Life in the Balance

by Jen Petro-Roy

  Her, but not you.

  “What about Claudia’s mom?” I ask. I feel like I’ve swum over my head and am splashing around for anything to hold on to. “I’m sure she can drive me.”

  Then I remember the separation. That Claudia’s family is going through a lot right now, too. Dad’s already shaking his head anyway. “I can’t ask that much of another family.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, coaching myself to keep the tears back and stay strong.

  Dad gives me a hug. “I know this stinks, Veronica. And there is a small chance that I’m worrying for nothing. Your mother may want to keep her job. She could leave rehab and do amazingly.” His bites his lip, his eyes sad. “I just have to plan for everything.”

  “So you don’t think Mom will recover?” I don’t know if I want the answer to this question, but I still have to ask it.

  “Of course I do!” Dad squeezes my hand. “I believe in your mother. But I also have to think of all the possibilities. Let’s wait and see,” Dad says. “You can try out for the team still. We’ll know more in a few weeks.”

  I nod. I want to argue more, to ask him if I’m supposed to make the team, get all excited, and then … quit when he tells me to? How does he expect me to do that?

  Dad’s eyes are steely and his mouth is set, though. It’s his “I’m done talking” expression. His “nothing you say can change my mind” face.

  All I can do is work hard and make the team.

  I can refuse to give up, too. Because there’s got to be some way I can make that money. Then cross my fingers that Mom will be “recovered enough” for me to play.

  “Oh!” Dad looks at the clock on the stove and jumps. “Bob will be calling any minute. I have to go. And Veronica?” He’s halfway down the hallway when he looks back. “Thanks for being so mature about this.”

  I don’t answer, but when Dad turns around again I stick my tongue out at his back.

  Eighteen

  No softball. No softball.

  The words in my head drown out the music pulsing through my headphones. I scroll down to my favorite song, the one that came out this past fall and everyone got totally obsessed with. Claudia and I watched the music video millions of times and practiced the dance until we could do it perfectly. We sang it so much that Tabitha and Lauren banned it from their presence.

  “Enough is enough.” I remember Tabitha standing by the edge of the town pond on that super-hot day last October, her hands on her hips as she flicked a bug off her red-polka-dot bikini. Tabitha was the first one of us to wear an official bikini instead of the tankinis and racing suits the rest of us had been wearing for ages. Tabitha’s bikini was official official, the kind that looked like it had been made for her body. It fit the curves she’d been developing throughout the year and the breasts that had suddenly (or so it seemed) popped up overnight.

  It was barely hot enough to go swimming, but we’d all flocked to the pond anyway. Our middle school doesn’t have air conditioning, so I’d felt like a limp vegetable floating through a vat of hot soup the entire day. Even if the pond was freezing, and even if the muck at the bottom felt like oozy leaves, I still needed to be in the water.

  Non-bikini and all.

  I kept sneaking peeks at Tabitha as I sang and danced. Tabitha looked so grown-up. Not like an adult, of course. Tabitha was way too short for that. But like a teenager, for sure. Way more of a teenager than I’d probably look for years and years.

  Mom had reassured me later that she’d been the same way as a kid, too, and that it was “perfectly normal” to “develop later than your peers.” Mom said it with air quotes and everything, just like our health teacher did with the official body parts when he gave us the “You’re Growing Up” lecture.

  Mom explained genetics to me then—how we get certain traits from each of our parents and are like them in certain ways. Like how my nose is a little turned up, like Dad’s. Or how I’m good at softball, like Mom. My singing may even be genetic—Dad’s cousin Nina has been in a bunch of off-Broadway shows.

  “And how we both love chocolate?” I’d asked.

  “Absolutely.” Mom grinned, then we went into the kitchen and opened a bag of Hershey’s Kisses.

  The chocolate tasted good, but the reassurance that I wasn’t some weird flat-chested freak felt better. I knew that my life was on the right path, even if I wasn’t as … bust-tastic as Tabitha. I knew that Mom had been down that same path before. She’d pushed through the thorns and brambles and emerged on the other side. She’d survived being flat as a board. (Flatter than a board, even. Because boards have bumps and stuff.)

  I’d survive, too. Especially if I had Claudia with me.

  Baby, baby, it’s gonna be all right.

  I turn up the volume and sing along. I’m too upset to do the dance moves, but I still imagine them in my head. I remember twirling around my bedroom and shimmying by the pond. I remember singing the lyrics with Claudia before our softball games to pump ourselves up.

  I also remember blasting it to distract myself when Mom stayed out late with her coworkers because “they invited me to a bar and it would be rude if I said no.”

  Stop and take a minute.

  Appreciate this life.

  You’re in it.

  Love it all.

  Hug it all.

  You did it.

  “What do these dumb words even mean?” I grump at my empty room. “It sounds like one of those greeting cards Grandma and Papa send me for my birthday, with the watercolor flowers on the front and the mushy message inside.”

  I look at the icon of the album cover on my phone. “Have you even suffered a day in your life?” I ask the singer, then wrinkle my nose at her bubblegum-pink outfit and sparkly smile.

  This is what I’ve been reduced to: taunting my phone.

  Love it all.

  Hug it all.

  You did it.

  She repeats the chorus, and I rip my headphones off, then pick up my softball glove from the end of my bed and throw it across the room.

  “I didn’t do anything! I won’t get to do anything, either!” I picture my friends on the softball field, wearing those cool All-Star uniforms under the lights.

  Singing isn’t helping today. Even moping isn’t helping today. The only thing that would help is a time machine that could take me back to when stupid alcohol was invented.

  “Stupid money. Stupid Dad. Stupid Mom.” If anyone overheard me right now, they’d think I was a preschooler throwing a tantrum. But maybe those little kids have the right idea. Because right now, anger is filling my body like one of those sand-art projects I did at camp a few years ago. Except instead of different pretty pastel colors, my sand is all red. Dark, dark red, the color of fire. Of fury.

  Right now I feel angry at everyone. Every single person and animal and creature that has ever inhabited this planet.

  “Even you!” I shout at the ladybug climbing up the outside of my window. “It’s your fault, too!” I switch to another song, this one a loud one, with lots of drums and percussion. I belt out the lyrics at the top of my lungs, daring Dad to come in and tell me to be quiet. After a few minutes, the anger swirling in my chest starts to seep down the drain. All the rest of my emotions do, too, and by the end of the song, I’m lying on my bed, every bit of me totally exhausted.

  At that moment, all I want to do is talk to Claudia. Even though I’ve kept the truth about Mom from her so far, even though I thought it would be okay to hold it close inside me until the worst is over, I suddenly want to talk to my best friend so much that I ache inside.

  The phone barely rings once before Claudia picks up. “Hello?”

  The words catch in my throat. I don’t say anything. I can’t say anything.

  “Veronica?”

  A second ago, I imagined Claudia telling me that everything would be okay. But what if she doesn’t say that? What if my big secret makes Claudia look at me differently, like I stepped into an alternate dimension and came back
a total stranger?

  I think about hanging up, then realize that would be pointless. Claudia knows it’s me calling. My name is on her screen. The ringtone she assigned to me, a high tinkling of wind chimes, rang through her room or her kitchen or wherever she is.

  Mom and Dad sometimes talk about when they were kids, when the technology “wasn’t like it is today.” They tell me how lucky I am to have my own cell phone and DVR (“You can find any show at the click of a button! No worrying about getting home in time!”). They gush about their love for caller ID, so we can avoid those annoying telemarketers who try to call during dinnertime.

  And yeah, those telemarketers do stink. But right now, caller ID is preventing me from chickening out like I want to.

  “Yep. It’s me,” I say with a resigned sigh.

  “What’s up?” Claudia asks. I hear the murmured voice of her mom in the background.

  “Nothing really,” I start. I should ease into this. Maybe talk about going to see that new Marvel movie this weekend. Or about the YouTube video of the owl wearing sunglasses I saw the other day. My mouth opens and closes, but nothing about superheroes or beach-loving birds comes out. I don’t want to talk about meaningless stuff. I need my best friend to make me feel better.

  And she will, of course. I know she will.

  “So something hap—”

  “What’d you say, Mom?” Claudia’s voice sounds muffled, then gets louder again. “Hold on one second, Veronica. Mom’s having … an issue.”

  “Oh. Sure.” Random bits of their conversation make their way to my ear.

  “Your father decided that…”

  “Not what we discussed…”

  “But, Mom! Veronica probably wants to…”

  “Fine!”

  I hear Claudia stomping through the house and a door slamming shut. “Ugh, my mother is driving me crazy.”

  “Oh no.” My voice is flat, and I try to inject a little bit more sympathy into my voice. It’s not Claudia’s fault that her mom picked the worst time possible to get upset. “I mean, that stinks. Is everything okay?”

  “Not really.” I imagine Claudia on the other end on the line, slumped against the dozen decorative pillows on her bed. Claudia wants to be an oceanographer when she grows up, so her room is decorated in an ocean theme. She has tons of sea-life pillows—dolphins and otters and seahorses and fish—and there’s a picture of some famous oceanographer on the wall, right next to a poster of a softball diamond.

  I have the same poster in my room, too, but I don’t have all the other random stuff that Claudia does. There’s no balance. The softball magazines and pennants on my wall could be part of a museum exhibit labeled SOFTBALL IS MY LIFE.

  I wonder if Claudia would be as devastated as me if she couldn’t play on the All-Star team, or if she’d just do something else. If she could do something else without feeling … wrong.

  “Dad came over this morning to pick up some more of his stuff.” Claudia sniffles. “He wanted to take me and Jamie to some rock-climbing place, but Mom said it was too dangerous for Jamie.” I imagine Claudia’s parents playing tug-of-war, each of them holding tight to their kids’ arms. “They were yelling at each other so loudly that Jamie started crying.”

  “Is he okay now?” I silently yell at myself. I wish I could do more than ask if her family is okay. They’re obviously not okay. I don’t know what else to say, though. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and make Claudia feel even worse.

  Like people might do to me if they find out about Mom.

  “No. Well, maybe.” Claudia blows her nose. “Dad told him he’d take us for doughnuts instead and Jamie perked right up.” Her voice rises. “It was a total sugar bribe, but Jamie still fell for it. He’s out with Dad now.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “No. Mom was still so upset at Dad that I felt bad going with them. I didn’t want her to think both her kids were abandoning her.” I hear Mrs. Munichiello’s voice again. “One second, Mom!”

  “You still there?”

  Claudia lowers her voice. “Yeah. I mean, I’m not mad at Dad. He didn’t do anything wrong … I think. Rock climbing was a cool idea. And I like doughnuts.” She lets out a rough laugh. “I feel like I’m in a movie—or in someone else’s life.”

  “I know how you feel,” I say under my breath, then add “I’m so sorry” in a louder voice.

  I don’t know if that’s the right thing to say, but at least Claudia isn’t crying. Her sniffles haven’t transformed into sobs.

  She even lets out a half laugh, half groan. “Now she wants me to go to yoga with her, even though she knows I hate yoga.”

  My mind is whirling. How can I add to Claudia’s worries? Telling her about Mom would be like stacking a brick onto one of those model houses we used to make out of milk cartons. Smush! Claudia’s walls would collapse in a second.

  I’d be the worst best friend ever.

  “It’s okay.”

  Okay. I think I’ve said that word more lately than I have in my entire life.

  “Were you calling to get in some extra practice?” Claudia sighs. “I wish I could go. We need more work before tryouts.”

  Do we? I’m about to protest, then realize it doesn’t really matter. Not today. Maybe not ever. And at least Claudia had given me an excuse about why I was calling.

  “Oh, yeah. I was calling about heading down to the fields, but we can do something another day. Go be with your mom.”

  Claudia sniffles. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” I feel a twinge of guilt at my lie, but a teeny-tiny fib isn’t that bad, right? I could be calling about softball. I just wasn’t today. And not telling Claudia about Mom isn’t me lying, it’s just me shielding her from the truth.

  Really, I’m Claudia’s knight in shining armor.

  “Go do a downward dog for me. Or is it a cat?”

  Claudia snorts. “I should make up my own poses. It’d make that slow class way more fun. What about an upward leopard?”

  “A flipping ferret?”

  “An inverse iguana?”

  “You win!” I giggle, because even though I didn’t tell Claudia the truth—not yet, at least—it’s still good to talk to her.

  “We’ll catch up later?” Claudia asks. “Maybe we can go to the field tomorrow?”

  “Definitely.” I nod, even though she can’t see me, then hear Mrs. Munichiello yelling again.

  “She’s so needy,” Claudia mutters. “I should go. Bye, Veronica.”

  “Bye,” I say, but she’s already hung up. Which is good, because now I don’t have to resist the urge to snap back at her. To yell that I’d give anything for a needy mom. Anything for a mom to go to yoga with.

  Anything for a mom who was here with me right now.

  I try to do my homework until I finally hear Dad make his usual “going to bed” noises. The creakity creak of him walking up the stairs. The slow whine of his “I need to oil this” bedroom door as he closes it. The too-hard slam! of his pajama drawer.

  He’s in bed early tonight, probably because he has to wake up early to work at the hardware store. Tomorrow is his first day. I can’t sleep, and after a full hour of tossing and turning and groaning about how awful everything is, I carefully get out of bed and grab my glove and a softball from the floor.

  I creep through the hallway and down the stairs, making sure to avoid the squeaky spot on the third stair from the bottom. I put on my sneakers and escape into the night.

  I’ve never snuck out of the house before. Maybe before I was too young for it. I’m just getting my teenage angst now. I was the complete opposite of Tabitha’s older sister, Liz. She’s seventeen and sneaks out all the time.

  I feel appropriately angsty tonight, though. Once I’m outside, I stomp down the street by the glow of the dim streetlights. I throw my ball in the air and squeeze it tight in my glove. When I get to the park a few blocks away, the moon shines bright above me as I make my way to the far corner,
where they set up two batting cages and a backstop a few years ago. They named it the Clancy Center, after an older guy who volunteered with the town softball program for years and years.

  Mom and I used to come here all the time. I’d put on a helmet (my favorite was the shiny red one) and step into the cage, my bat held over my shoulder, my eye on the machine about to spew dozens of balls at me.

  “Hold the bat higher,” she’d instruct.

  “Choke up more.”

  “Remember to step when you hit. That’s how you get your power.”

  We’d move over to the grass and play catch next, the thwack-putt sound of the ball nestling into our gloves more comforting than any lullaby.

  I don’t have a partner tonight, so all I’m left with is the backstop, a metal frame with a mesh web stretched over it. I throw the ball over and over, catching it each time it bounces back at me.

  I throw it hard.

  The backstop doesn’t have Mom’s reflexes or accuracy, though. Sometimes my ball comes back to me at an angle; sometimes it bounces weird and goes somewhere I can’t reach it at all.

  I don’t know what to expect or how I should be reacting.

  It’s not consistent.

  But then again, Mom hasn’t been consistent lately, either.

  Maybe this is why growing up is filled with so much angst. No one’s coddling me anymore, telling me that nap time is in an hour and playtime comes right after. Life doesn’t work like that anymore.

  Balls can hit you in the face and mothers can become alcoholics.

  Parents can let you down in all sorts of ways.

  I throw the ball at the backstop and it bounces to the left. I don’t even try to catch it. Instead, I sit down on the ground and tilt my head toward the sky.

  Above me, the moon and the stars are silent.

  Nineteen

  “Do you think we should get sequins on our uniforms?” Bethany Hayes runs up beside me during our pre-practice laps, her long red ponytail bouncing against her back. Bethany, the self-proclaimed “most stylish” girl in our grade, plays center field for our rec team and always finds some way to decorate her uniform. Or herself. Mr. Robertson always finds his own way to un-decorate Bethany’s uniform, but he can’t stop her from lacing shiny gold ribbons in her braids or putting glitter lotion all over her face.