by Amelia Stone
Was there a way to let him down easy? I needed to figure it out, because I definitely wasn’t going to agree to his nutty scheme.
Well, probably.
Maybe.
Outlook not so good.
Gods.
“We lost. Again.”
I stuck my head inside my locker, ignoring the ingrained stench of athletic funk, and closed my eyes. I did not want to think about the game, because the game had sucked. This week, from start to finish, had sucked. This entire goddamn season had sucked.
This whole fucking year had sucked, since the day I’d moved into my this-is-not-home dorm room at Vanderbilt University, since my first in-over-my-head practice with the team, since the first what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here class of the first when-the-fuck-will-this-be-over semester.
Since the life-will-never-be-the-same-again day I’d turned eighteen.
“We know, Benitez.” One of my teammates, an outfielder named Worthington, threw a dirty towel at our Negative Nancy third baseman. “We were all there.”
“Yeah, but this is the fourth game in a row that we’ve lost,” Benitez continued, unphased by the laundry assault.
“We know that too, dickhead,” said Silva, a senior journeyman whose locker was right next to mine. I glanced over to see him rubbing his temples like he had a headache as he plopped his bare ass down onto the bench.
And I could not blame him one bit. Well, for the headache, anyway. I was absolutely judging him for putting his freshly-showered junk on a piece of wood that was probably held together with nothing more than polyurethane and sweat. That thing had seen God only knew what in the years since this stadium had been built.
Fluids. That’s all I had to say about that.
Anyway, Silva, and probably all the rest of us, had a headache because the game had been a debacle of epic proportions. The officials actually had to invoke the mercy rule in the seventh inning, for fuck’s sake. Because by that time, we were down by eleven runs.
Eleven.
I’d never lost by so much in my entire life. But what else was new lately?
“And that now makes us twelve and thirty-two for the entire season.” Benitez continued doggedly, because that was the kind of guy he was. Always spouting the numbers, always helpfully reminding us that, mathematically speaking, we had no possible way of salvaging the season. “We’re at a point-two-one-four winning percentage overall, and we can’t get higher than point-four-two-four, even if we win every game for the rest of the season.”
“We know.” The response echoed off the walls as every man in the locker room shouted at our third baseman.
“I’m just saying,” Benitez muttered. “Something is very wrong here. We’re losing for no good reason.”
“There’s a reason,” Silva grumbled. “We ran out of luck. End of story.”
“Nah, man,” Takerian, our backup shortstop, piped up from across the room. “It’s not about luck. Baseball is a numbers game.”
Benitez chirped his agreement, but everyone else piped up in protest. Meanwhile, I frowned into my locker, because I was too defeated to verbalize just how full of shit I thought my stats-loving teammates were. Most baseball players, myself included, were superstitious as fuck. Believing in luck was as fundamental to my game as how I gripped the bat. Anyone who tried to convince me otherwise was just barking up the wrong damn tree.
“Dude. No one cares about your sabermetrics bullshit.” Silva sounded as tired as I felt.
“I’m telling you, luck is an illusion,” Takerian insisted. “The numbers don’t lie.”
Gibson, our pitching ace, argued that his lucky jock was responsible for keeping his ERA low, and the fact that his (now ex) girlfriend had thrown it out right before the season started was the reason that particular number had gone up two full points over his last five starts. Benitez and Takerian, never ones to resist an opportunity to be pedantic, started quoting a whole bunch of numbers in response, and pretty soon the whole goddamn room was just a chorus of bickering.
I remained quiet as I listened to my teammates bitch at each other like a bunch of old biddies. I had nothing of value to contribute to the discussion, anyway. Just like I had nothing of value to contribute to our performance. I’d been a weak link from the moment I arrived in Nashville.
My luck had definitely run out. Or abandoned me to run off to MIT and have a fabulous life without me. Potato, potahto.
“That is enough!”
Coach’s sharp bark cut through the fighting, and not a moment too soon. Worthington looked like he was about three seconds from strangling Benitez, who continued to mutter under his breath even as Coach started in on the most depressing pep talk ever.
“That game was a goddamn disgrace. Every last one of you should be hanging your head in shame right now.”
Way ahead of you, Coach. I was just glad my dad wasn’t here to see this shit. He was coming down this weekend for the first time all season, but he wasn’t flying in until tomorrow night, the better to catch our double-header on Sunday. You know, because watching me lose just once while he was here wasn’t enough.
“We will go back to two-a-day practices until you ladies can get your shit together and put some damn runs on the board.” Coach glared around the room. “Be here at six a.m. tomorrow, rain or shine.”
There was some grumbling from the peanut gallery, but it was subdued. No one was brave enough to outright argue with Coach, especially not when we all knew the extra practice was necessary. Vanderbilt was one of the best baseball programs in the NCAA, but we sure as hell hadn’t been acting like it.
The moment Coach left the room, the volume increased tenfold, and next to me, Silva recommenced rubbing his temples. I dug around in my bag, unearthing a bottle of ibuprofen. Then I shook out three and handed them over to him.
“Thanks, man.” He sighed as he uncapped his water bottle. “Should be a killer weekend, huh?”
“Fun, fun, fun,” I agreed. “Happy freaking birthday to me.”
“No shit, it’s your birthday?”
I nodded, and Silva immediately put two fingers in his mouth and let out an earsplitting whistle. Then he winced at the noise, even though he’d been the one to produce it. Dumbass.
“Y’all!” he shouted, once the noise had died down. “It’s Holt’s special day!”
The chatter switched from contentious to friendly in an instant, and I heard several voices calling for celebrations of the alcoholic variety.
“Bar crawl!” Worthington shouted.
“Fuck yes!” Gibson’s eyes lit up with an unholy glee. “We need to get the freshman white girl wasted!”
I groaned. “Dude, no.” I only had a handful of drinking experiences under my belt, and none of them had been pleasant. I definitely did not want to spend this birthday puking my guts out.
Then again, getting ‘white girl wasted’ was still better than how I’d spent my last birthday.
“Dude, yes!” Gibson grinned at me. “Or at least let’s get you laid.”
I gave him a look that plainly said yeah, no. My track record in that department was almost as pathetic as my history with booze. The last thing I needed was a drunken hookup with a girl I wouldn’t even remember in the morning.
“Come on, Holt,” Worthington cajoled. “You have ID, right?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “But that’s not the point.”
“No, the point is that you only turn twelve once, my young friend.” Gibson grinned. I was the only freshman starter on the team, and the older guys refused to let me get too big for my britches.
“Nineteen.” Benitez frowned, looking around for backup. “Isn’t he nineteen? He’s a freshman, so he couldn’t be much older than nineteen or twenty, depending on when he started school. And he’s never said anything about skipping grades. And that’s improbable, given that he was on academic probation last semester.”
I shot him a glare, but everyone else ignored him, deciding instead to all gang up on me, the bett
er to lure me into going out. Before I could even finish pulling clean clothes on, my objections were overridden, and I was roped into a tour of some of Music Row’s finest providers of overpriced drinks. Silva had also somehow been conscripted into being the designated sober guy, against his loudly-voiced protests.
As the guys frog-marched me out of the locker room, I tried to convince myself I could hold my own against the river of alcohol these yahoos were probably going to pour down my throat.
I’d do my best, anyway.
My own was not being held. It had been dropped on a dirty Nashville pavement like, three hours ago or some shit.
“I am sooooooo drunk,” I announced to the crowded bar. I think I even held my arms over my head, like a toddler playing a game of So Big.
“Yeah you are.” Worthington grinned at me. “You having fun?”
I shook my head. “Don’t know how to have fun,” I told him. “Not without her.”
Silva’s dark brows knitted together. “Her, huh?”
“You got a girl back home in East Bumfuck, Holt?” Gibson leaned on my shoulder, causing me to list to the side.
“South Bay,” I corrected. “But she’s not my girl.”
But that didn’t feel right, for some reason. I frowned, trying to remember what had happened with the girl in East Bumfuck.
I mean, South Bay.
“She’s my Krista,” I eventually said. Yeah, that was right. My Krista. My best friend. My other half. My good luck charm.
Or, she used to be. But I couldn’t remember what had happened, why she wasn’t any of those things anymore.
“I think it’s time to call it.” Silva peered at me, and I wondered if he knew what had become of my Krista.
I tried to shake my head, but I think I just ended up wagging it back and forth, like a dog.
“Nope,” I argued, drawing out the P sound. “Wanna have more not fun!”
“Can’t, kid.” Silva checked his watch. “We have practice in five hours.”
“Shit, yeah.” Worthington stood up from his barstool. “Commodores!” he barked, and our teammates all looked up from whatever carousing they were engrossed in. “Last call.”
A few minutes later, I let them drag me out of the bar, though I protested the whole time. For some reason, I was convinced that if I stayed in that bar, I would find my Krista.
But Silva was having none of it. His headache didn’t seem any better, judging by the death glares he was shooting me. So we wound our way down Music Row, Silva and Gibson herding me along by alternately pushing and pulling, while the other guys trailed behind. But as we passed a shop that was still brightly lit despite the late hour, an idea struck me, and I was just drunk enough to think it was genius. I dug my heels into the sidewalk, which pulled the whole group to a sudden stop.
“Come on, Holt,” Silva grunted as he tried to push me along. “Coach will flay us alive if we roll your still-drunk ass onto the field in five hours.”
I shook my head stubbornly as I looked up at the neon sign. “Nope. ‘S my birthday. Wanna give myself a present.”
“I thought he said he didn’t want to get laid,” Gibson said.
Worthington shrugged. “Maybe he wants to jerk it.”
“In public?” Benitez looked horrified, and I wondered why he’d even come out with us tonight. We’d probably broken half a dozen code-of-conduct rules in the last hour alone. Dude had to be skitching by now.
“You can spend some quality time with your little pitcher later, when you slide into home.” Gibson chuckled at his own dumb joke.
“If he doesn’t have whiskey dick, that is.” Worthington tossed me a shit-eating grin.
“Yes, good idea,” Silva grumbled, pushing on my shoulders. “Let’s get Holt to bed so he can beat his meat in private. And then I can go home and get some goddamn sleep.”
I shook my head again. “Wanna go here.” I pointed to the storefront again.
Benitez glanced at the shop, then shook his head violently. “No way, man. I’m not staying up any later, not for that. We have practice in four hours and forty-three minutes, and studies have shown that-”
“No one cares,” everyone groaned, and Benitez scowled.
“None of us is staying up for this shit,” Silva commanded. “We’re going home now, okay Holt?”
But I pulled my arms out of Gibson’s grip, side-stepping his attempt to recapture me. “No. Imma do this. Youse guys go home.”
Gibson gave me an exasperated look. “Dude. We’re not leaving your drunk ass behind.”
I tried to shake my head again, but I stopped when it felt like my head was going to fall off my neck.
“No.” I crossed my arms over my chest instead.
My teammates all looked at each other. It was clear they weren’t going to convince me to give up my idea. But it was equally clear that none of them wanted to be the one to stay with me, either.
“It’s fine, guys.” Silva ran a tired hand over his face. “I’ll babysit the kid. Y’all can go home and get some rest.”
The other guys shook their heads like we were crazy, and maybe we were. Or maybe it was just me. Maybe I was going insane here at Vanderbilt, far away from my dad, from my hometown, from the ocean, far from everything I’d ever known and loved.
Far from Krista.
The muggy air seeped into my pores as I blinked up at the neon lights advertising twenty-four hour tattoos, and finally, I felt clear-headed enough to remember what had happened with her.
It had been exactly one year to the day since the last time I’d talked to my former best friend. An entire year without seeing her, without hearing her voice or reading her texts or smelling that coconut shampoo her mom made for her. No more studying in her room, no more fighting over the last pickle, no more video games and movies and nagging me to read that book she loved. No more listening to her favorite music and pretending I didn’t want to kiss her.
It felt like an essential part of me was missing. I had no idea how to be me without her, no idea how to function at school, no idea how to have a social life, no idea how to play ball anymore. My whole entire life sucked without her.
I needed my lucky charm back.
But I would probably never see her again. No, not probably. I was one hundred percent sure I never wanted to see her again. She’d hurt me so deeply that all these months later, I still wasn’t sure if I would recover. I knew if I talked to her again, if I just saw her, that I would be okay again. But I was a stupid teenage punk with more pride than common sense. I had no intention of ever mending fences with her.
But I didn’t want to keep looking for a new source of luck, either, since our losing record made it clear the search had been fruitless so far. I needed to find a way to keep her close, to keep the luck going, without having to ever look at her stupid lying liar face again. So I stood in front of that tattoo parlor, crossing my proverbial fingers that my alcohol-soaked idea would work.
We entered the shop, and the bell over the door echoed really fucking loudly in my already pounding head.
“Hey man, this guy wants a tattoo.” Silva pointed a thumb at me.
The guy behind the counter gave me a disgusted look. “We don’t serve his kind here.”
“Hey!” I scowled. “That’s racist. What you got against half-Indian, half-German, half-English guys anyway?”
“Too many halves, kid,” Silva muttered, sounding like he was trying not to laugh.
“It’s not because you’re brown,” the tattoo guy assured me. “It’s because you’re drunk.”
“Oh.” I had no response for that, because it was true. I was about seven sheets to the wind. “But I have to do it. She left me and she’s in Cam… in Cambri…” I huffed. “She’s in Boston and I’m not.”
Silva sighed then, shooting me a dirty look. He stepped forward, and he and the tattoo guy had a brief, whispered argument. I tried not to notice when money changed hands, because I already owed Silva for all the drinks he’d bough
t tonight, birthday be damned. I was well aware that he had sacrificed a much-needed restful night to nanny my drunk ass, and I was grateful.
“We don’t refund for regrets,” the tattoo artist warned me, his face stern.
I tried to nod again, but I still wasn’t completely in control of my head. “Got it.”
“Then we’re good to go.” The guy behind the counter, who introduced himself as Paul, gave me a much friendlier look as Silva stepped away. “You know what you want, man?”
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and pulled up the photo I’d taken of a map my dad had hanging in his living room. I slid the phone across the counter, and Paul frowned at it for a moment.
“Where is this?” he asked.
“Home,” I replied. “South Bay Island, in New York.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Just an outline, or you want me to fill it in with something?”
I thought about it for a second. “Fill it in.”
“With what, man?”
I gave him a blank look. “With what what?”
“You know,” he said, pointing at the photo again. “Do you want it to look like the map?”
I wrinkled my nose, because that didn’t seem quite right.
Paul the tattoo man huffed. “O-kay. Solid color? Shading or no shading? Some kind of pattern, like a thing within a thing? Flowers, waves, skulls, paisley, stripes?”
I blinked. That was a lot of options, and I was still too tipsy to understand even half of them.
“I like stars,” I finally said, not sure if that was even helpful. “Planets and galaxies and stuff.” I looked at Silva for confirmation, but he just gave me a long-suffering look. “I have a telescope.”
But the tattoo man just nodded like he got it. “Favorite colors?”
“Blue,” I answered immediately. “Dark blue. Like this.” I scrolled through my phone until I found another photo, one I hadn’t looked at in a long time.
Not in just over a year, in fact.
“Pretty girl.” The tattoo man smirked. “I can work with that.”