Curveball: The Year I Lost My Grip

by Jordan Sonnenblick

  A few minutes later, Linnie actually came and stood over us. She had already swum a few warm-up laps, and she was soaking wet. “Hi, guys,” she said. “All ready to party later?” Looking up at her, I tried really hard to avoid staring at her body. Which meant I forced myself to look straight up at her face. I couldn’t help but notice that her teeth were super-white. I mean, crazy super-white. Like, visible-from-space white. Linnie Vaughn should have been the poster girl for Crest or something. I wondered whether she had ever had braces, because aside from their laserlike gleam, those teeth were also laser-straight. I hoped my staring wasn’t as obvious as it felt.

  Angelika shifted her tripod a little, so that one of the legs came down on my toe — hard. Oopsie. So much for the not-obvious-staring thing. “Uh, what can we do for you, Linnie?” I squeaked.

  Linnie stepped even closer to me — and she had already been uncomfortably close. Now she was close enough to drip on my feet. “Just make me look beautiful,” she said.

  “No worries,” Angelika said brightly. “We’re not here to get more pictures of you, Linnie. Pete got so many great ones of you last time that now we can just concentrate on the rest of the team.”

  Linnie looked down at my feet, then back at Angelika. “Ooh, sorry,” she said. “I think I just got your boyfriend all wet.” Then she walked away.

  The silence that followed was, like, the absolute definition of “awkward.” I tried really hard to wipe the chlorinated droplets off my sneakers unobtrusively while I formatted the memory card in my camera and slipped in a new battery. Deep in the cushioned interior of Grampa’s old camera bag, wa-a-ay in the bottom of the spare-battery compartment, I found an unopened container of Tic Tacs. That was typical: Grampa had always stashed breath mints all over the place. He said there’s nothing worse than a wedding photographer with rancid breath.

  I figured I could use a burst of minty freshness, so I popped open the pack and slipped a Tic Tac into my mouth. When I finally dared to face Angelika again, I held out the case and said, “Breath mint?”

  She just kind of growled as she took one. The swimming started, and I felt like we were sitting in some kind of Chamber of Silence in the middle of the crowded pool deck. She said nothing. I matched her wordless for wordless. Her camera clicked; my camera clicked. It was a long, long meet. The score went back and forth again and again, but I couldn’t really bring myself to notice the sporting tension in the middle of all this personal agitation.

  The last event of the night was a relay, and Linnie was the final swimmer for our team. Naturally, the winner would take all … but Angelika had told me not to shoot Linnie. This was killing me. All I could think about was Grampa saying, Get the shot. And those kids in the lunchroom saying, You took that picture? Dude. I’m in awe. Oh, yeah, and Linnie saying, Make me look beautiful. I glanced at my partner, who was quietly packing up her gear. She sighed and said, “Go on, Pete — shoot away. We wouldn’t want our male readers to be disappointed, would we?”

  Linnie won, but it felt like somehow I was losing.

  After the meet, Angelika and I went upstairs through the deserted halls of the school. We needed to go to the newspaper office and download our picture files. Things were so tense I couldn’t stand it, so I started saying stuff like “Hey, doesn’t this remind you of one of those high school murder movies? Ooh … woo …” Which is (A) completely lame, and (B) completely not like me. But Angelika was as good at silence as my grandfather was — and that was about a thousand times better than I could handle.

  She finally spoke, and her voice was all business: “Did you get anything good?”

  As usual, her quick-transition trick left me struggling to switch gears. “Uh, I th-think so,” I stammered. Once I got going, though, I could feel myself blabbering in a semi-panic. “I went over the checklist you made, and I got everyone we wanted. I mean, everyone we needed. I mean, I don’t think we have to go to any more swim meets if the shots, um, look good.”

  By this point, we were at the office. This part was a little more comfortable, because it was a routine; it was exactly the same every time we shot a sporting event. Angelika tapped on the space bar of the iMac we used for photo edits, and held out a hand for my memory card. I handed the card over, she slid it into a card reader, and we stood together and watched as the images popped up in neat rows on the monitor.

  Angelika made technical comments about the pics: Some needed to be cropped, some were a bit too bright, and a few were a bit blurry. Still, though, as the photos flashed by, most looked pretty darn good, which meant that I had been right about not needing to go to another meet. That was welcome news, because I wasn’t sure I’d survive being between Angelika and Linnie Vaughn again.

  The last seven shots or so showed Linnie winning the relay: Her perfect dive. Her graceful stroke. Her amazingly slick flip-turn. The end of the race, when she stood on the deck and raised her glistening arms in victory. I barely even knew how to swim, but you didn’t exactly have to be a dolphin to realize Linnie was something special in the water. Well, and out of it.

  Of course, she was no Angelika. I almost got up my nerve and said something to that effect, but Angelika didn’t give me enough time to get the words out. “You did great, Pete!” she practically hissed. “Your favorite subject is going to be so pleased. Maybe she’ll even ask you to be her personal photographer….”

  I don’t get mad very easily, but this was starting to irritate me. I mean, what had I done wrong? Angelika was the one who had volunteered me to be a sports photographer. All I did was show up at every single event she told me to, and take a bunch of pictures.

  Excellent pictures, in fact, if I did say so myself.

  Was it my fault that Linnie Vaughn looked good in a swimsuit?

  I fished my spare memory card out of my pocket (with a silent thanks to my grandfather for drilling that tip into me), walked across the room to my camera bag, slapped the card into my camera, and got Angelika in the frame. She glared at me, one hand on her hip. “What are you doing, Peter?”

  I started taking pictures.

  “I’m serious,” she said, stepping toward me. “What are you doing?”

  I kept shooting.

  “Come on, give me that,” Angelika said.

  Click, click, click. She was getting closer.

  “No,” I said.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “Because Linnie freaking Vaughn isn’t my favorite subject, Angelika. You’re my favorite subject.”

  Through the viewfinder, I saw Angelika reach for my camera. I let her take it out of my hands, but the strap was still around my neck. She pulled the camera to her. I came along with it. I’m happy to say I didn’t take any more pictures that night. But my girlfriend and I did make it to Linnie’s party. Eventually.

  “See, Pete here is the freaking luckiest guy there is,” AJ declared. It was hours later, after Linnie’s party had been broken up by the surprise arrival of her parents. AJ, Angelika, and I were sprawled out on the wicker furniture of the back porch of AJ’s house. It was about forty degrees out, but I wasn’t feeling the cold. There had been this delicious fruit punch at the party with watermelon in it, and — even though I swear I hadn’t known it at the time — apparently some of the non-fruit ingredients weren’t exactly legal for Pennsylvanians under the age of twenty-one. Linnie had taken a special interest in quenching our thirst for some reason, and the drink was so fruity and good that I might have picked up a refill or two before the festivities had met an aborted end. AJ had been a big punch fan, too.

  Angelika had taken a sip, poured the rest of her drink into a potted plant, muttered, “Sorry, plant,” and then proceeded to watch me and AJ ignore her warnings.

  Anyway, now my head was in Angelika’s lap, and my eyes were closed. She was playing with my hair, which felt really nice — so nice that I hadn’t said a word in at least half an hour, because I was hypnotized by the sensation. She and AJ had both decided I was asleep, which meant
the conversation was taking an interesting turn.

  “Luckiest? What’s so lucky about him?”

  “Well, first of all he’s got you massaging his scalp, while I’m sitting here all alone. I mean, not alone alone, but … you know. Alone.”

  “Oh,” Angelika said, and I could hear the laugh in her voice. “So you’re pretty much saying you’re alone, then?”

  “’S right. But Pete’s got a girlfriend. You are his … I mean, he’s your … you guys are all, like, girlfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend, girlfriend now, right?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I think we are.”

  “’At’s cool,” AJ mumbled.

  “So how else is he lucky?”

  AJ snorted. “You kidding me? He’s, like, Mr. Perfect Life. El Perfecto Grande. Captain Gots-it-all. Like, have you met his family? His mom is the awesomest mom there is. Did you know he, uh, sleepwalks sometimes?”

  Dude, I thought. Thanks a lot. I don’t sleepwalk. I just wake up, and then walk. Angelika’s going to think I’m some kind of zombie or something.

  Angelika must have shaken her head, because AJ continued. “And he goes to the kitchen table, right? So his mom wakes up — and this is, like, at night night. We’re talking three in the morning. My mom would be all What are you doing up, Adam James? Uh, because that’s my real name: Adam James. Anyway, she’d be going, You should be in bed! And I’d be thinking, No duh, Mom! And she’d go, Here I am, a single mother, with you and your little brothers to worry about, plus a full-time job, and I don’t have time for this, blah blah blah, until I fell a-freaking-sleep just from hearing the same old stupid speech about why do I need any attention from her … uh, what was I talking about again?”

  “Pete. Lucky.”

  “Oh, right. So his mom gets up, sits with him at the table, and feeds him cookies. I mean, not feeds him feeds him — she doesn’t put them in his mouth or anything. But the point is, she’s right there with the cookies and all. And then there’s his dad. Pete complains because his dad works a million hours a week, but first of all, that’s why Pete always gets everything he wants. And his dad is nice and everything when he’s around. And neemwhile … I mean, meanwhile, my dad lives like a thousand miles away, and you don’t hear me complaining about it.”

  “Except now,” Angelika said.

  “Well, yeah. But you don’t hear me complaining about it when I’m, like, sober.” There was a long silence, and I may have started to doze off, but then AJ said, really loudly, “Plus, have you met Pete’s grandfather? He’s freaking awesome. And I mean, I know he’s old, and Pete’s all worried about him and everything — but both of my grandfathers are dead. I’m not trying to be mean or anything: I love Pete’s grampa. Did you know he’s come to, like, every baseball game we’ve had for the past three years straight? And he’s taken pictures at all of them. And then he puts them up online so everybody’s parents can order prints if they want. And for me, that’s a big deal. It’s not like my mom actually gets to most of my games, with TJ and CJ — those are my brothers — to take care of. And I’m pretty sure my dad wouldn’t even know what I look like if Mom didn’t keep sending him those pictures.”

  My head was spinning. I had always thought AJ had the perfect life. His mom always let him go wherever he wanted; he was so much bigger, stronger, and better-looking than I was; and he was just so relaxed. I couldn’t believe AJ was jealous of the things I had when I spent my life wishing I could be who he was. Plus, there was one other thing he had going for him. I almost opened my eyes and sat up to point it out, but fortunately, Angelika had my back.

  “What about his elbow problem?” she said. “Don’t you think that’s pretty unlucky? I mean, I never knew him when he was playing baseball, but he seems pretty crushed that now he can’t.” Go, Angelika, I thought. “Did you know he even cried about it in front of me?” Stop, Angelika, I thought.

  AJ said, “Yeah, I know how bad the arm thing is. Did you know I was there when it happened? He was pitching, and I was the catcher. The look on his face right before he fell — it was horrible. Don’t tell Pete this, but I even had a couple of nightmares about it. Still, even then, his parents were both there, and his grandfather came charging out on the field, too. If it had happened to me, the coaches would have had to send my parents a freaking telegram or something.”

  Another long silence followed, which gave me more time to think about how much I hadn’t understood about my best friend. I wasn’t sure whether I should just lie there and be furious at him for blabbing all this stuff to Angelika, or sit up and ask for a group hug.

  Then he started talking again. “Plus, I know he’s going to pitch again.”

  “I’m not so sure about that, Adam. When he talks about it, he —”

  “I know he says he might not. But that’s because he flips out about everything. Trust me, he’ll be back. He has to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because … swear you won’t say anything? Because this sounds really wussy.”

  “Um, I swear.”

  “He thinks he needs baseball, but that’s not true. Well, he needs it, but he doesn’t need need it. Not the way I do. He’s got everything else. He takes the fall off from pitching and ends up getting straight As, becoming a freaking yearbook editor as a freshman, and going out with you. But me, I need baseball. I am baseball. Listen: Peter can do anything in the world he wants to do. Anything anything. But me? I can throw a ball. That’s pretty much it. And — I’m almost at the wussy part. I’m scared to try out for the team without him.”

  “Why? Pete always tells me how cool and confident you are on the field. And I saw you play basketball. I took pictures of you on the court — and you’re so, I don’t know, graceful. You make sports look so effortless.”

  “Thanks. You know what, Angelika? Pete always tells me how smart you are. And he’s right. But anyway, I pitch better with Pete behind the plate. He’s so good at calling pitches. Plus, I just feel like when he’s back there, I’m going to hit his glove every time. I don’t know why. It’s like he’s my security blanket or something. That’s the wussy part.”

  “Yeah, I could tell.”

  I couldn’t help it: I snorted. Angelika was just such a fast thinker. Fortunately, my arm was kind of in front of my mouth, so the snort sounded more like a snore.

  “I can see why you’re so attracted to him, Angelika,” AJ said. “He makes such, um, sexy noises.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  Sunday was a horror. At some point in the early morning hours, I had passed out in Angelika’s lap. At some later point, I had been woken up by a rush of vomit in my throat, tried to roll over, and spun to the ground from the hammock that AJ had somehow managed to move me to. Sadly, AJ’s porch hammock is suspended about three feet above a brick floor. Brick is cold, it’s hard, and it has one other really negative quality: Liquids splatter when they hit it.

  By the time AJ came out to check on me at 5:45 A.M. or so, I was huddled on the wicker couch again, wrapped in a fuzzy-lined tarp I had pulled off of his mom’s barbecue grill, shivering, and bleeding from abrasions to my right palm and my left knee. Which of course meant that (A) my pants were ripped, and (B) I had gotten blood all over the lining of the tarp. Plus, the whole front of my shirt was flecked with dried barf, and my head hurt like somebody was dropping a rock on it every half second. From a great height.

  And the taste in my mouth? You don’t even want to know.

  Of course, AJ was in a fabulous mood. “Get up, brother Pete!” he said. “Here, I brought you some OJ.” This announcement caused me to gag all over again. “Oopsie,” AJ said. “Come on, drink this up … nice and slow now….”

  I took a few of the slowest sips in the history of the planet and was trying to decide whether I’d ever again be capable of swallowing more than one drop of fluid at a time when AJ said, “Ooh, stand up! Hurry! You have to get into the bathroom — pronto!”

  His raised voice pounded against my brain, making the whole
porch seem to spin and pulsate as I jumped to my feet. “Whuh … why?” I asked, in the throes of an insane head rush.

  “Two words: Mom. Angelika.”

  Holy cow! In my shameful state, I had completely forgotten about Angelika. “Angelika? What happened? Where is she? Is she OK?” I grabbed at the arm of the couch with one hand to steady myself.

  “She’s fine — she’s not the one who tossed back three cups of that punch like it was, uh, punch. But she’s upstairs getting dressed, and you definitely want to get in the shower before she sees you.”

  “Wait. She’s here. Where did she sleep? And where, uh — where did you sleep?”

  I had a deeply serious moment of panic, which lasted until AJ said, “Ange slept in my bed …”

  Ange? I thought. Ange?

  “… and I slept out here with you. I just got up way early — dude, I was so, like, starving! So I went in and scrounged around for something I could eat without waking anybody up. Lucky for me there was a Pop-Tart and some leftover Chinese shrimp with lobster sauce….”

  I barely stopped myself from hurling yet again.

  “Anyway, I think you need to hit the lav right now, while Ange and my mom aren’t walking the halls yet. I mean, if I’m not actually lighting the house on fire or something, Mom doesn’t usually notice what I’m doing too much. But she’s pretty sensitive to smells, and — well — you reek like death. Stale death.”

  It’s pretty hard to stage a one-man commando raid on a suburban tract house when one can barely stand, but I made it to the bathroom unseen. AJ knocked really quietly, and told me he would dig up a toothbrush, painkillers, and some clothes while I took a shower. By the time I got all cleaned up and came out, there was a pile of supplies on the counter. I brushed my teeth, gargled about forty-three gallons of mouthwash, combed my hair with my fingers, and forced myself to swallow a few Advils. Getting anything to go down my throat was a gruesome task, but on the other hand, I felt like someone was trying to squeeze my brain through a cheese grater — and that had to stop.