Kids, dude.
She used to jump on Brett every morning. And once he was awake, he’d chuck something across the room to wake me up. Apparently that was only fair.
I glance over at his old bed, which Momma still keeps perfectly made on the off chance he decides to come home anytime other than holidays. She knows that’ll never happen. Can’t say that I blame him. Our family’s good, but the town sucks. I will admit that I miss getting stuff thrown in my face every morning.
Really.
With a groan, I grab my phone from my nightstand and scroll through until I find Brett’s name.
Me: Emma says to wake up, lazy ass
Five minutes pass before my phone buzzes. Brett: You’re a jackass
Snorting, I toss the phone back onto my nightstand. Now that I’m kind-of-sort-of-awake, my other sister’s voice carries from the kitchen. Hers isn’t nearly as perky. Yelling at Momma on Sunday morning is the worst possible thing one of us can do; it’s her favorite day of the week, so she protects it like a pitcher hoards a perfect glove. Grace better like being grounded until she’s seventy.
I roll out of bed with a grunt. After a trip to the bathroom, I follow the sound of coffee brewing to the kitchen. Sunlight spills into the room. The table’s set with plates and syrup and glasses of juice, and it would look like something straight out of a breakfast commercial, if breakfast commercials starred a pissed-off blond girl and a mom who’s clutching her coffee mug for dear life. I plop into my chair at the table, beside Grace and across from Emma, whose face is already smeared with blueberries. The kid attacks food with a vengeance.
“I still don’t get how you caught me,” Grace says.
Momma sighs. “Darlin’, I’ve raised two Perry boys. I could hear someone sneaking in or out if I were in a coma.”
“You’re ruining my life,” Grace says. “You know that, right?”
Looks like I didn’t miss much; it’s the same argument they have every other day. At least there are pancakes with this show. Pancakes, and…
The Sunday paper. Sitting right smack in the center of the table. Taunting me. It’s folded, so I can’t see the headline, not that I’m sure I want to. Do you ever want to read someone talking crap about you?
But maybe it’s not crap. Maybe it’s actually good. Maybe they’re pissing themselves with excitement because we’re going into a new era of Bulldogs pitching.
Or maybe I’m the one who’s full of shit.
“I ruined your life last week, too,” Momma says, snapping me back to the moment. “And the week before that. You should be used to it by now.” She slides a plate of pancakes in front of me and kisses the top of my head. Score. Pancakes make everything better. For now, anyway.
“Doesn’t Dad always preach about loving people?” Grace argues. “What you’re doing with Parker is the exact opposite.”
Yawning, I reach for the syrup. “Can we not talk about this crap before I eat?” I ask. “Weak stomach, and all that.” Grace’s boyfriend of the month is some redneck football player from junior class. An all-right guy, I guess, but she can do better than a dude who chews more tobacco than gum.
Momma leans back against the counter, sipping her coffee. “I do love Parker. But it doesn’t mean I have to let my daughter crawl out of her bedroom window at two in the morning to meet him.”
“Your pancakes are yummy!” Emma shouts.
Momma beams. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
It’s way too early for all this.
Grace flops back against her chair, folding her arms. “You know, Eric’s screwed half the girls in his class, and I don’t see you grounding him.”
I choke on my bite of pancake. I haven’t screwed half the girls—just a select few. Many times over. There’s a difference. And it’s not breakfast conversation.
“Watch your mouth in front of your sister,” Momma says.
Grace sighs and passes me a glass of orange juice, which I chug. I shoot her a glare. “Don’t bring me into this just because you got caught. I still don’t know why the hell—”
“Language,” Momma cuts in. “You have a vocabulary. Use it.”
I roll my eyes and lean in to whisper, “I don’t know why the heck you keep arguing with her. Just shut up and agree with whatever she says.” Straightening, I add, “Besides, I’m pretty sure Parker hasn’t showered since summer. And you can’t date a guy who dips. What if you accidentally drink out of his spit bottle?”
Her nose scrunches as she shoves me. “Ew! Momma! Tell Eric to shut up.”
Momma takes another sip of coffee. “Don’t say shut up. And he’s got a point. Dip spit can look an awful lot like Diet Coke.”
“I’m gonna puke.” Grace shoves away from the table, her chair nearly toppling over as she stands. She storms past Dad, who’s walking into the kitchen with his tie hanging around his neck.
Emma hops down, her Transformers shirt stained with blueberries and syrup. “Grace!” she yells, running down the hall. “You weren’t excused!”
Dad cocks an eyebrow. “Do I want to know?” he asks.
“No,” Momma and I both say.
Both my sisters look exactly like our momma, but my brother and I are carbon copies of our dad: natural tans, brown hair, and brown eyes that give away everything going through our heads. Which is how I can tell that Dad is trying really, really hard to resist chasing after Grace and laying into her for yelling at Momma.
“I’m handling it,” Momma tells him. “Nothing new. I hated my parents at sixteen, too.”
“So did I,” I mumble through a mouthful of pancakes, staring at the paper. “Did y’all ever think I’d be the normal kid in the house?”
“Depends on your definition of normal,” Dad says, buttoning his shirt’s cuffs.
I see how it is. Dad’s got jokes.
He strides across the kitchen, straight toward the coffee. “Why are you looking at that paper like it’s carrying the plague?” he asks.
Because it might very well be. I remember when Austin Braxton moved into the starting pitcher position a few years ago, how the town went into an uproar. People around here don’t take change so well. Everyone knew that he was the golden ticket for Lewis Creek baseball, and even he got his rear handed to him in his first front-page feature. He proved them all wrong within one game, but if he wasn’t safe from the vultures, I sure as hell won’t be.
Taking a deep breath, I roll my shoulders. Crack my neck. Grab the paper and open it to the front page.
The Future of Lewis Creek Baseball, or the Downfall?
And I want to trash it already. My stomach churns. Grace isn’t the only one who’s gonna puke. My picture is dead center—a snapshot of me sitting on the bench from last season. They couldn’t hunt down a shot of me while I was pitching? Give me a break here.
“Eric?” Dad says. “Just leave it—”
“‘Eric Perry has a decent arm,’” I read aloud, “‘and the potential is there—that’s not our concern. Our concern is with a boy whose behavioral track record is not up to Bulldog standards. His moral compass clearly leaves much to be desired.’”
Wow. Some aloe would be nice for that burn.
“‘And while his fastball is mildly impressive,’” I continue, my voice dropping, “‘it doesn’t hold a candle to Lewis Creek all-star Austin Braxton, who graduated last year and moved on to the University of South Carolina. While this year’s team is anticipated to be full of old talent, a pitcher like Braxton comes along once in a life—’”
I toss the paper onto the table and drop my head onto the wood, groaning. Braxton was a good guy—one of the few solid friends I had around here—but I spent years in his shadow. Now he’s gone, and the paper is still kissing his ass. He had years to settle into golden-arm status. I’m being tossed to the wolves without even having a chance to warm up.
Lifting my head, I catch Dad and Momma sharing one of those you-say-it-no-you-say-it looks. “Y’all can say whatever you want. You don’t have
to do your eye-talk thing. I’m a big kid now.”
Dad blows out a breath. His chair scratches against the floor as he pulls it out and sits at the head of the table. “The three of us had a conversation about this last month. And the month before that. And plenty of times before that. About your behavior.”
“I know. I was there.”
“You know how people love to single out the pastor’s kid.”
“I know.”
“They watch you closely enough because of that. And they’re going to be watching you even closer now.”
“I know.”
“Well if you know everything, why am I talking?”
My mouth snaps closed. Point taken.
He holds my gaze as he continues. “You’re not much different than half the other guys in this town—you’re not the only one who drinks and goofs off and likes to have fun. I think we’ve been pretty understanding with all that. But the people out there have their own expectations of a starting pitcher and a pastor’s kid. You get a double dose of the pressure.”
Lucky me.
“And I’m not saying you have to make them happy,” he adds, “because you don’t owe them a thing. What you do need to do is keep your eyes open. Give them good things to look at. And we know you can pull that off.”
“We really do,” Momma chimes in.
Well, at least they haven’t heard about what happened last night at Joyner’s. Yet. I settle back against my chair, crossing my arms. “If y’all are so sure, why am I getting a lecture right now?”
“Because you have a habit of slipping when things get rocky,” Dad says, “and I want to make sure you’re on your A-game. Keeping a low profile. When you get upset, you drink too much.”
No kidding.
“You’ve been known to throw punches,” Momma adds.
This is also true.
“You mouth off,” Dad continues. “You become what they say you are. And you self-destruct.”
Oh Lord, here we go.
See, I know I’m not perfect—they’re preaching to the choir here (no pun intended). But I’m trying to be better. I am. And it sucks that sometimes, no matter how much you try, it’s not good enough for some people. Especially not for those in this town.
When you’re born and bred in a place like Lewis Creek, South Carolina, you’re raised knowing two absolutes: First, sports rule supreme. Second, when you do play sports, everyone thinks they’re entitled to your life. In a small Southern town, people pretend that scandals are horrifying. In reality, those people are the same ones who gobble up scandal like my five-year-old sister shovels cupcakes in her mouth. And our family has been through plenty of scandal over the past year.
Last spring, my older brother and his boyfriend walked into a wedding reception, hand-in-hand. Great. Super. Live and let live. But it’s not so great and super when your dad’s the pastor of the largest Baptist congregation in town.
Then there’s Grace, who’s basically the female version of me. But when you’re a girl who likes to party in a town like this, you’re fair game.
And we won’t even talk about the holes that Coach Taylor has dug me out of. I should be six feet under by now, after the drinking and driving stupidity from last year. Even if I do think half the people in this town are full of shit, their love for baseball has gotten me out of even bigger shit.
So we’ve got the gay older brother. The delinquent second child. And Grace has been called every name in the book. Add in the fact that we’re all pastor’s kids, and that goes over well. The thing about small towns is that you’re whoever these people want you to be. And you’re stuck with that until you get the hell out of dodge.
There’s a knock at the back door. Dad glances over his shoulder while Momma hurries to answer. I look to the ceiling, thanking sweet baby Jesus for the interruption.
Bri Johnson steps into the kitchen, wearing a gray hoodie and those skin-tight black pants girls are so in love with. (Me too, because the view is pretty spectacular.) That dark hair of hers is pulled back in a ponytail, half hidden beneath a crimson beanie. She’s, point blank, one of those girls who’s too pretty to actually exist. I told her that at a party last year. And then she told me to stop trying to get in her pants.
In my defense, I wasn’t really trying to get in her pants. It was an honest-to-God compliment. Not that I’d object to the pants thing.
“Morning, Bri,” Momma says. “Need something to drink? You look flushed.”
She does look flushed. And hot.
Hot-hot.
Damn it.
Bri shakes her head, putting her hands on her hips. “I just got back from my run. Wanted to give y’all a heads-up that one of your chickens is hightailing it toward the highway.”
Momma drops her head. “Eric, you’re up.”
“Why me?”
“Because it’s probably your chicken. Is it his chicken?” she asks Bri.
“It’s his chicken. And you know what happened last time I tried to pick up the ungrateful jerk.”
Damn it, Oscar. My brother and sisters and I each have our own chickens. Mine’s easy to spot: he’s the red-feathered asshole who jailbreaks every other day. Last time Bri tried to rescue him, he nearly bit her nose off. He usually wanders back, though—chickens stay where the food is. He’s never been near the highway.
I push away from the table. “You couldn’t save my pet from being roadkill?”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, maybe you should keep him cooped up better. And you know how I feel about Oscar.”
“For cryin’ out loud, he pecked your nose one time because you picked him up. He doesn’t like being picked up.”
“He tried to eat my face!”
“That’s no reason to let him get pummeled by an eighteen-wheeler.”
“He won’t get pummeled by an eighteen-wheeler.”
“Your dad drives a big rig. Can you honestly say he would slam on the brakes and risk jackknifing for a chicken crossing the road?”
She holds my gaze. Presses her lips into a thin line.
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t you dare—”
“But why would the chicken cross the road?”
Momma bursts out laughing along with Bri as I yank my camo jacket from the hook beside the door. My chicken getting squished isn’t exactly hilarious, thanks.
I follow Bri outside, to the open space between our houses. She heads across my yard and toward the road, leading the way. Perfect. My gaze lowers.
“Stop looking at my butt,” she says over her shoulder.
Not perfect. I hurry to catch up, falling into step beside her. Our houses are the only ones on this patch of narrow back road—we’re hidden behind the woods lining the highway, which leads out of town.
“Things felt a little, um, tense at your house,” she says. “Was it you or Grace this time?”
“Perceptive. No wonder you’re top of our class, you genius.”
She shoves me playfully. I stumble into the road, snickering as she says, “Unless it’s none of my business. Then tell me to shut up.”
I shrug. “From what I heard, Grace tried sneaking out last night. My guess is that she’s been ‘forbidden’ to see her boyfriend again. That Parker-whatever guy.” I use air quotes because no matter how much I wish otherwise, that’s not nearly enough to keep my sister away from something, or someone, she wants. Being a stubborn ass runs in our family. “She deserves better than a guy who only dates a girl long enough to screw her, anyway.”
Bri snorts. “Didn’t you just describe yourself?”
Why’s my dick everyone’s business this morning? “Negative. Girls I hook up with know good and well that it’s just for fun.”
Every girlfriend I’ve had in the past three years has cheated on me. After my last girlfriend—Rachel, the one I thought might actually be someone special—screwed around on me with Right-Field Randy of all people (total violation of teammate code, which made me hate him more than I already did), I swore off r
elationships with the girls in this town. Which sucks, because I kind of like having a girlfriend. But getting hurt and being screwed over sucks even more, so there we are. Besides, Laura’s a good substitute. And Addison. And—
Bri nudges me and points to the woods. “There’s Oscar the Grouch.”
She’s right—he’s pecking at the ground off the side of the road, barely ten feet away from the highway, where cars are shooting by. I jog over and scoop him up. He squawks at me, wrestling to get back to the ground.
“Plenty of critters at our house, you snot.” Grinning, I hold him out for Bri. “See? He wouldn’t have eaten your face. He goes for the wiggly stuff.”
She scrunches her nose. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”
“I’m good at driving girls crazy.”
“This is not the crazy you should be proud of.”
Her phone rings, some twangy song blaring against the peacefulness of the morning. She yanks it from her pocket, and blows out a breath before silencing it while shoving it back inside, but not before I catch Matt Harris’s face filling her phone’s screen. What the hell kind of guy calls at seven in the morning? Even if I was dating someone, unless I’m on my death bed, I ain’t calling them at 7:00 a.m.
“He doesn’t hate you for slumming it with me last night?” I finally ask. “Which I haven’t thanked you for yet. So, you know, thanks.”
She turns on her heel, heading back toward our houses. “Don’t mention it. He…” She trails off, shrugging. “He wasn’t happy. Someone texted him that we were together and made it this huge deal. But he was drunk off his ass, all ‘baby, baby, I’ll forget about it.’ You know, I hate that word. I’m eighteen, not a freakin’ baby.”
I can’t help but snort. Her impression of him is spot on. “You know what you should call him? Jackass. Because that’s what he is.”
“I’ll leave the name-calling to you. Smartass.” She smiles. Touché.
By the time we reach her yard, Oscar’s screeching like a banshee again. Instead of giving him an I’ll-eat-you-for-lunch glare, Bri’s smile grows as she starts across her lawn. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad Oscar didn’t turn into roadkill,” she says.
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