Twitterpated

by Jacobson, Melanie

  “Sorry,” he muttered, fumbling for the volume control. “I should have remembered to do that before I got out.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I like this album,” I said.

  He put the car in gear and pulled smoothly onto Eleventh Avenue, heading south. “Do you have any idea where we’re going yet?” he asked.

  “Not a clue.”

  “Does that make you nervous?”

  “No way. I’m one of those totally kickback chicks. I’m going to let it ride.”

  “Uh-huh. I don’t believe you. Kickback chicks don’t own condos when they’re twenty-five.”

  “Well, I’m going to be a kickback chick for this afternoon, then.”

  “So you’re not at all curious about where I’m taking you?”

  “Of course. But I’m practicing patience.”

  “How big of you. How about if I let you guess?”

  “That works. How many guesses do I get?”

  “Three.”

  “Okay, first guess. We’re going door to door to collect canned goods for charity.”

  “Thoughtful, but wrong.”

  “Um . . . we’re going to try on formals at the mall and crash some high school’s winter dance.”

  He grimaced. “Scary and wrong.”

  “Then I guess I’d better give you a serious guess.” I tapped my chin and pretended to think. “Let’s see. We’re going to join a group attempting to set a Guinness record for the most people jumping on pogo sticks simultaneously.”

  He stared at me for a full two seconds before shaking his head and turning his blue eyes back to the road. “Your mind goes to some fascinating places,” he said.

  “I only wish I could take credit for those, but they’re actual dates I’ve been on,” I said with a grin.

  “So high school was all about the creative and cheap dates, huh?”

  “Oh no. Those were all since I’ve been in Seattle.”

  “I’d like to thank those guys for setting a low bar. I’m feeling better and better about our plans.”

  “I’m looking forward to finding out what they are. Oh, and if there’s food involved, I promise to spill first again so you’ll feel even better.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t let you do that. It’s a guy’s job. I’ll do it,” he said.

  “You’re a real gentleman.”

  “My mother taught me well.”

  This was fun. No awkwardness, no uncomfortable pauses. Now that the stress of what to wear had passed, I found myself trying to guess what Ben had planned. The conversation turned to questions about the pictures Ben had seen on my mantle, and I kept an eye on the scenery. We stayed on Eleventh Avenue, and I watched townhomes pass by on the tree-lined streets. Within a few minutes, the car slowed, and Ben flipped his signal on to make a left turn. Cal Anderson Park, home of the neighborhood baseball diamonds.

  “There really is baseball in January?” I asked.

  “Only because you requested it,” Ben answered. I hadn’t exactly, but I wasn’t going to spoil the moment by pointing that out.

  Instead I said, “I didn’t know there were city league games going on this time of year.” I was fishing, and he knew it.

  “There aren’t,” he said and clammed up.

  Dang.

  He pulled into a space next to the closest field, which indeed teemed with baseball players. Short, very cute baseball players. He turned the engine off and grinned at me. “Come on out and meet the team. This is a special exhibition. They agreed to play a game just for you.”

  As soon as he stepped out of the car, a swarm of boys surged toward him calling, “Ben!” or “Brother Bratton!” in high-pitched, excited voices. When we got closer, I could see most of them were about my nephew Caleb’s age, somewhere in the nine-year-old range. What on earth?

  He laughed as the boys clamored around him, some trying to give him a high five, a couple of them tugging at the hem of his light blue sweater to get his attention. He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, men. I promise I’ll answer everyone’s questions in a minute. Yours too,” he added with a nod toward me. “Let me make some introductions first.” He gestured to the group. “This is the West Seattle Ward Cub Scout pack, along with several of their little brothers.” He waved to a small stand of bleachers across the field. “Those are their parents and drivers.” About eight adults sat watching with varying degrees of amusement. Lastly, he turned and pointed to me.

  “Boys,” he said solemnly, “This is Jessie. Sister Taylor.”

  A chorus of exuberant hellos fluttered up from the herd of Cub Scouts. One little voice came from a cute freckled redhead who looked maybe six years old. “Are you the lady who likes baseball?” he asked excitedly.

  My nephews always liked it when I came down to their level, so I crouched and, adopting Ben’s gravity, said, “Yes, I am. I love baseball. How about you?”

  “Of course,” he answered. “That’s why I’m here. We’re going to play!”

  “This is my live baseball game?” I asked Ben.

  “It is,” he said, grinning. “You are looking at parts of the three finest Little League teams in Seattle, and they’re here to show you their mad baseball skills.”

  A towheaded boy from the back of the bunch piped up. “Actually, my team stinks, but the coach says we have heart.”

  “That’s what matters,” I said.

  “My big brother says winning all the time is what matters,” the redhead said.

  “All the time? That sounds boring. I prefer variety,” I said. Ben looked at me, pleased—I guess with the way I handled the boys. If he thought they would throw me, he had another thing coming. Six nephews had made me a seasoned pro.

  “Game time!” he announced, eliciting a chorus of whoops. “Hit the field, men.” They all tore off to their respective dugouts with such enthusiasm I had to laugh again. All except for one, that is. The redhead remained behind, staring at me with a fierce expression.

  “Winning is important. The most important. My brother Tyler said so.”

  His intensity surprised me. I opened my mouth to answer him, but Ben intervened. “You’re right, Logan,” he said gently to the upset boy. “Winning is important. But Sister Taylor is also right that you don’t always have to win. It’s okay to play for fun.”

  “Tyler says you should never let someone win on purpose. You have to always fight. I’m going to keep points in my head even though you said we weren’t keeping track.” He crossed his arms, his knobby elbows jutting.

  Ben drew a deep breath and held it for a minute. Then he quietly exhaled and turned to me. “Excuse me for a moment, would you, Jessie?”

  “No problem.” I took a seat in the bleachers and watched as he placed an arm around Logan’s shoulders and slowly walked with him across the field, speaking quietly. Gradually, the tension in the small boy’s shoulders relaxed, and he uncrossed his arms and nodded solemnly. He stared at Ben for a long moment before giving him a high five and scampering the last few yards to his team’s dugout. Ben turned and headed back toward me.

  “Sorry about that,” he said when he reached my newly claimed seat. “He’s had it a bit rough. His dad took off when Logan was a tiny guy, and his mom’s been raising him and his two older brothers. The oldest, Tyler, is overseas in Afghanistan right now. Logan has a case of hero worship.”

  “Sounds like he should. Is he okay to play?”

  “He’ll be fine. He’s intense, but eventually the kid in him wins out.”

  “I hope so. He’s too young to carry around so much heavy baggage.”

  “They all relax when they play. It’s fun to watch. Some of them are too young for pitches, so they’ll be batting off a tee. I know it’s not the Mariners, but you don’t mind, do you?” he asked.

  “Of course not! How did you pull this off?”

  “I’m the assistant Cubmaster in the ward. I offered to let the den mothers off the hook for an activity this week so the boys could work on their sports
activity badges, and they were happy to go for it.”

  “That’s so funny. Don’t you have to have kids to get pulled into Scouts?”

  “Usually, yes. But I worked at Scout camp every summer in high school, and the Scoutmaster is the same guy I had back in the day. And my nephew’s in the troop.”

  “So he lured you in.”

  “He didn’t have to try hard. The kids are a blast.”

  “Which one is your nephew?”

  “He couldn’t come. He’s got the flu. You’d like him. He’s a funny kid.”

  He liked kids. Definitely something for the plus column.

  “I better get out there,” he said, pointing to the boys happily kicking dirt at each other. “But I brought some supplies for you.” He went to the trunk of his car and returned with a blanket and a small cooler. Leading me over to the prime bleacher seats, he padded the bench with the blanket, and when I settled in, he opened the cooler with a flourish.

  “What’s all this?” I asked.

  “You can’t go to the ball game without hot dogs and other game staples,” he explained. He pulled out a warm, foil-wrapped hot dog and several small packets with assorted mustards, relishes, and mayonnaise. I stared at him in astonishment.

  “The 7-Eleven condiment bar has an amazing variety.” Next, he pulled out a tray of nachos with slightly congealed cheese. “I wouldn’t eat these, but maybe you can sniff them to get the ballpark nacho stand whiff.”

  Stale nachos and processed cheese were definitely part of the ballpark experience. Ben wasn’t overlooking anything, except maybe . . .

  Oh, nope. He stuck a plastic bag of premade popcorn in my hand, cheddar flavored, even. He topped everything off with a glass bottle of another exotic root beer. “You comfortable?” he asked.

  “Totally. This is awesome.”

  “Good.” His eyes twinkled. “Let me get this game going, and I’ll be back.” He took off in a jog toward the other side of the field, where the parents sat. Three of the dads came down to meet him and followed him back onto the field. He spent the next several minutes with the boys, reminding them of the rules and giving them direction. He finished with, “Okay, boys. Remember, we’re not keeping score today. We’re playing for fun and learning. Give it your best!”

  The dad on the mound threw the first pitch. By the time Ben had made it back to me, the batter had reached first base, looking very proud of himself. Ben took his seat beside me and fished another foil-wrapped hot dog from the cooler then piled on some mustard and bit into it.

  I watched in amusement as he tucked into his food with gusto. “This is great,” I told him. “Thanks for giving me baseball in January.”

  “No problem.” He shrugged. “It was nothing.”

  “I disagree. You thought of everything. Look,” I said, scooting closer. His hot dog stopped halfway to his mouth as he watched me lean in slowly. He stared, transfixed, until I reached over and scooped a dollop of mustard off his shirt with my thumb. “You even spilled first. That’s so sweet,” I said with pretended innocence.

  His gaze narrowed as he watched me wipe the mustard off with a 7-Eleven napkin. “I’m not sweet at all,” he said. “I’m . . .” he trailed off, searching for the right word.

  “Generous? Kind?”

  “Don’t say that! I’m manly and tough,” he said. “By the way, I brought you an extra blanket in case it got too cold today.” And he reached into a duffel bag and pulled one out.

  “Yeah, you’re super tough,” I said, accepting the blanket.

  “Okay, I’m not. I’m cold. Want to share that blanket?” He waggled his eyebrows at me.

  “Not tough,” I amended with a laugh. “You’re smooth.”

  “Except for the mustard thing.”

  “I thought spilling first was part of being a gentleman.”

  “It is. That’s what I meant,” he said.

  Just then, Logan came to bat. Although the other boys his age and size had hit from the tee and run like crazy, the redhead looked determined to hit a pitch. He squared up his stance and stared at the pitcher, watching for the throw. I stood and gave a piercing whistle then yelled, “Go, Logan!” He didn’t turn, focusing instead on the ball. When the pitch came, he swung with every ounce of his energy and hit a pop fly straight to second base. Luckily, the second baseman, distracted by the rock at his feet, didn’t notice when the ball landed near him with a thud and rolled to the outfield.

  Ben jumped up and hollered, “Run, Logan!”

  The little boy looked startled and broke into a mad dash for first base. Ben and I cheered when he beat the throw. Logan turned and waved at me, his arm flapping like a proud flag as he claimed the base as his own. “Look at me, Sister Taylor. I’m a winner!”

  “Yes, you are,” I called back. I turned to grin at Ben. “I went to a couple of Mariners games last summer. This is so much better,” I said.

  “Tell me about it,” he agreed. “The pros run all their bases in order. Here, half the fun is guessing which base they’ll run to next.”

  Each of the boys took their turn at bat, playing three loosely organized innings. Every time Logan was up, he swung his bat with fierce determination and ran all out, doing progressively sillier things with each base he gained. By third base of his last at bat, Ben and I looked forward to Logan’s final performance. As soon as the batter hit his pitch, Logan pelted down the third base line, turning in a respectable, though totally uncontested, slide for the last two feet. He scrambled up out of the dirt and planted his feet firmly on the base then gyrated like a Tickle Me Elmo on too much Mountain Dew.

  “Is that the hokey pokey?” Ben asked.

  “Nope. I think it’s the Macarena.”

  “Either way,” he said climbing to his feet, “I can’t let him dance alone.” And he loped off toward the bouncing redhead to join his celebration.

  How utterly random.

  And totally cool.

  Chapter 12

  “HOW DID IT GO?” SANDY asked when I walked in around dusk.

  I took a moment to lean back against the door and savor the moment.

  “That good, huh?” she prompted me when I didn’t answer.

  I shoved myself up and answered, “I don’t owe you ice cream, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  She stared at me blankly. “I didn’t think you did,” she said.

  I sometimes forgot Sandy didn’t follow the typical LDS girl life arc. “It’s a BYU thing,” I explained. “The first time you kiss a guy, you’re supposed to buy your roommates a carton of ice cream.”

  “Huh.” She digested that for a moment. “Why?”

  That stumped me. “I don’t know,” I said. “I never thought about it before. Maybe to celebrate?”

  “Sounds more like an excuse to get free ice cream.”

  “If I were smarter, I’d have instituted the ice cream rule with you. I’d never buy my own Häagen-Dazs again.”

  “Funny, Jessie.” She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. “You’re a real comedian.”

  “I kinda am,” I agreed.

  “You’re also violating one of our real roommate rules. No withholding juicy details after dates.”

  “I’m not withholding. I’m digesting.”

  “That sounds gross.”

  “I mean that I’m soaking up the moment, that’s all.”

  “I know what you meant. You’ve soaked for about three minutes now. That’s plenty. I want details!”

  I plopped myself down on the sofa next to her. Finally cracking a smile, I said, “It was pretty fantastic.”

  “Because . . .” She prompted.

  “Because we had a great time. He set up a baseball game between some kids in his ward and brought me all kinds of ballpark food to eat while we watched. He acted like a total gentleman. He opened doors, made sure I stayed warm. He even spilled first.” The look on Sandy’s face was priceless. I had probably circumscribed several of her least favorite things into one afternoon. />
  “Trust me,” I told her. “It was perfect.”

  “Knowing you, it probably was. So when’s the next date?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I answered.

  She stared at me in surprise. “He didn’t ask you out again?”

  “Well, yeah. For tomorrow.”

  “A Sunday?”

  “His ward’s having a fireside.”

  “That makes sense. Except for the part about why you’re not going.”

  I shrugged. “It’s all part of the balance and moderation thing I’m doing,” I said.

  “Maybe you’d better define those words for me because we clearly don’t think they mean the same thing.”

  “I saw him Thursday, I saw him today, and that’s kind of a lot. I think things could use a breather, that’s all.”

  Understanding and a hint of impatience dawned in Sandy’s eyes. “You mean you could use a breather,” she said. “Why? You don’t work on Sundays, so it’s not like you have that to distract you.”

  I opened my mouth to defend my decision, but I realized she had a point. I closed it again and thought for a minute. I didn’t have to try hard to change my own mind. “You’re right,” I said.

  “You should never sound surprised when you say that. It’s a statistical probability any time I speak, accountant girl,” she teased me. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I guess call him?”

  “Ding, ding, ding! Tell her what she’s won, Don Pardo. Why, it’s a fun-filled evening with a hot guy!”

  “Oh, I remember now.”

  “Remember what now?” Sandy asked.

  “I remember why I keep threatening to kick you out.”

  “You’ve never threatened to kick me out.”

  “I haven’t? I keep meaning to say it out loud.”

  “You’ll never do it. What would you do with me gone?”

  “I don’t know, maybe get more work done? I’d never have to hunt for my Pottery Barn catalog. And the pantry would stay organized by alphabetical order.” I considered the possibilities and added, “You’d better stay. But you can’t have my magazines until I’m done.”

  “Deal. You should call Ben now.”