by Karole Cozzo
She doesn’t acknowledge me whatsoever. She waits on the other side of the door frame, adopting a posture identical to mine. Eve crosses her arms over her chest and stares dead ahead. I notice a similarly crumpled pass in her fist.
Coach called us here at the same time. I consider for a minute whether Coach would actually sink so low as to involve himself in our … personal lives. Sure, he’s involved himself in mine, he’s crossed the line between professional and personal, but … he wouldn’t, would he? As much as I hate how things are between me and Eve right now, I think I hate the idea of Coach playing guidance counselor even more.
Seconds tick by on the old clock overhead in slow motion. Standing there, the tense energy radiating off Eve’s body, it seems like a magnet is trying to pull the second hand in the opposite direction as it struggles to move forward. There’s still not a sound behind the door, and I can’t even tell if there’s any light escaping from beneath it.
I glance at her again in my peripheral vision. This is torture.
Two minutes later, I turn all the way toward her, surprised to find she’s actually turned to look at me, too, that her expression has softened almost imperceptibly.
Over the weekend and into the week, my anger toward her had flared periodically, engulfing any other feelings, the more painful ones, she’d stirred up at the party. Anger I’m used to. Anger I can handle. It reminds me I could write her off and be done with it, tells me I should write her off.
But looking at her today, the anger’s extinguished just like that, leaving me with pangs of regret and loss nudging at my heart, telling me something else. Maybe someone different is worth being different for. Maybe worth working for, challenging as it can be sometimes.
Not that I know how to fix things. All I know is how relationships don’t work, how eventually it’s every man or woman for herself when they turn ugly. My hands curl in frustration at my sides.
I want better than that. I got a taste of what better can be like, and I want it back.
“Eve,” I finally whisper, all the while knowing I have no idea how I’m going to follow up the single word. Because I don’t really know how to communicate with the girl who walked down the hallway; never did.
My hands twitch nervously at my sides, but before I can begin to figure out what to say next, Coach’s door finally opens.
Thank God, I think, my body rolling off the door frame and into his office.
I’m disappointed at the same time.
“Hey, Abrams,” Coach murmurs, gaze toward his carpet. “Sorry I kept you.”
He leaves the door open and stands just inside it, expectantly. There’s no movement outside it, and finally he ducks his head outside. “Marshall,” I hear him say. “I believe your pass was written for fifth block, too. Get in here.”
She’s actively rolling her eyes, dragging her body inside against her will, and I could almost smile, because I’m pretty sure she’s gotten the sense that we’re in for a joint guidance lesson, same way I did. And she’s every bit as disappointed in Coach.
Guess we always had more in common than we thought, before we messed everything up.
Coach tugs on the brim of his hat before collapsing into the chair behind his desk and staring at us. He exhales a long sigh through his nose. He stares at us some more. He makes a tent with his fingers and looks from Eve, to me, then back again. He nods a few times. Sighs again.
A nervous laugh escapes me. “Uh, did you want something, Coach? You’re the one always reminding me to get to class on time.”
“Zip it, Abrams,” he says, removing his ball cap, running a hand through his matted hair, and putting the cap into place again.
He looks at both of us, hard, one more time. Then, finally, he gets around to talking. “I’ve got myself a problem here.” He slaps a file folder onto his desk, lips pressed together in a thin, frustrated line.
Eve and I wait, silently, for him to elaborate.
Coach gazes out his window as he continues. “The spring sports banquet is just about three weeks away,” he says. “And by the end of today, I need to get back with the athletic director about whose name to get engraved on the Cy Young trophy.”
Every muscle in my body tenses. I sense the exact same reaction coming from the chair beside me.
“And I think we can agree,” he continues, “that I’m in a goddamn no-win situation.”
I listen, motionless, feeling frozen inside.
This is it.
“In the past, it’s been easy to identify the standout. That’s the thing about standouts; they’re easy to spot.” He shakes his head back and forth slowly. “And I’ve never been given a manual, any kind of guidelines about pitch counts, about games won or lost, about weighing strikeouts versus RBIs. This has always been a discretionary award, and I know I’m not going to get any help from analyzing stats for comparative purposes anyway. That wouldn’t bring me peace of mind.”
My heart pounds as I listen to him give a brief recap of the season and review highlights from games at home, games on the road. He talks about our record, how our performances on the mound supported it.
“The fact is, and it’s a fact I know you two are keenly aware of, why things between you remain so … complicated…”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes my head jerk up, something that hints he knows a lot more about the extent of our relationship outside the bullpen. And it all hangs in the balance in that moment … but ultimately, Coach stays a coach. He doesn’t play guidance counselor. He keeps talking baseball.
“… is because you’re both standouts, and that’s hard for both of you to take.” A hint of a smile appears at the corner of his lips. “You both had outstanding seasons, you both demonstrated sportsmanship in the toughest of times, you both were leaders in your own way. We’ve got a few other pitchers on the team, but everyone knows that this award belongs to one of the two of you.”
Coach takes off his hat again, anxiously runs his hand through his hair, and resituates the cap. “And if there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”
He lifts his hand in my direction. “Could give it to you, Abrams. And the stats would back me up that you deserve it. The team would back me up that you deserve it. But you know … you got the honor last year.” He shrugs. “And there’s a good chance you’ll get it next year. And there will be people out there, talking in whispers behind my back, saying that I never would’ve given it to Eve, that I never would’ve given it to a girl, no matter how fully she proved herself. That’s the bitch about this being a discretionary award; I have no strict guidelines to follow.”
Then he looks over at Eve. “Or I can just give it to you, Marshall.”
Suddenly I’m biting back a protest, by instinct.
“Again, the stats would back me up, and so would the team. And there would be people out there, talking in whispers behind my back, saying that you got the award because in some way I had to give it to you; how would it have looked if I didn’t? I’m pretty sure there are few things you’d hate more than people thinking you got the award for any other reason than fully deserving it … and again, all I could say is that it’s a discretionary award.” He hangs his head. “I have no guidelines,” he says quietly.
“Or I could just ask the AD to order two trophies. He’d probably say yes.” Then Coach taps the file folder on his desk one more time. “But why do I get the sense that this would be the ultimate cop-out, and neither one of you would want to take a trophy home if I did that?”
Coach looks at us expectantly, like he’s waiting for us to speak, and it sinks in for the first time during this exchange that he’s actually come to us for help, that he actually expects us to weigh in.
We sit there in joint silence instead.
“I mean, I can make whatever bullshit decision,” he tells us. “And I can let the odd man out know after the fact, before the banquet, so he or she is adequately prepared
.” Coach leans forward. “But I wanted to talk to you ahead of time, because I have no idea what I’m going to do, but I do know that the decision is not going to get any easier. So, once I do figure this out, if it’s what you want, I’ll tell you privately ahead of time.” Coach stares at us, sitting there silent. A long minute passes. “Either of you have any thoughts on that?” he finally asks.
My mouth does in fact fall open, but no words come out.
I’m dumbfounded.
And in that instant, I realize it’s not because I’m not sure what I want to happen, because that’s obvious. I feel it on a visceral, competitive level. I want the trophy. I deserve the trophy. And in some way I’m still well aware that I really need the trophy.
I’m dumbfounded because I’m wondering … What does she want?
And I’m wondering if there’s a way I can still make her happy.
As furious as I’ve been at her, as disappointed as I’ve been that she copped out when everything was on the line … damn it … I’m still finding myself caring about her.
I’m jolted out of my stupor by the sound of Eve’s chair scraping the floor loudly as she pushes it back and stands up. “Give the trophy to Jamie,” she says, eyes trained on Coach.
My head whirls around in shock.
What?
“What?” asks Coach.
She only glances at me for a second, long enough for me to see her swallow hard, before turning her attention back to the coach. “Give the trophy to Abrams,” she says. “I’m okay with that.”
My mouth is still hanging open; I can’t pull it together to acknowledge that I’m not sure if I’m okay with it.
Eve is gripping the strap of her backpack, like it’s giving her strength or something. “Jamie was more consistent. He got us out of trouble a few more times than I did. I’ve seen the way he rallied the team when we needed it. Got everyone fired up to maintain the lead he set from the mound.”
She shrugs, her voice quieter now. “That’s the reality of the situation, and I’m not going to stand here and try to deny it.” Eve lifts her chin. “I had an incredible season, for sure. I overcame some things probably hundreds of people thought I couldn’t, or at least couldn’t anymore. And if the award encompassed all those things, yeah, it would be mine. But I know what’s what, and if we strip all that other stuff away, the award belongs to Jamie. And I’m okay with that.”
Listening to her speak up on my behalf, painful feelings stir in my chest, crippling me from talking or moving. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so brokenhearted to learn a baseball award was about to be mine.
Even though we were fighting, even though she had an opportunity to try to screw me, she didn’t. She was being honest, and she was conceding this to me. The girl who never conceded anything was giving me this, putting me before something I know she really, really wanted for herself.
“You sure, Marshall?” Coach asks. “I’m not asking anyone to play the martyr, just to be clear.”
“I’m sure, Coach.” She pulls her backpack all the way up on both shoulders, squaring them like she’s getting ready to go. “And I appreciate you talking to us like you did. I appreciate the respect you showed me. Today … well, to be honest … the whole season.” Eve turns her back on us and makes her way to the door. Then she smiles over her shoulder at Coach. “Almost makes me proud to say I’m a Pirate.”
Seconds later, she’s gone. And even though she just gave me something—something huge, something I desperately wanted—it feels like she took something even more important with her when she walked out the door without looking back.
Chapter 27
May 12
Eve
Coach ends practice twenty minutes early. Yesterday we secured our spot in the district playoffs, and it’s prom weekend. The guys are talking about last-minute haircuts, corsages they forgot to order, and what time they need to pick up their tuxes.
I guess I’m sticking with my plan to go with some of my friends from the basketball team, now that Marcella’s got a date. When Ethan was home last weekend, we all ended up hanging out together like old times. I’ve always suspected he had a little bit of a crush on Marcella, and so when it came up that she needed a last-minute date, he was more than happy to offer to take the train back down and hang out at his alma mater’s prom.
Everything got squared away just in time. The weekend will be … fun.
I close my eyes, already picturing it—him walking in, cool and confident in a tux, with whatever girl took Naomi’s spot. Jamie, arriving at prom, without me. I mean, never in a million years, even when we were … whatever … did I fantasize about going to prom with him, but the idea of him showing up with someone else …
I push the image aside, busying myself in an attempt to ignore the pain in my gut, the feeling of my throat tightening for about the hundredth time this week. I know I did the right thing in Coach’s office the other afternoon, as an athlete and as a person. It wasn’t an attempt to fix things; it was just an attempt to do something right in that gut-check moment.
Turns out doing the right thing doesn’t necessarily go so far in making you feel any better. Any less sad.
I linger down at the field until the coaches and the rest of my team have left, not into being part of the bustle back up at the school, wanting to be alone. I hide in the dugout, picking up empty sunflower seed bags and Gatorade bottles that have been left behind during the season and pulling together a small pile of batting gloves and sweatshirts to take up to lost and found. It’s officially prom weekend, and I can’t seem to make myself face it.
When I emerge, I stop in my tracks, staring at the infield. I didn’t realize I wasn’t alone down here, that someone else had also hung back. He seems to be pretending to be busy the same way I am, standing on the mound and fiddling with a leather strap on his glove with an unnecessary amount of concentration.
He’s looking down at his glove, not at me, but my heart starts pounding anyway, because it seems like he’s hanging out for some reason. If he were still totally angry, he’d have made sure not to get stuck down here alone with me.
And if I’m going to speak up, if I’m going to say what I want to say, then now’s the time.
I wait, and wait, and eventually he looks up. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me standing there.
Rubbing my neck and clearing my throat, suddenly feeling like I’ve swallowed the entirety of the infield, I call out to him weakly. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Jamie nods, expression blank, but he doesn’t move. He waits on me, and slowly and very unsurely I walk out to join him on the mound.
I try to assess his face under his hat. He still looks kind of scary, the way he used to, but I close my eyes briefly and try to recall the not-so-scary person who’d shared ice cream with me, wound plastic wrap around cars, and held my hand for just a minute there.
Taking a deep breath, I dive in. “I owe you a huge apology.” I pause. “Well, actually, I owe you a few apologies, and they’re all so embarrassing to acknowledge it’s almost painful to admit them out loud. But I will.” I take another breath. “I’m sorry for how I acted at the party. I’m sorry for how I acted after when you tried to talk to me. And I’m sorry it’s taken me over a week to say it to your face.”
Shaking my head, I finally admit it out loud. “You were right, Jamie. All of it … it had less to do with you and more to do with me. And I was mean and unfair. Because I was scared.”
I force myself to meet his eyes. “You didn’t deserve it. And I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
He just regards me, silently, for another moment, and it’s so unsettling that I finally turn to start back.
I walk away, swallowing back the hurt, telling myself I said what I wanted to say, that he had listened, and I should be satisfied.
“Marshall.”
My head whips around at the sound of my name. I think I detect the smallest of smiles on his face as he beckons me back to the
mound with his index finger.
When I’m standing before him, he finally crosses his arms and nods his head at me, the small smile turning into that patented smirk. “I know saying that was probably the most difficult thing you had to do this spring,” he acknowledges. “So thank you.” Jamie sighs loudly. “It sucked, that scene at the party, but … I’m getting over it. Seems like no matter how many times you piss me off, I still kinda like you. And you know … I was confused about how you felt, what you wanted. But on my end, I didn’t speak up soon enough, either, so…” He shrugs.
“So…”
“So I’m not mad at you. And I think … maybe … we should give this a shot.”
My heart hangs in the balance, hesitant but hopeful.
Jamie reaches around to his back pocket and pulls something from it. “On one condition … we do this for real, we do this in public.”
I stare down at the two tickets he’s grasping within his fist.
My eyes widen. “You want to go to prom?”
“Nah.” Jamie shakes his head, smiles, and extends his palm to reveal the face of the tickets. “Something better.”
I stare down at them. Two tickets for tomorrow night. To the Reading Phillies home game.
“I was going to ask you to prom, for the record,” he tells me, surprising the crap out of me. “Before you very ruthlessly and cruelly dissed me in public. But then I thought … we’d have a better time at the game, anyway.”