by Karole Cozzo
But …
The image of my defaced car pops into my mind. I’d wanted to be the one who, personally, put them in their places. I wanted to stare each and every one of them down from the mound, not knowing who was personally responsible, but assuming they were all suspects. And take them out—one by one, strike by strike, which would be the most gratifying form of payback.
I didn’t get the chance, though. Pat started the game, and Coach put Jamie in in the fourth. And Jamie was on fire today. It may have been his best game ever. There was an evident determination about him today that came through in every single pitch delivered. Spring Falls is too strong of a competitor to mess around with, and there was no way in hell Coach was going to mess with Jamie’s mojo today. He got to finish the game. I didn’t throw a single pitch.
So, fifteen minutes after the game wraps, I’m still utterly frustrated. Obviously there’s no way I was going to go to Coach or anyone and plead my case with such a mortifying reason behind it, but I hated the fact that today of all days I was out of the game when I wanted so badly to look some of those jerks in the eye and deliver a performance to make up for the last time around.
I hear my phone vibrate in my Windbreaker pocket and unzip it to retrieve it. There’s a text message waiting for me from an unnamed number. But I recognize those last four digits.
A ripple of irritation goes through me. He got something I wanted today, and it sort of makes me not feel like being very nice to him.
Then I find myself remembering what happened after discovering my defaced car. Way before we were anything close to friendly, he’d acted like he was on my side. He’d surprised me that night, not only that he bothered to help, but the way he helped, without saying much, without making a big deal about it.
I shake my head. It’s not like his stealing the show today was intentional; he didn’t know I wanted revenge, on my terms, from the mound. I look at the number a second time. It’s flashed across my screen numerous times by now—he’s texted me in the evenings sometimes, with a random comment or observation from practice that makes me laugh, and even a few times during the day, when he’s obviously been less focused in his classes than I’ve been in mine.
Yet I haven’t added him to my contacts, officially. He hasn’t earned that yet. We’ve only very recently started kissing, and the other stuff—the other girls always hanging around him, the battles over the mound—none of it’s really changed.
Sighing, I swipe my phone. Where are you? appears on the screen.
You know where I am. I’m right through the wall. Why are you even texting me?
Because I gave up on waiting for you. You were taking forever.
#sorrynotsorry Abrams
Anyways. What are you doing later?
This time, I pause before responding. Then I find myself admitting a little bit of the truth. I’m pissed I didn’t get a chance out there today. So I’m sulking.
No, you’re not.
Yes. I am.
Here’s the thing—in case you missed it, I had an awesome game today. In a celebratory mood.
And just like that, I’m fighting the temptation to strangle him again.
I hate you.
Hold on a second, Marshall. I have an idea to cheer you up.
I don’t respond, waiting. And a minute later my phone lights again. You allowed out on a school night?
Rolling my eyes, I answer him. I’m not a nun. Don’t live in a convent.
Pick you up at 7.
I inhale a deep breath. I don’t say yes. I don’t say no. And I have a feeling it doesn’t really matter anyway. Suddenly a mess of nerves, I throw my things into my bag, grab my backpack from my locker, and rush out of there to get home in time to prepare myself for the inevitable reality of Jamie coming to pick me up and the also inevitable reality of having to explain this set of circumstances to my parents.
* * *
At six thirty, I stand in front of my closet, arms crossed over my bath towel, staring inside. I’m glowering at its contents, because it’s like there’s this little angel version of Marcella sitting on my shoulder, coaching me in what she hopes is a calm, nonconfrontational manner. “This is basically your first date, Eve,” she coos. “A little effort, if you will?”
I swat at the air above my shoulder.
It’s not a date. Jamie doesn’t take girls on “dates.”
She’s silenced, but still I can’t move, suddenly picturing the bevy of girls who show up at every home game, the way they whisper behind their hands when Jamie walks by, the way they fight to be the first to approach him, fawn over him and his performance. I see what they look like. I see how they dress. Halfheartedly, I push hangers aside, searching for something that works.
Then …
No.
I find some jeans, my red-and-navy Nikes, and a baseball-style Phillies tee.
As I tie my shoes, I’m keenly aware that I’m breaking some kind of girl law.
I like you better like this.
He’d said it, right? And that had to count for something. I kind of want to believe it, anyway. Since I like me like this, too.
And … thing is … when I get downstairs, and I’m standing in front of my father, who’s just smiled and asked, “Where are you headed tonight?” I’m really glad I’m not wearing some ridiculously tight top or heeled shoes. It would make spitting out the answer a million times harder.
I inhale sharply. “I’m hanging out with Jamie Abrams,” I confess in a single whoosh of air.
Standing beside him, my mom sips her iced tea, digesting my answer slowly. She looks at me over the glass. “Still nothing?” she inquires casually.
I sweep my hand over my body, my eyes going wide like it’s obvious. “Do I look like I’m dressed up or something? No. I’m in jeans and sneakers. Exactly what I’d wear to hang out with anyone else. We’re just … reviewing the game.”
My mom steps forward. She kisses my cheek. “Sure you are,” she whispers in my ear.
“We are,” I protest. I pull away from her, grabbing my Windbreaker from the back of the couch. “And I’m going to wait outside.”
“Have fun,” she calls after me.
I shake my head as I leave. As if any of this is fun.
It certainly doesn’t feel fun, not when his Jeep appears around the corner and I’m forced to actually approach it, acknowledging that I’m climbing inside and actually going somewhere with him, somewhere he has yet to mention, actually. It was okay when he was at my house, on my turf … his turf is infinitely more unnerving.
When I open the door to the Jeep, my senses go into overload. “Hey, Marshall,” he greets me easily, snap-snap-snapping that gum. I swallow hard, trying to stay cool as I climb inside. It smells like him, times twenty, and he looks more attractive than ever in the dim light above the rearview. Rap music is blasting, and I shake my head as I try to steady my hands enough to fasten my seat belt.
“You think you’re such a badass,” I say.
He just winks at me, which does nothing to help. “Pretty much.” He smirks.
A roll of my eyes, and we’re off.
The funny thing is … as he drives me across town to parts unknown, we actually do review the game. We talk easily and naturally now, about the remainder of the season, other players on the team, and how we think it will all pan out across the district over the course of the games remaining.
And just when I’m about to ask him where we’re headed, because it seems like we’ve been driving for about twenty minutes, he swings the Jeep into a large, mostly vacant parking lot. About half the overhead lights aren’t working, overgrown grass grows between cracks in the pavement, and a general sense of despair hangs over the whole place. A place where I spent many evenings with my parents and brothers over the years.
I turn toward Jamie. “Mitch’s? Seriously?”
Mitch’s Turf Farm and Putt-Putt Course is far past its prime. There’s a brand-new family fun center closer to home, and i
t’s where everyone goes these days. It’s got a huge arcade, a frozen yogurt shop, and four different mini-golf courses to choose from. Half the obstacles on Mitch’s fairy-tale course don’t even spin anymore, like Humpty Dumpty and the Old Lady Who Lived in the Shoe have personally given up on even trying to compete. I can’t remember the last time someone’s thought about going to Mitch’s.
Jamie shrugs. “I figure … Mitch’s is, what? A year, if that, from being torn down.” He stares through the darkness, toward the mini-golf course. “Some good memories here, and I’m gonna miss this place.” Then he looks at me and grins. “Plus. I know how to get a few of the batting cages to run without tokens.”
I smile, too, and follow suit when he hops out of the car.
We pass a few families playing mini golf, but on a weeknight especially, the place is deserted as we make our way down the path toward the old batting cages. No one even bothers to man the shed anymore, where they store the scarred bats and dusty batting helmets. I’m overcome with a sense of nostalgia as I select a bat and helmet. Jamie’s right—there are a lot of good memories here, and I’m surprised it’s something he appreciates. After I’ve found a metal bat I like, I turn around and make my way back toward the cages, behind Jamie, who leads me toward the stalls that are apparently rigged so you can hit for free.
“We’re keeping score,” he tells me as he steps inside the cage and closes the door behind him. He pounds three times on the side of the control box, and a red light starts flashing from the other end of the cage. Jamie takes his place behind the plate, eyes focused on the red light, adjusting his stance. “Three rounds again. Loser buys ice cream.”
On my turns, I try to keep my head in the game, but it’s infinitely harder to do so when it’s just the two of us alone together in the dark night. Every time I even glance around, his face is right there, practically pressed against the wire, his voice soft and joking as he hassles me when I swing and miss. I can keep myself together in front of two teams and a crowd in the stands, but here at Mitch’s, I’m distracted and self-conscious.
Tonight’s victory goes to Jamie.
We return the supplies to the shed and head back toward the building that used to house a full restaurant and golf shop. Now they serve ice cream only, and the remainder of the golf supplies have been marked down 50 percent.
There is a whopping four-flavor selection left—vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, and rocky road. Jamie orders strawberry, I order a double scoop of rocky road, and, a gracious loser, I immediately pull money from my wallet to pay for the ice cream.
“Let’s eat outside.” Jamie gestures toward the back door with his head, and I follow him out to the old wooden bench on the side of the shop that overlooks the old chip-and-putt course. There’s not a person in sight, and I can’t help but consider another possible reason for choosing Mitch’s—that no one would see us together here.
I catch Jamie watching me as I take a huge bite out of my huge cone, face amused, laughter in his eyes. “What?” I ask, mouth full.
He just shakes his head and bites his lip. “Nothin’.”
We eat in silence, listening to the sounds of the cars passing by on the highway in front of the shop, the calls of birds in the tall pines that surround Mitch’s. I consider how nervous I felt waiting for seven o’clock to arrive, but that feeling’s melting with every minute that passes, like my rocky road over the side of my cone. My back relaxes against the bench, and I breathe in the crisp night air. “Man.” Jamie stuffs the bottom of his cone into his mouth, wipes his lips with a napkin, and then balls it up in his palm. He leans against the back of the bench, a soft sigh escaping through his nose. “Kinda impossible to be here and not feel like a kid again. Guess that’s why I’m gonna be sad to see it go.” He turns, glances at me quickly, and then looks forward again. “Just something that sucks about seeing part of your childhood actually being torn down.”
I stare at his profile. Any trace of a smile is gone, and Jamie actually looks really sad.
I sit there, contemplating, for a few minutes. Right now he seems approachable, but I’m not entirely convinced he won’t snap shut like a clamshell if I go somewhere he doesn’t want to go. But sitting here … next to this person I’m so curious about … I want to know his story. And I feel brave enough to ask, even though it might not go well.
Staring at the ground, I clear my throat. “Some of the things you’ve said,” I start out tentatively, “make it sound like you’ve sort of had a hard time.”
I sense him tensing beside me, but he doesn’t clam up. His right shoulder lifts tiredly before falling down again. “Yeah, things weren’t that great growing up,” he tells me. His elbows go to his knees and he leans forward, making it impossible for me to see his face as he continues on. “Never knew my biological dad. Apparently he’d been in the military and was pretty messed up from some of the stuff he was involved in. My parents got together when my mom was still in high school, but he bailed on her as soon as he heard she was pregnant; he didn’t want the responsibility of taking care of a kid. Didn’t feel equipped. At least he was honest about it.”
There’s bitterness in his final words, and he pauses for a while before continuing.
“Olivia’s dad, my stepfather, he came next. To say he was a raging asshole is putting it mildly. My mom stuck around for years, and he was a fucking master at convincing everyone around him it would eventually be different.” Jamie exhales a psssh through his mouth. “I wanted a dad so badly I always let myself believe him, too. He’s the one who got me into playing ball. I think that’s the only good thing I can say about the man.”
There’s not a trace of emotion on Jamie’s face when he reveals the next part. “He was killed crossing the street four years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I say automatically.
“I don’t know if I am,” he responds flatly. “Since then,” he continues, “it’s been loser after loser.” Jamie shakes his head. “I don’t get my mom. She’s a smart woman, but she can’t let go of this bullshit idea that she can save one of them, that she’s supposed to. It’s always been the focus of her life, always more important than the idea of a career, yet she’s failed more times than I can count.
“The last really bad one was Doug. He had all this baggage—they always do—and she thought she was actually helping him, that kicking him out would be worse. Helping him, yeah. The police were at our house on pretty much a weekly basis. But when he started lashing out on Olivia, blowing up on her and saying these awful things, my mom finally, finally came to her senses. Got rid of him for good.
“So here we are. Before this year, my mom never gave any thought to being on her own financially. She’s trying, but it’s a struggle, and that’s not gonna change. And when you hear all this, yeah, you can probably understand why the few really good memories of things like Mitch’s … it sucks to see every last one of them go.”
I swallow hard. I’d gotten the sense that Jamie’s life was far from easy, but this … “I wouldn’t really have guessed.” I shake my head. “Seeing you at school, with your friends … it always seems like you don’t have a care in the world.”
He sits up then, regarding my face for a second before leaning against the back of the bench and laying his arm along the top of it, squeezing my shoulder gently. “I try not to feel bad for myself, because the fact of the matter is … sadly … my story’s just not that interesting. Same story as thousands and thousands of kids out there, right? Families break up, money’s tight. Sadly, nothing unusual about that.”
It takes me a long time to figure out what I want to say. “Even if it’s common, that doesn’t make it easy,” I say quietly, struggling to find my voice after he’s shared so much with me. “Doesn’t make it any more trivial.”
That’s all I tell him. I don’t offer any more “I’m sorrys”; I don’t suggest any other perspectives. But when I look down at the bench a couple of minutes later, I realize the fingers of his right hand and
those of my left have somehow ended up wound together.
We sit there—I don’t know for how long—lost in our own thoughts, staring up at the starry sky. Then, from the corner of my eye, I see a small smile dawn on Jamie’s face, and he chuckles.
“Wait. I told you I was gonna cheer you up tonight.”
“It’s okay; you don’t—”
“No, I mean…” Jamie drops my hand, turning toward me with renewed energy. “It’s not entirely coincidental that we came to Mitch’s tonight, that we killed enough time for it to get dark out.”
I stare at him, clueless, heart pounding anyway, because I have no idea what he’s going to propose, sensing it’s something dangerous.
“We’re in Spring Falls territory,” he reminds me. “And it’s time to pay those fuckers back.”
“Jam—”
“You didn’t get your chance today?” He shrugs. “You’ve got your chance tonight.”
“No. That’s crazy.” I shake my head. “I’m not going to do something like that. I mean…”
“What?”
“I mean … I don’t even know who did it. What are we going to? Target the whole team?”
“I know who did it.”
My spine stiffens. “What do you mean?”
“I saw who was at the Burger Barn that night, who left just before you did.”
I stare at him. The temptation is burgeoning in my body. I feel it growing, prompting me to ask the question. “Who?”
He fires off the names. “Jeff Johanssen. Robbie Crowl. Ryan Carey. And for the record, you can find all their addresses online.”
“You actually looked them up?”
“Might have.”
“And what exactly did you have in mind?”
“That much I hadn’t decided.” Jamie looks at me, eyes narrowed. “I was thinking either Post-it notes covering their cars or plastic wrap. Post-it notes are funnier and more annoying to take off, but on the flip side, it’s a more time-consuming tactic. Not sure we could get the job done.”
Abruptly, a grin splits my face. He hasn’t proposed anything terribly illegal or dangerous. And without another season game against Spring Falls on our schedule, my opportunities to exact revenge are dwindling.