. I had chicken enchiladas—my favorite—with extra guacamole. I practically inhaled the food; after days of barely eating, it tasted unbelievably good.
The whole time, Summer talked nonstop about their wedding. It sounded like it was going to be a really big deal, at some vineyard in Napa next summer. She went on and on about the flowers and the music and all sorts of other details. I tuned her out after a while. Dad didn’t seem to be listening much, either; he was doing that thing where he just nodded periodically and said, “Uh-huh.”
“Sorry.” Summer threw me a rueful smile. “All this wedding talk is pretty boring, huh?”
I shrugged. The truth was, it was mainly bringing back how she’d asked me to be a bridesmaid. At the time, that had been the worst memory of my life. Nico managed to knock it down a few pegs, though.
“Well,” she said, taking a sip of her margarita. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Okay,” I said warily.
“Remember when I told you about my cousin Jordan? She’s, um . . . like you,” Summer said, looking flustered.
“Yeah,” I said, vaguely remembering her talking about a transgender cousin.
Summer tucked her hair behind her ears and said, “So Jordan goes to this amazing two-week sleepaway camp in Vermont. She absolutely loves it.”
“A transgender camp?” I said.
Summer nodded, and I glanced at Dad. That didn’t seem like the kind of thing he’d support, but he was giving me a hopeful look.
“What do you do there?” I asked, picturing daylong PFLAG meetings. I could handle a couple of hours a month, bu
t two weeks straight sounded like a lot. “Is it like . . . therapy?”
“Oh, no, not at all.” Summer laughed. “It’s just regular camp stuff, you know, archery, canoeing, arts and crafts . . .”
“There’s a family weekend this fall,” Dad said. “Maybe the three of us could go check it out first.”
“Or just the two of you,” Summer added quickly. “I mean, I’d totally love to come, but I understand if you guys want some alone time.”
“It sounds cool,” I said, focusing back on my enchiladas. Summer didn’t seem so bad after all. And she was going to be part of the family now, so Dad was right—we should get to know each other better. “You should come, Summer. Dad can teach you how to shoot golfers.”
“That was an accident!” Dad protested.
“He shot a golfer?” Summer asked, eyes wide.
“Almost. You know how the archery range in Golden Gate Park is right next to the golf course? Well, let’s just say Dad came pretty close to hitting a guy on the other side of the fence,” I said with a broad grin.
“Last time we ever did archery,” Dad said.
“Or golf,” I added. “Pretty sure we’re banned for life.”
Summer laughed. Dad held up his hands and said, “In my defense, golf is a dumb sport.”
“Agreed,” I said, and we clinked glasses.
“I’ll register us,” Summer said, sounding pleased. Picking the menu back up, she added, “Now who wants churros?”
TWENTY-FIVE
I slept in the next day. For a long time I lay on my bed, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. It was nearly ten o’clock. The Cardinals would be getting on a bus soon to drive to Irvine for regionals. Baseball had been a huge part of my life for so long; the team was one of the first places I’d ever truly felt at home. It was devastating to realize that was over now. Remembering the way they’d all looked at me, and the hurt on Josh’s face . . . in some ways, losing that was even worse than not being able to play anymore.
All the Giants posters seemed to mock me. I rolled over on my side and stared at the wall.
The doorbell rang; if it was Dad and Summer, they were really early. Mom called out, “Shane! There’s someone here to see you!”
Her voice sounded strained. I frowned; Alejandra, maybe? I shuffled out of my room and stopped dead.
Josh was standing by the front door, wearing our away uniform: red shirt, white pants, and a red ball cap with a cardinal on it. He was nervously turning his glove over in his hands.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” My hands suddenly felt awkward, so I jammed them in my pockets. “Shouldn’t you be on the bus?”
“Yeah,” he said, avoiding my eyes.
I could hear Mom in the kitchen. It sounded like she was intentionally clattering pots and pans. “Well, good luck,” I said weakly.
“You didn’t answer my texts,” Josh blurted out.
I bit my lip. “Sorry. I just—I didn’t know what to say.”
“You could’ve said that,” he said accusingly. “At least it would’ve been something.”
“I didn’t think you’d ever want to talk to me again,” I confessed. “And I felt bad about lying to you.”
“Yeah, that wasn’t cool,” he muttered, glaring at the glove. “You should’ve just told me.”
We stood there for a moment. I didn’t have a good answer for that, because he was right: I should’ve trusted him, even though it was scary. I wondered if this was the last time we’d talk to each other. Maybe from now on he’d go out of his way to avoid me, acting as if he didn’t see me when we passed each other in the hall. It was a horrible thought.
“So you’re a girl?” he finally asked.
“Not really. It’s hard to explain.” I hesitated, then said, “It’s not like I’ve been faking all these years. The guy you know, that’s me. It’s like I was born with the wrong body.”
“That’s what my mom said,” Josh said. The pots and pans had stopped banging in the other room. “That sucks.”
I wasn’t sure if he meant that it sucked for me, or that it sucked that I hadn’t told him. Either way, it was a relief to finally have it out in the open. I might as well say everything I’d been thinking about, since it could be my last chance. Gathering myself, I said, “I never had a friend like you back in San Francisco. I mean, I had friends, but it was different. It was like they didn’t get me. And you—” I stopped, trying to figure out how to explain it. “It’s like you saw who I really was, and you liked that guy. And that made me like that guy, too.”
Josh looked embarrassed. I didn’t blame him; I was feeling pretty embarrassed, too. He shook his head. “I can’t believe I never guessed. I mean, you’re, like, more of a guy than I am.”
I shrugged, uncomfortable. Usually this was where I’d make a joke, but under the circumstances that felt wrong. “I thought you’d hate me.”
He made a face. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Because it’s different.”
“Dude.” Josh shook his head. “You’re my best friend. I could never hate you.”
Even though the shades were still drawn, it was like everything suddenly flooded with light. “So you’re not mad?”
“Yeah, I’m mad,” he snorted. “You made me look like an idiot in front of the whole team. But I guess I get it. I mean, everyone’s got something, right?”
I broke into a grin. “What, like your weird toe?”
“It’s not weird,” he said defensively.
“Dude, it’s like three times the size of your other toes.” I looked significantly at his feet. “I can’t believe shoes fit over that thing.”
He cracked up, and I laughed with him. I might’ve lost baseball, and Madeline, but I hadn’t lost Josh. Alejandra was right—the important people would stick by you. “You better get going. Coach’ll be mad if you’re late.”
“Oh, right.” Furrowing his brow, he pointed at my pajamas. “What about you? You’re not even dressed yet.”
“Dressed for what?” I asked, confused.
“The game, dummy.”
I stared at him. “What’re you talking about? I quit the team.”
“Well, you might’ve quit the team,” he said, marching to the door. “But the team didn’t quit you.”
He waved me over. I slowly followed him onto the porch.
There was a school bus parked crookedly at the curb, and the entire team was standing on my lawn in their baseball uniforms, including Coach Tom. When they saw me, they all started talking at once: “C’mon, Shane!” “Dude, what’re you wearing?” “We gotta go!”
Josh raised an eyebrow and said, “So. You coming, or what?”
The regionals were being played on a college campus, in a real baseball stadium. The place was huge, and packed with people. When we first came on the field, it took awhile to find Mom, Dad, and Summer sitting together in the stands. When they saw me, they waved enthusiastically.
The first few innings, I was super nervous. It had been days since I’d thrown, so my game was seriously off. I gave up three runs in as many innings. The rest of the team shouted encouragement, though, and by the fourth inning I had my groove back.
It turned into a pitchers’ duel after that: first they struck out our batters, then I struck out theirs, one after the other.
The bottom of the ninth inning was the Mustangs’ final at bat. The score was 4–3. I struck out their first two hitters. One more, and we’d win.
It felt like the entire stadium was holding its breath as Nico walked to the plate.
It had to be Nico, I thought grimly. Standing on the mound, I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath. I couldn’t let him get to me. I’d managed to strike him out three times so far, even though he’d scored a run off me in the second inning.
Focus, I told myself. You can do this.
Opening my eyes, I bent over. Cole signaled for me to throw a fastball, but I shook my head. Behind his mask, he frowned. Cole made the sign agai
n; I ignored him.
My fastball was good, but Nico was a heavy hitter; if he caught it just right, that could be a home run. And I wasn’t about to let him have one of those.
Instead, I threw a changeup. It caught Nico off guard, and he swung too early.
Strike one.
His lip curled. Nico knocked dirt off his cleats, then wiggled his hips back and forth while making a pouty face. My grip tightened on the ball. He’d been doing stuff like this the whole game.
Easy, I told myself. Just relax.
I threw a fastball this time. My heart nearly stopped when Nico’s bat connected with it. The ball shot up in a high arc . . .
. . . toward the stands: foul ball. “Strike two!” the umpire announced.
I just needed one more. I pictured the team carrying me off on their shoulders, while Nico threw the bat and stomped off the field. It was a good image.
Unfortunately, it distracted me, and my next throw flew wide of the plate. “Ball one!” the umpire yelled.
“You throw like a girl!” Nico called out.
An angry murmur from the stands, and the ump said, “Watch it. Any more of that and I’ll send you to the bench.”
“Yes, sir,” Nico said; then he turned and winked at me. My blood boiled. I wanted to run over, grab the bat, and start beating him with it.
It must’ve shown on my face, because Cole called a time-out and came up to the mound.
“You cool?” he asked with concern.
Past his shoulder, I saw Nico smirking at me. “Not really.”
“He’s an idiot,” Cole said dismissively. “Don’t let him get in your head.”
“Okay,” I said, but it must not have been very convincing, because Cole pulled up his mask.
“Listen,” he said urgently. “You gotta win this. The other guys on the team—it’ll make a big difference.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said.
Cole pulled his mask back down, patted me on the shoulder, and trotted back to the plate.
“No pressure,” I muttered to myself. Nico was tapping the edge of home plate with the bat. He made a smoochy face and batted his eyelashes at me.
The Other Boy Page 13