That's What Friends Do

  “C’mon,” I say to Luke. “Let me show you the stockroom.”

  “I always wanted to see what a stockroom looks like,” Luke says, sounding super excited.

  There is nothing exciting about the L. H. Fischer Sporting Goods stockroom, which is basically a dusty back room full of metal shelves and boxes. Usually, at least two light bulbs need to be replaced, so you can’t see all that well. And apparently sixteen-year-old paid employees can’t see trash cans at all because the one in the stockroom is always overflowing. Throw in a rolling stepstool, a couple of metal folding chairs, and a lot of dust bunnies, and that’s the stockroom.

  The pile of shipping boxes that we need to unpack is pretty obvious because it’s right in the middle of the main aisle. I take a box and show Luke how to open it, which you do by flipping it over and peeling off the packing tape. “You could get scissors and cut through the tape,” I explain. “But then you have to worry about damaging the merch inside. So it’s better to peel off the tape.”

  “Peel the tape so you don’t damage the merch,” Luke says. “Got it.”

  I take the packing slip out of the box, grab a pencil, and hand it to Luke, then show him how to check off the merch as I unpack it.

  “Baseball cleats in February,” I say, as I pull out the first shoebox. “Bathing suits in March, ski gear in August. It’s always the wrong season inside L. H. Fischer Sporting Goods.”

  Luke laughs and makes a check mark on the invoice. I pull out another box of cleats.

  When we finish unpacking the first box, Luke says, “That was fun.”

  “Five more to go,” I say, opening the second shipping box. “But unpacking’s not the worst job in the store. It’s better than working in the shoe department.”

  “What’s wrong with the shoe department?”

  “Stinky feet,” I say, waving the box of cleats I’m holding in front of my nose. “Even nice people’s feet stink, people you’d think would have great-smelling feet. Even people who come in with wet hair, like they showered on purpose to be completely clean. Their feet still stink.”

  “I never thought of that,” Luke admits. “Stinky feet are gross.”

  “Yep, they are.”

  After we’ve checked the second box of merch against the packing slip, I show Luke how to work the price gun, and we get a little assembly-line thing going where I hand him the shoebox, he puts the price on, and I put it on the appropriate stockroom shelf.

  When we’ve emptied four shipping boxes, I show Luke how to break one down, and where the flattened boxes go, by the back delivery door. Luke takes the whole thing weirdly seriously, insisting that he break down the second and third packing boxes by himself, which is fine by me. I don’t mind sitting on the stepstool while he works.

  We’ve just started unpacking the last big box when Pop calls over the intercom, “David, I need you at the register.”

  “Do you think you can finish this up without me?” I ask Luke.

  “Sure,” he says. “Is it okay if I put the boxes on the shelves after I price them? I see how you’ve been doing it, by style and then size.”

  “Okay,” I say. “If you’re not sure about something, just don’t shelve it.”

  There’s a line of five customers at the register, so I step in to help speed things up. I take the items from each customer, hand them to Pop one at a time, and then slip them into the bag after he’s rung up each one. Then I hand the bag to the customer with a smile and a “thank you.” We’ve rung up four customers and are down to only one waiting when Luke comes out of the stockroom.

  “I’ve finished all the cleats,” he says. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  Someone is waiting in the shoe section to try on running shoes, so Pop turns the cash register over to me, and Luke becomes my bagging wingman. “Thank you for shopping at L. H. Fischer,” he says to our first customer. “Have a great day, and come back to see us soon!”

  Finally, at a little past twelve, the store begins to empty out. People don’t shop at lunchtime on a Sunday because they go home and have lunch, or they go out to the diner. This is both a good thing, because it gives us a breather at the store, and a bad thing, because it reminds me that I’m not home or at the diner.

  Mom and Allie come by and drop off bagels with cream cheese and lox, which Dad and Luke and I take turns eating in the stockroom. Afterward, Dad gives us money to go down to Dunkin’ Donuts for a treat.

  We each get a Boston cream and a large hot chocolate, and a plain cruller and a coffee for Pop, then head back to L. H. Fischer Sporting Goods.

  “I like working at the store,” Luke says as we walk slowly up the street. “Maybe your dad could hire me for real.”

  I laugh. “You’re twelve. It’s not legal.”

  “I’ll be thirteen in a month.”

  “It’s still not legal. You have to be sixteen. Unless you’re family, like me.”

  When we walk in, Pop is waiting right by the front, like something exciting has happened.

  “I’ve got a really great surprise!” Pop says. In my experience, what Pop thinks is “really great” would probably not be rated “really great” by anyone else, and would definitely not be rated “really great” by me.

  “You boys have been such a help this morning that the store’s in excellent shape. Jeanine’s here, and I know I can leave the place in her capable hands, plus Fletcher’s coming in from two until close. So we’re taking a break for a couple of hours this afternoon.”

  Pop rubs his hands together like he can’t wait to spring this really great surprise on us, and I’m honestly starting to get excited because a couple of hours is just the right amount of time to take in a movie, which is my favorite thing to do on a Sunday afternoon, but then Pop says, “I just called and reserved us two hours at the batting cages.”

  My tiny flame of excitement flickers out.

  “Luke, check with your dad and see if he can join us. And I’ll call Mike Goldstein. Maybe he and Sammie can make it. Be nice for you three to practice together, right?”

  “Umm,” I say. But Pop is already dialing, and before I can say “Guantánamo Bay torture chamber,” he’s got Dr. Goldstein on the line.

  “Mike,” he says. “I reserved a couple of cages at Frozen Ropes. You and Sammie up for joining us?”

  He listens, then says, “Why don’t you come without her, then? Hang out with the guys. You’re a better coach than I am. Maybe you could offer David some pointers on his form. He’s rusty, you know.”

  He listens again, says, “Great!” and hangs up. “Sammie can’t make it—”

  I start to offer a silent thank-you to God for this small favor, but then Pop says, “Mike’s going to join us anyway.” He winks at me. “He wants to keep his eye on the competition.”

  I look up at the ceiling. Really, God?

  Luke calls his dad and gets an okay. “He’s still in the city, but he says he’ll meet us there in an hour.”

  Why? I think. Why this particular torture now? What would be so wrong with a nice movie, a big tub of popcorn, maybe some Raisinets?

  I pick up Pop’s cruller and take a bite.

  “The preliminary baseball meeting’s coming up this week,” Pop says. “This may be your last chance to warm up, get into fighting form.”

  My mouth is full of cruller so I don’t say anything, but what I want to say is that Tuesday is the day after the field trip to meet Melvin Marbury. I wish I could tell Pop how excited I am to meet my artist hero, and have him be even one-tenth as happy as he is when he talks about baseball.

  SAMMIE

  Haley texted me early this morning to say I could catch a ride to the batting cages with her. I said yes, figuring that if Dad dropped me off at Haley’s, I wouldn’t have to tell him about the practice. I’d go to the cages this one time, and hang out and have fun. Then baseball will start on Tuesday and I won’t have time for softball. Dad won’t ever need to know.

  As we’re eating breakfast at
the diner, I casually say to Dad, “My friend Haley invited me over. Can you drop me off there later?”

  “Sure,” he says. “Is that the friend who was texting you yesterday? Haley? I haven’t heard that name.”

  “Yeah, she’s in my math class. And English. She’s nice.”

  “Is this for a school project?”

  “Umm, no,” I say. “Just hanging out.”

  Dad drops me off right at one thirty. “Are you sure this is right?” he asks as I open the car door. The address Haley gave me is for an apartment building. Even though there are a lot of them in New Roque, no one else I know lives in one. My grandma lives in an apartment in Riverdale, but she used to have a house, before Grandpa died.

  “I’m sure,” I say. I walk into the building’s lobby, and turn and wave at Dad. Then I text Haley, Here. In the lobby.

  Down in a sec, Haley texts back.

  I walk over to the elevators and pretend to press the up button, then turn and wave again to Dad, who finally drives away.

  A minute later, the elevator doors open and Haley and her mom are inside.

  “Hop in,” Haley says. “Car’s in the parking garage, one level down.”

  In the car, I ask, “How was your Saturday?”

  “We went to visit my grandparents in Yonkers,” Haley says. “And then we went to the movies.”

  Ms. Wilcox chimes in. “We saw two movies in a row. That’s my favorite way to spend a Saturday afternoon.”

  “How about you?” Haley asks. “How was skiing?”

  “Great. It was just me and my dad, so we could do all the black diamonds.”

  “Black diamonds?” Ms. Wilcox asks.

  “The hardest trails.”

  “It’s a shame he couldn’t come with you to practice today,” Ms. Wilcox says. “I’m sure he’d enjoy seeing you in the cage, and meeting the coach.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Next time,” Haley says, glancing back at me.

  “Right,” I say. “Next time.”

  When we get to Frozen Ropes, the whole team is there. Valerie’s in one cage, batting, and Zari’s in another. It’s the first time I’ve seen most of the girls bat, and Valerie’s killing it.

  “Glad you could make it,” Coach Wright says as we join the others. She puts one arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. Jelly comes over and gives me a big hug. I smile, feeling warm and light and happy.

  Coach Wright hands me a bat. “It’s going to be lighter than what you’re used to,” she tells me, which I already know from practicing our stance during the after-school sessions. I take the bat and lift it up over my shoulder. Then I take a few practice swings, my shoulders loosening as I work the bat.

  “I want you to let some of the other girls go first,” Coach says. “You’ve had a lot of experience with baseball, and as you already know, the stance and swing are basically the same in fast-pitch softball. But I think it helps to watch other players. See how they move.”

  “Sure,” I say, even though I’m dying to get into the cage.

  After Valerie goes, I watch Jelly and then Haley and Savanna. Finally, Coach calls to me, “You’re up next.” I grin and bounce up and down on the balls of my feet, loosening my legs and hips.

  When Savanna finishes, I pick up my bat and step into the cage.

  “Keep your front shoulder down,” Coach reminds me. “Keep the flex in that front elbow.”

  I nod, because I want her to know I’ve heard, but my body already feels what it needs to do. Until the first ball comes out of the machine. I swing and miss.

  “It’s a slower pitch,” Coach says. “And the ball’s coming at you a little differently.”

  I miss the first five pitches, then connect, then miss another couple, and then I finally get it. And I’m in the zone: plant my back foot, begin the swing, dip my front shoulder, and connect.

  I’m there, pitch after pitch, and my bat’s connecting, and it feels great.

  I’m in mid-swing when a deep voice behind me says, “Samantha?”

  Dad. I miss the ball, and turn around, getting hit with the next pitch. He’s standing right behind the cage.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, his voice sharp and angry. “What’s going on?”

  Another ball hits me squarely on the back.

  “Softball,” I say. “Some of my friends play. I wanted to give it a try.”

  “What friends?”

  I look around at the other girls, who are standing back, pretending to be focused on Jelly in the other cage. “Haley?” I say, and even I can hear the question mark in my voice. Behind Dad, I see Luke and David, watching me, not even pretending to look away.

  “Why are you here?” I ask. “With them?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject, Samantha. You lied to me.”

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “And worse, you’re ruining yourself for baseball. What were you thinking?” His voice gets louder, harder to ignore.

  “I wanted to try it,” I say. Haley steps into the other batting cage and starts swinging at pitches.

  “Why?”

  I step out of the batting cage. “Can we go somewhere to talk?” I ask.

  But Dad doesn’t budge. “What’s gotten into you? We’ve been waiting all year for baseball season. Now you’re risking it all to try some . . . some girls’ game.”

  Coach Wright walks over to us. “Can I help you?” she says to Dad.

  Without even looking at her, Dad jerks his head in her direction. “Did she talk you into this?”

  My stupid eyes fill with tears. “No one talked me into it. I wanted to try it. It’s actually fun, and I’m good at it. And in case you haven’t noticed, I am a girl. I’m a girl, playing a girls’ sport.”

  I push past him and run into the ladies’ room, but he calls after me, “I won’t give you permission to play softball. It would ruin you for baseball. Trust me, I’m doing what’s best—”

  The bathroom door slams shut behind me, and I’m breathing hard, like I’ve been running. I feel trapped. Stuck. I lean my forehead against the cold, white tile walls, and wish I could disappear.

  DAVID

  We all stand there, no one talking, and watch as Sammie runs down the hall and into the bathroom, with Dr. Goldstein following behind.

  She pushes through the bathroom door and it shuts behind her. Dr. G stops short, takes a step back, and stands right outside the ladies’ room. His back is to us. He doesn’t turn around.

  “All right,” Pop says, handing me a bat and acting like nothing happened. “We’re in cage three. Which of you boys wants the first crack?”

  “Luke,” I say, because I don’t want to go at all.

  Luke grabs the bat and heads into the cage. I’m half watching him hit pitch after pitch, replaying the embarrassing Sammie-and-her-dad scene in my head, when I notice that the guys in the batting cage next to us have stopped swinging and are watching Luke. Two eighth graders whose names are Shane and Nick, plus, of course, Corey Higgins and Markus Johnson.

  The pitching machine runs through its fifty balls, and Luke gives a final swing, like he’s wishing for just one more pitch, like he can’t get enough, then ambles out of the cage.

  “Your turn,” he says to me, handing me his bat.

  The last thing I want to do is swing at—and miss—fifty pitches while Markus and Corey and those guys are watching.

  “Gotta pee,” I say, dropping the bat and heading for the bathroom.

  When I come back, Pop’s in the batting cage, swinging away, and Luke’s talking to the cool crew. They’re standing in a circle, and no one moves to make room for me, so I end up kind of behind Luke, trying to get one foot into the circle.

  “—the Diamondbacks,” Luke is saying.

  All the other guys nod their heads silently, looking like four really cool bobblehead dolls.

  Then Corey says, “Good team.”

  “Yeah,” Luke says. “But I’m psyched to play on th
e school team.”

  “What position?” Nick asks.

  “Catcher,” Luke says.

  “That’s my position,” Shane says, running his hands through his shaggy brown hair. “And there’s another eighth grader who plays catcher. Joe Garcia. I heard there’s a girl in seventh grade too.”

  “Sammie,” Luke says.

  “Is she playing baseball or softball?” Markus says. “I thought I saw her hanging out with the softball girls.”

  “Baseball,” Luke says, and I nod in agreement and mumble, “Baseball.”

  Which is when Shane notices me. “Hey, little man,” he says.

  “Hey,” I say.

  Nick, who is standing next to Luke, and therefore next to my foot, turns, looks at me, and shifts a few inches to the right so I can get a shoulder and an arm into the circle.

  “Sammie’s really good,” I say.

  “At what?” Corey asks, grinning.

  Shane and Nick snicker, but I ignore them. “At baseball. She was the best player on our Little League team last year. And she played in a summer league and did fall ball too.”

  “She’s cute,” Nick says.

  “You think so?” Shane says. “She’s kind of . . . I mean, she’s got that crazy hair, and she’s skinny and flat as a board. And her clothes? I mean, come on. She’s a nerd.”

  “I think she’s cute,” Nick says. “Does she have a boyfriend? Some seventh-grade guy’s gotta have his eye on her.”

  “How about you, little man?” Shane asks me. “You’re carrying a torch for Sammie, right?” He smiles widely at me, like we’re sharing a secret, and for a moment I think he’s actually reading my mind. Then I realize it’s just talk. He’s guessing.

  “Not me,” I say. “Luke.”

  Luke shoots me a look like I just made a big, loud, juicy fart, then laughs. “I like nerdy girls,” he says, like he’s sharing a big secret. “They’re so . . . easy.”

  The guys all laugh. Corey slaps him on the back.

  I hate Luke, and I hate what he’s saying. I hate the way he’s talking about Sammie. I hate the way he changes his story to fit in, to be like them, but then I realize I’m nodding, like I agree, and my mouth opens and I mumble, “Easy.”

  SAMMIE