by Julie Cross
“You can unhook now,” Brody says, nodding toward the machine. He yawns and then adds, “I should get going. Jim will be back soon, right?”
I tug the wires from my leg and sigh. “Yeah, any minute now.”
He pats me on the head like a little sister. “I’ll see you later, Annie. Lock the door behind me, okay?”
After he’s gone and I’ve locked the door, I go into Grams’ room, crawl into bed beside her, and spill all the details of my secret unrequited crush on Jason Brody. Maybe if I say it aloud I’ll be able to get rid of it sooner. I’m worried about the inevitable rejection that may come from these feelings, but even more than that, I’m worried about falling hard for someone—not just Brody, anyone—and not being able to let go. I’ve seen what that’s done to Dad’s life. He’s ruined by it. I’d rather be alone than be head over heels in love. It’s like being drunk. Your IQ drops a hundred points and you make stupid choices.
By the time I finished telling Grams everything, I’d made up my mind—crushing on Brody had to stop, for both our sakes.
Chapter 9
Lenny London: I will eat my words only when they come in 5 different fruit flavors.
23 hours ago
Jason Brody Royals Pitcher: “Kids should practice autographing baseballs. This is a skill that’s often overlooked in Little League.”—Tug McGraw
22 hours ago
Annie Lucas: What’s the deal with overshoes? So you put them over your shoes? Why do I need a whole poem about this mundane, old-fashioned task? My brain isn’t wired to understand poetry. Can I please be excused?
3 hours ago
Carl London: Watch me on ESPN tonight with my sis, the amazing Lenny London! 7pm ET.
1 hour ago
Major League Baseball’s Hottest Rookie Pitcher Proves to Be Quite the Lady’s Man… Nineteen-year-old rookie pitcher Jason Brody, recently signed for half the season with the Royals, hasn’t wasted any time showing fans that fast isn’t exclusive to his pitches. A source counted four different women entering and exiting the player’s hotel room during the team’s three night stay in Atlanta this week.
I stare at the photos of three different bimbos putting their lips on Brody’s lips. God I hope he’s getting daily testing done.
Disgusted, I toss the magazine aside in the dugout and turn my attention back to practice. I’ve only got a week until state and my hamstring’s feeling way better. I can’t let my mind get bogged down with obsessing over Brody’s “groupies.”
After an easy four-mile run around downtown, I’m eating an apple and relaxing in the dugout. Frank is standing right outside, making pages of notes on his clipboard. I get up and move beside him, crunching my apple. “You know what your designated hitters were eating before practice today?”
“What?” Franks asks. “Animal bi-products? Whales? Something else that will cause a team-related scandal?”
“Hot dogs,” I say, and when he doesn’t react, I repeat it, “Hot dogs, Frank! If I ate a hot dog before track practice, even the lightest workout, I’d be puking my guts out.” I gesture toward the players swinging bats around. “I’m not seeing any puking out here.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “What’s your point, kid?”
“They’re lazy.” I throw my hands up like this is so obvious because it totally is. “They can’t run for shit and they’re not all hitting home runs every time they’re at bat. Could be useful to have a little speed for those doubles and triples?”
“They’re big guys,” he says. “They’re not made to run fast.”
“Okay,” I correct. “How about faster? Think about it… five seconds—hell, one second—can make the difference between being safe and out. Add that up for an entire season, and I bet you’d get at least four or five more wins on the Royals’ record.”
He sets his clipboard down on an empty bench and turns to me, arms folded across his chest. “From my experience, designated hitters are the biggest prima donnas in baseball. They’ll all throw a diva tantrum if I even so much as suggest a different workout. Plus, if we slim them down too much, they might not hit as well.”
I shrug. “Whatever, you’re the manager.”
Frank lets out a frustrated sigh before walking out onto the first base line. “If I find any one of you eating hot dogs before practice, I’m fining you ten thousand dollars!”
I snort back a laugh and head toward where Dad is standing, but the sight of Lenny, Carl, their dad (aka First Base) and his wife walking this way stops me. Lenny’s wearing a flowered skirt that falls past her knees and a light pink cardigan. She’s traded her usual weekend red lipstick for a neutral gloss. Lenny’s mom is wearing an outfit almost identical to her daughter’s except in yellow. Carl and First Base are dressed for a golf game at the country club.
“Hey, Len,” I say, pulling her aside. “What’s going on?”
She points toward right field where a camera crew is setting up. “ESPN is doing a story on my dad, the family man. I’m gagging already.”
I look her up and down. “That outfit is so not you.”
She rolls her eyes. “No kidding.”
Dad joins me just as Lenny is heading back to her perfect family. We both watch First Base put his arm around his daughter as he shakes hands with the ESPN interviewer guy. The second the guy turns around, Lenny shoves her dad, wiggling out of his hold, and stepping off to the side.
“Stuff like that makes me glad my baseball career didn’t work out,” Dad says.
“She’s not bad,” I say.
“I know that.” Dad tugs on my ponytail before walking back toward the pitcher’s mound.
I stare after him, trying to figure out what he meant by that if he wasn’t making the comment simply to note that Lenny is a brat. I mean, she sort of is, but rightfully so. And she’s a straight shooter who knows how to keep a secret. I’m used to girls who want to do nothing but gossip. Lenny’s probably heard enough gossip for two lifetimes.
The interview goes on for over an hour. I can’t hear what anyone is saying from my spot outside the dugout, but I can clearly see smiles plastered on and then fading the second the camera turns off.
I turn my focus back to Brody on the pitcher’s mound. Dad’s behind the plate now with a catcher’s mask, playing umpire. Not a single Royals batter has been able to hit off Brody today. I keep my satisfaction carefully hidden because I know the team needs people who can actually score some runs.
But practice is the best place to fantasize about Jason Brody without feeling like I’m giving in to the crush. He’s focused on home plate and nothing more, and there’s no line of girls, women, and kids in little league uniforms waiting to meet him or sleep with him. I can almost fool myself into thinking they don’t exist. At least until I start envisioning this apartment of his—leather furniture, silver countertops and appliances, remote control curtains on all the windows, and a giant aquarium with blue lights that cast a sexy glow over the room, setting the mood for his nightly hookups. Of course, I’ve never been in this apartment of his, but I’m sure it looks something like that.
One of the overweight designated hitters actually manages to connect the bat with the ball and hits it right toward the pitcher’s mound. Brody sprints to the side, then dives right, catching the ball in his glove before springing to his feet, easily making the throw to first base.
I hear laughter coming from the dugout behind me, but I don’t turn around.
“Stupid kid,” one of the other pitchers says. “He’s gonna break his arm fielding a ball in practice.”
“Nice play, Brody!” Dad shouts, and Frank claps along with him. The team’s reaction is quite the opposite of Dad’s and Frank’s. Lots of eyes rolling behind Brody’s back. One of the outfielders even flips him off. I grind my teeth together and lean on my hands so I don’t end up returning the gesture.
“Don’t worry, he’ll choke eventually,” another player says from the dugout. “They all do.”
“Or he’
ll get arrested again and open up that roster spot permanently. I’m sick of this in and out routine.”
“How about you both get your asses out there and practice,” a different voice says. I glance over my shoulder and see Juan Julio, who plays third base, hitting the pitcher in the head with his glove before stepping out of the dugout. “Maybe that’ll help you earn your spot back on the roster.”
I like him.
After a few more minutes, Lenny joins me while the rest of her family does solo interviews.
“That boy is full of hotness,” Lenny says, nodding toward Brody. “Why do they insist on practicing with their shirts on?”
My face heats up, and I look anywhere but the pitcher’s mound. “I think I’d lose my lunch if all of them went skins.”
“Good point. We’d need to be selective.” Lenny finally peels her eyes away from Brody. “So, are you getting nervous about state next weekend? I promised Jackie I’d come watch her race.”
“I didn’t know you were friends with Jackie?”
Lenny pulls a compact from her purse and reapplies her lip gloss. “I’ve been tutoring her all year in physics and calculus. She’s on a track scholarship at St. Teresa’s, so she’s got to maintain a B average.”
I had no idea Jackie Stonington got financial aid to attend St. Teresa’s. As much time as she and I spend running alongside each other, we’ve hardly talked. It isn’t animosity exactly, just a silent tension that comes with me stealing her spotlight. Me, the new student who happens to be a year behind her. She did beat me in the two-mile run at sectionals but then again, I didn’t really race, I just focused on hitting the qualifying time.
“You’re her tutor? She’s a senior and you’re a junior?” I say.
Lenny shrugs. “What can I say? I’m brilliant.”
“Where’s Jackie going to run next year?”
“She hasn’t gotten a scholarship yet,” Lenny says. “She’s hoping maybe at state there’ll be some scouts in the stands.”
This really surprises me and makes me just a bit sympathetic toward Jackie–and I totally don’t want to be. Not until after state anyway. Before I’d left Arizona, I’d already met the track coach for Arizona State. “But she won the two mile at sectionals. Last year she placed at state. She should already have a scholarship.”
“Yeah, but St. Teresa’s is only Class II. The top colleges give offers to state champions and Class IV state qualifiers first and then they get to us after,” Lenny explains. “That’s what she’s hoping will happen at state.”
When I don’t say anything, Lenny adds, “I’m sure it’s gonna be a great meet. You guys will both do awesome.”
I don’t get a chance to respond because wailing sirens are going off all around us. “What the hell is that?”
Lenny looks annoyed but not freaked out like me. “Tornado sirens.”
My head turns upward toward the sky, taking in the odd green color. But it’s not even raining or storming or anything. “There’s gonna be a tornado? Should we be out here?”
Frank is already ordering the players to head inside and take shelter. First Base argues with Frank and tries to leave, but I grab Lenny’s arm in the hallway outside the locker room and hold on to it tightly. “You can’t drive through a tornado!”
First Base laughs at me, but Frank lays down the law. “Locker room, everyone. No arguments. If you leave here while the sirens are going off, our insurance won’t cover your untimely death. You can take off as soon as they lift the warning.”
Many grown men grumble over these instructions. Seriously? Do they think being rich baseball players makes them immune to death by twister?
I search for Dad in the crowd of players, coaches, and ESPN people. I duck under arms and squeeze my way over to him. “Grams is at home—there’s no basement.”
He’s already got the phone to his ear. “Caroline is there with her, and Savannah and Lily are on their way over. And our house is south of the storm’s path. Savannah says they don’t have sirens going off over there. They’re fine. Just stay right here, okay, Ann?”
I nod and stuff my shaking hands in my pockets where he can’t see them.
Dad escapes into his office with Frank and shuts the door. Lenny finds me again several minutes later while I’m standing in the middle of the locker room Googling tornado pictures. “Look at this! That’s exactly what the sky is like right now.”
Lenny barely glances at my phone and then shrugs. “I haven’t been in here for years.”
“Really?” I’m surprised because, despite my failure at proving maturity my first time in the locker room, I still haven’t exactly been banned.
“I mean, why would I come in here? To wish Daddy good luck before a game?” She laughs. “He’d think I was on drugs.”
My tornado research is only reiterating the fact that it really seems like we’re about to have one come spiraling through here. Logically, I know the walls are concrete or something that will hold up, and we’re not going to end up buried alive under a pile of rubble but, logic is quickly losing the battle today.
I tug at the collar of my T-shirt. It feels tight. My stomach is cramping and I’m debating whether I can use the bathroom stalls in the locker room. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck. “Is it hot in here?” I ask Lenny.
She’s flipping through Facebook status updates on her phone, but she shakes her head. “I’m fine.”
I discreetly move toward the bathroom stalls and decide it might be safest to sit on the floor in case I suddenly need to go. I wipe more sweat from my forehead and breathe in jagged breaths, fighting off the nausea.
I’d be fine if those damn sirens would turn off.
Red cleats clatter across the floor and then stop in front of the stall I’m occupying. Brody opens the door and looks down at me, seated on the floor, my knees pulled to my chest, my face half buried, my back leaning against the wall. “Annie, what are you doing?”
“Bathrooms are one of the safest places to go during a tornado.”
“Says who?”
“Google.” I press my forehead against my knees, closing my eyes to keep from feeling dizzy.
“You don’t look so good,” he says and squats down in front of me and then laughs. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of tornadoes?”
“How can I be scared of something I’ve never seen?” I argue. I detest this feeling of my subconscious mind taking over control of my body and causing these physical reactions. If something is going to make me sweaty and out of breath, I want a choice in the matter. This is exactly how I imagine falling in love—not that I’ve experienced it before, but I get the sense that your subconscious takes over and just like with fears, you have no control. No choice. And it sucks. Big time.
“I’ve never seen zombies before, and I’m scared to death of them,” Brody says.
“We’re not even in Kansas!” I protest. “This is Missouri. We’re not supposed to have tornadoes in Missouri.”
He sits all the way down and scoots beside me. “Actually, tornadoes are a Midwest thing.”
I groan. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”
When I lift my head to look at him, the amusement falls from his face. “You really don’t look good. Want me to get your dad?”
I grab his ankle, anchoring him to the bathroom floor. “No! He’ll make fun of me forever. One of you is better than both of you.”
His forehead wrinkles as he studies my face. “I think you’re having one of those panic attack things. Don’t people usually pass out from those or stop breathing or something?”
“I’m not having a panic attack!” I exhale and then bury my face again. Actually, I very well might be having a panic attack. “If I pass out or stop breathing then you can get my dad, okay?”
I feel heat from him leaning closer, the scent of his deodorant and the grass from the field seeps through my nose. He flips my ponytail to the side and then his fingers land lightly on the back of my
neck. His skin is warm and rough. “Everybody’s afraid of something, Annie.”
“What are you afraid of?” I ask. “Besides zombies.”
“Cops.” He laughs darkly, reminding me of the conversation I heard earlier between the relief pitchers. “I’m kidding…mostly. I’ve had my share of being ‘scared straight’ by cops, I won’t lie about that. I guess I’m afraid of addiction.”
“Like alcohol?”
“Maybe,” he says, thinking. “It’s more of a general thing than something specific. I’m afraid of starting something that I can’t make myself stop, you know?”
I lift my eyes to meet his. Boy, do I know. But I’ve never heard anyone word it that way. Not exactly. I think a lot of people look forward to being absorbed by something. Falling down that rabbit hole. “But you’re addicted to baseball, to pitching. I can see that with my own eyes.”
“Yeah and it scares the shit out of me sometimes,” he admits. “And you’re addicted to winning. I’ve seen that with my own eyes.”
Is that true? Am I addicted to winning? I kind of proved that at sectionals when I sacrificed my hamstring unnecessarily in order to beat Jackie Stonington. “I think my addiction is not as severe as yours.”
“Maybe what I’m really afraid of is having more than one addiction,” he says. “That’s when you really get screwed up in the head.”
“I don’t know,” I say, bitterly thinking of Dad with Mom. “One addiction can totally screw you up.”
This conversation distracted me for a good two minutes, but I can’t block out the sirens any longer. I cover my ears with my hands. “I wish they would turn those off.”
“You have no color left in your face.” He leans in even more, his breath hitting my cheek and making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. His fingers massage my neck and I’m sure he must be able to feel the goose bumps he’s given me. “You’re all clammy now, too.”