Life in the Balance

by Jen Petro-Roy

  Just not now, when anyone could overhear.

  Luckily, my friends don’t seem to suspect that anything is wrong. Because a second later they all start gushing about their “best day ever” again.

  “I wish you’d gotten my messages!” Claudia practically bounces on the toes of her sneakers. “We beat a group of super snobby girls at laser tag and then totally rocked the batting cages.” She makes a swinging motion and practically knocks Ryan Halpert off his feet. I stifle a giggle as he gives her a dirty look.

  “We wanted to get more practice before tryouts,” Tabitha adds.

  “Cool.” I picture the three of them traipsing around the entertainment complex, faces flushed with joy and excitement. I hear the ting of the bat as it connects with the ball, and the whir and whoosh of the batting cage machine as it prepares to pop another ball toward the hitter. I can practically imagine being there myself.

  Except I wasn’t. Because I was with Mom.

  “Sounds like fun,” I add weakly. I turn toward my locker and slowly spin the combination code. 12 … 36 … 18. It clicks open and I bury my head inside, preparing myself to tune out the rest of their gushing.

  “It was!” Claudia says. Then her face falls. “Except I kept hitting foul tips. When I crank the speed up in the cage, I can never fully connect with the ball.”

  “You did fine!” Lauren nudges her in the side. “You had an off day.”

  “No.” Claudia shakes her head stubbornly. “I need more practice.” She looks at me again. “Veronica, is your mom still planning on helping us in the next few weeks?”

  I twist around so fast that I whack my forehead on my locker door. “Aah!” My eyes water with pain as I clutch at my face.

  Claudia leans closer. “Ouch! That looks like it hurts.” She gently pries my fingers off. “Just a red mark, though. At least you’re not bleeding.”

  So that’s one thing I have going for me.

  I’m not concerned about my forehead, though. Right now, I could be gushing blood all over the floor and I’d still be more worried about what Claudia just asked me.

  A few months ago, Mom had promised to help the four of us get ready for the All-Star team tryouts. She said that since she couldn’t coach our team this spring, it was the least she could do to work with us for some special skills training.

  “We’ll do some hitting and catching, and even a bunch of running drills.” Mom had clapped her hands together, her eyes mischievous. “I’ll work you girls so hard that you’ll collapse on the ground. You’ll be a bunch of exhausted All-Stars!”

  Mom had promised us that in one of her sober moments, though, on a day when she hadn’t had “one too many glasses of wine.”

  Mom had promised us that before she knew she was going to rehab.

  I take a deep breath before answering and shoot Claudia an apologetic look out of the corner of my eye. I’ll tell you the truth later, I mentally tell her. Really.

  “Oh no!” I smack my forehead dramatically, then wince when I accidentally hit the spot I just injured. “That’s the other reason I was busy yesterday. Mom left on a business trip. A long one. Like, for a few months.” I make sure that I’m making eye contact with my friends. Apparently that’s very important when you’re lying. At least that’s what I heard on a movie I watched once about secret agents.

  “A few months?” Lauren’s shoulders slump. “She can’t help us at all?”

  “She won’t be here for tryouts,” I say darkly. I think about dealing with the pressures of tryouts without Mom cheering me on. What if she’s not here for all the games this spring and summer, too? I force a note of pep into my voice. “But that’s okay. We can do it ourselves. We’re awesome, right?”

  I hold my breath as I wait to see how my friends will react. They seem to buy it. “What a bummer,” Claudia says. “We’ll have to send her a video of tryouts.”

  “I’d miss my mom tons if she went away for that long,” Tabitha says. “You’ll have to FaceTime her.” Then she changes the subject, pulling out her phone (of course) to show us this “amazing” YouTube video before the bell rings and her phone has to disappear into the dungeon of her locker for the rest of the day.

  And just like that, my mom—and this weekend—is forgotten.

  By my friends, of course.

  Me, though? I know for a fact that what’s going on with Mom will hover around me for the rest of the day, haunting me like a ghost with unfinished business. I’ll never forget.

  I may never forgive, either.

  Nine

  “Aaaaaand pencils down!” Ms. Beatty, my math teacher, claps her hands twice, then snaps her fingers three times. It’s the special signal that we need to pay attention. Ms. Beatty says she does it because there are always different types of learners in her classroom. Some learn visually, some need more explanation, and some need to do things for themselves until they can grasp a concept.

  She’s really great at understanding things like that, which is why Ryan Halpert always gets to take tests in the front corner of the room, so he’s not distracted staring at the other kids. It’s why Kristy Liu got an extension on her homework all last week when she had a dance competition.

  (It’s also why Ms. Beatty probably would have given me extra time on the test if I’d told her I was a ball of distraction today.)

  Except I didn’t. Because if I did, she’d let her eyes go all crinkly and ask me if I also wanted to talk to Mrs. Styles, the school counselor. That’s what she’d probably be required to do as part of the “teacher code.” That’s the same code that also makes all the staff members put those cheesy posters on the walls of their classroom—like the one of the kitten hanging from a tree branch. Or the bright yellow one where the owl says I BELIEVE IN WHOOOO YOU ARE.

  (Insert eye roll here.)

  Except maybe I should have made up some excuse. Because while the rest of my classmates are putting down their pencils (or in Ryan’s case, spinning it in his hands like he’s a baton twirler), I’m still staring at number three on my quiz.

  3. Calculate the slope of the line when x = 16 and y = 4.

  I should know the answer to this. We’ve been studying this stuff for the past week. But right now all I can remember is that the slope of a line has something to do with its “rise” and its “run.” But what does that mean? The only rising I want to do is out of this uncomfortable chair. The only running I want to do is out of this classroom and somehow back in time, back to last week, when things were different.

  Back to last year, before Mom changed.

  I’d also settle for running around the bases of a softball diamond. Because as much as I am stressed about tryouts and how much time the All-Star team will take up, I still love softball. The emotions twist together like a braid of hair, so similar, so distinct, and so utterly entangled.

  “Ms. Conway?” Ms. Beatty is next to my desk now, her hand held out expectantly. “Your paper, please?”

  I look at my paper again, the blank line after question number three taunting me. The blanks lines next to questions number four through twelve do the same. I have the sudden urge to throw my pencil across the room. Up to the ceiling, maybe. I wonder if its point would stick up there, like I’ve seen happen in TV shows.

  I close my eyes and huff out a breath. I put my pencil down and give Ms. Beatty my barely-written-on quiz. My “earned an F for sure” quiz.

  “Sorry,” I say quietly.

  Ms. Beatty arches one eyebrow questioningly but moves on to Claudia, who quickly gives up her test and leans toward me.

  “That wasn’t so bad!” she exclaims, wiping her forehead exaggeratedly. “I think I actually studied too much last night.”

  Thanks, Lady Brags-a-Lot. I press my lips together to keep the words inside. It’s not Claudia’s fault that I both forgot to study and couldn’t concentrate during class. I don’t have to be mean, too.

  “How’d you do?” she whispers.

  I shrug.

  “Oh, good
call.” Claudia makes a zipping-her-lips motion. “We don’t want to get in trouble for talking about the answers now.” She nods authoritatively. “We’ll recap later, at lunch.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it at lunch!” These words do burst out of my mouth, this time with the force of a cannon. My eyes widen.

  So do Claudia’s. “Okaaaaay.” She blinks a bunch of times and I wonder if she’s about to cry. Did I hurt her feelings?

  No. I didn’t do anything wrong. She was being way too nosy. Super nosy. Who cares how I did on the quiz? It’s not like one quiz matters. Not when there’s so much other important stuff going on.

  I should apologize, though. For the outburst, I mean. I’ll explain the rest later.

  “Sorry.” I tap my pencil on my desk. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “No problem.” Claudia smiles, but while her lips tilt up, her eyes are still flat and tentative. She’s wearing a mask.

  Something I’m becoming way too familiar with.

  Ten

  Almost there! I dig my cleats in and put on one last burst of speed. I don’t know what’s going on behind me; I don’t know where the ball is. All I know is that I just rounded third base and I’m getting closer to home plate by the millisecond.

  Sometimes, that’s all that runs come down to: a mere millisecond, the infinitesimal space between me diving for the base and the ball zooming through the air, nestling itself in my opponent’s glove, and being brought closer … closer …

  “Safe!” the umpire bellows, and I pop up off the ground and give a huge whoop.

  Behind me, Lauren, who plays catcher, gives me a high five with her non-glove hand. “Sweet running!” She waves her mitt in the air, still with a softball poking out of it. “I was this close to tagging you out!”

  “Nice catch!” I respond, even though I was too focused on my own sprint to notice what Lauren was doing. But that’s part of being a good teammate: working to better yourself while also propping your teammate up. It’s like the pillow forts I used to make when I was a kid: Unless all the sides are stable, the entire fort is going to collapse.

  A team is the same way. And our team is good. Fun, too. Rec league only practices twice a week, with games every other week. Rec league is chill enough that I’ve been able to do Chorus Club for the entire first part of the school year. Singing is the first thing I’ve really loved since I picked up a glove when I was a kid. (And Ms. Gudelot, our music teacher, says that I’m good.)

  “A voice like a songbird,” she says.

  (Ms. Gudelot was really sad when I told her last week that I was stopping. I was sad, too.)

  Singing is way different than softball, but it’s also similar in some ways. It’s an individual effort, but you also have to meld with the larger group. Whenever I open my mouth, I have to be focused on the music—the notes, the tune, and my breath control. Just like when I’m on the field, where I have to keep my feet steady and my eyes on the ball.

  Both singing and softball take my mind off the rest of my life.

  I like that.

  I head to the dugout and give my teammates high fives, then wave to Tabitha on second base, whose line drive sent me home. She gives me a thumbs-up, then crouches down, ready to run if Cara, up next, gets a hit.

  I settle down on a bench to catch my breath. It’s the end of practice, which is when we usually split the team up to play a mini-scrimmage. Even though I love the drills we do during practice, scrimmages (and games, of course!) are my favorite part of softball. True, throwing a ball back and forth with a teammate and fielding ground balls over and over again does make me better. But there’s nothing like actually being in a game situation, feeling my muscles scream as I round the bases or concentrating on catching an incoming ball.

  I started playing softball when I was seven, when Mom signed me up for the town spring league, bought me a miniature glove (not one of those pink girlie ones, either; I got a red one, my favorite color), and told me to have fun. By then, I knew that Mom had been a softball superstar. She kept all her trophies and ribbons in my parents’ home office, on the highest shelf so I wouldn’t take them down and decide to pretend they were castles and capes for my Barbies.

  I knew Grandma Kathy had been great at softball, too. When I was nine, a year before she died, we went to a special ceremony that her college held honoring her and other student athletes. I remember looking up at the stage in awe, at the big plaque they’d given Grandma Kathy and all the people cheering for her. She looked so happy and so proud. It was the same way I felt when I played. So I kept playing. I started living the motto on my favorite t-shirt, the one that says EAT SLEEP SOFTBALL.

  It turns out that t-shirt sayings don’t tell the whole story, though. Because, yeah, I still love softball. Obviously. But people know I love softball. They know I’m good at it.

  That means it’s all they talk to me about (especially Mom, since it’s one of the things we do together).

  It means I’m the “softball girl.”

  It means I have to make every team I try out for. That I have to keep being good or everyone will be disappointed.

  What would happen if I didn’t make the team? If I stopped being that girl, the one who loves softball and only softball?

  I don’t know the answer to that. But at least for today, softball is still pure joy. Today, playing is distracting me.

  Not in a bad way, though, like when I couldn’t concentrate on my math quiz today. Instead, it’s distracting me in an “I can’t think about Mom when my top priority is to field this incoming ball” kind of way.

  In a “focus on my batting stance so I don’t strike out” kind of way.

  In an “at least softball will be here for me when the rest of my life is falling apart” kind of way.

  On first base, Claudia fields an easy ground ball and I cheer, even though she’s on the opposite “team” right now. “Nice work!”

  Claudia glances over and smiles, then gives me a thumbs-up. Phew! It looks like our disagreement from earlier is over. I’ll talk to her after practice, tell her the truth, and we’ll be better than ever.

  I bet she’ll even help me think of ways to make this whole rehab thing easier. Claudia’s good like that. She may be loud and boisterous, but she’s the most thoughtful person in the entire school. Last year when I was sick on my birthday, she came over my house, and even though she had to wear a mask and sit across the room, we still watched an entire season of Friends on Netflix. We still had fun.

  (Even though that afternoon made me realize that it’s really hard to laugh when your whole face is congested with snot.)

  The bench creaks next to me and I look over to see Mr. Robertson settling down, his ever-present thermos of coffee in hand.

  “Hey, Veronica.” His voice is as deep as the bass guitar Dad used to play and still sometimes brings out at family get-togethers.

  “Um. Hey.” This is weird. Mr. Robertson is usually out on the field the entire practice, moving around and instructing us on what to do. He may not be Mom, but he turned out to be a good coach.

  He tilts his head toward the bleachers, where a tall lady with bug-eyed sunglasses is sitting in the top row. “She was cheering when you reached home plate.”

  “Okaaaaay.” I’m confused. I mean, I guess it’s cool that someone’s mom thought I did well, but was that worth coming over here for?

  Mr. Robertson smiles. “You know who that is, don’t you?”

  I peer closer, then clap my hand to my mouth. “Is that Coach Ortiz?” My heart starts racing faster than it did when I ran down the baseline. With those big glasses on and her hair down, I didn’t recognize the coach of the All-Star team. “She was cheering for me?”

  “Absolutely.” Mr. Robertson pats me on the shoulder. “She looked impressed from where I was standing.”

  “Wow. I mean, um … cool.” The words stumble out of my mouth like a toddler just learning to walk. “Thanks for, um, pointing her out.” My
mind flashes back to the rest of practice, to how I dropped two fly balls in a row and slipped in a patch of fresh mud during our warm-up run. All of a sudden, I feel like I’m going to barf. “Has she been here the whole time?”

  Mr. Robertson shakes his head. “Nope. She arrived at the beginning of the scrimmage.” He grins, as if he were reading my thoughts. “Don’t worry, kid. You made a great impression.”

  Did I, though? I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do now. Should I wave? Wink? Flash a big toothy smile? Or should I pretend Coach Ortiz isn’t even here, watching me and rating me and—I peer closer—is that a notebook? Is she writing notes about me?

  I take a deep breath. It’s no big deal if she’s writing about me. No big deal if she decides to write a whole novel about my strengths and weaknesses and …

  I shudder and force myself to look away from Coach Ortiz. Maybe it is a big deal. Whatever. I don’t have to think about it, though. I just need to have fun.

  But what if fun isn’t what Coach Ortiz is looking for? What I have to do more than “have fun” to be a player she wants on her All-Star team?

  My mind feels like it’s going to explode. Why is everything so complicated lately?

  “I look forward to hearing about how you do in tryouts.”

  I blink. For a second, I forgot that Mr. Robertson was there. When I meet his eyes, I freeze at the look on his face. It’s the same look Ms. Ito gave me at Pine Knolls, the same one I imagine on the face of everyone I see now. It’s pity and caring mixed up into one.

  Does he know what’s going on at home?

  I look at Mr. Robertson closer, then jump up as his mouth begins to open.

  “You should get back to the team!” I exclaim way too loudly. “We have more practice to do!”

  Mr. Robertson looks down at his watch, then shakes his head, as if he’s clearing out the cobwebs. “Actually, it’s just about time to wrap up.” He winds his way around the fence surrounding the dugout and yells to the rest of the team. “Good job today, girls! See you tomorrow!”