Life in the Balance

by Jen Petro-Roy

  I look down at my practice jersey, imagining it covered in pink or purple sequins—Bethany’s colors of choice. “Wouldn’t they jingle all over the place? Or be scratchy?” Our practice jerseys are comfy enough, but our official game uniforms are already super scratchy. I think the town bought them in bulk from “Cardboard Clothes R Us.”

  I turn the corner at the edge of the field and continue down the next straightaway. We play on the far edge of the school field, and every day before practice, Mr. Robertson makes us run two whole laps around the entire thing. I hated it at first, but now, after a full season, I totally notice how much easier running is. I think I’m faster on the bases, too, which was obviously the point.

  Mr. Robertson isn’t Mom, but he hasn’t done an awful job this season. We won almost all our games and he taught us how to slide into home base without totally bruising our butts.

  “Not this team’s uniforms. Duh.” Bethany shakes her head. Bounce bounce swish! goes her ponytail. “The season’s almost over anyway, Veronica. That wouldn’t make sense at all.”

  (Because softball sequins would make so much sense in general.)

  “I’m talking about the All-Star uniforms,” Bethany continues. “Last year they had stars on the back.”

  “Were the stars made out of sequins?” I try to remember last summer’s All-Star uniforms. I should remember; I went to almost all their games. I stared at the older girls like they were rock stars, even though they were only a year or two older than me. They all seemed so grown-up, though, playing on that big field surrounded by rows and rows of bleachers and fans, fancy advertisements decorating the outfield walls. When the lights shone down on them during night games, it was like a spotlight illuminating my future.

  Bethany shakes her head and giggles. “No, but they should have been. I’m sure the coach will see how much we need to add some extra bling to our uniforms.”

  Bethany seems way too confident that she’ll make the team. Then again, I feel—felt?—the same way about my chances. Now that I know we might not be able to afford All-Stars, though, Bethany’s confidence seems like it’s mocking me.

  I dodge a pile of dog poop that someone didn’t pick up, then turn my head back as the girls after me do the same. It’s like some gross makeshift hurdle on our running course. Claudia vaults over the disgustingness, then catches up to us.

  “Did you say bling?” she asks, her breath coming out in gasps. “That’s the word my mom uses when she’s trying to sound cool.”

  I snort. Well, actually snort-hack, because just then a bug flies right into my mouth. “Gack!” I skid to a halt and bend over, coughing and spitting on the grass next to me. “Ew ew ew!”

  Bethany and Claudia stop, too. “What happened?” Claudia asks. “Did you pull a muscle? Sprain an ankle?”

  I hack again and wave my hands in the air. “I swallowed a bug!”

  “Not exactly the afternoon snack you wanted, huh?” Claudia asks with a serious face, then cracks a smile.

  I start to protest that she shouldn’t joke about something as disgusting as this, then realize what I must look like, spitting all over the grass and clutching at my throat. My lips turn up and a giggle escapes my throat. The giggle turns into laughs, which transform into howls. A second later, all three of us are doubled over.

  “I hope the run didn’t bug you too much!” Bethany says through her own laughter.

  “Don’t you just wish you could fly away from here?” Claudia asks.

  I give them both a high five. “I really should have insected this route before I ran it.”

  Bethany tilts her head to the side. Flop! goes the ponytail. “Huh?”

  “Insected? Because it sounds like inspected?”

  Claudia and Bethany groan. “That was bad,” Claudia says.

  I stick my tongue out at her as we all start running again. One more lap to go.

  “Your mom is hilarious, though,” Bethany says to Claudia. “And bling actually looks cool on her. Remember that sequined skirt she wore to the softball banquet last year?”

  “Oh my God, that skirt.” Claudia shudders. “It’s better than the crop top she bought the other day, though. A crop top! She’s forty-something years old and trying to shop at the same stores as me. It’s so much worse since my dad moved out,” Claudia continues.

  I sneak a quick glance at Bethany, then back to Claudia, who nods. “It’s okay, Veronica. I told Bethany.”

  “You … did?” I mean, we know Bethany. She’s been on our softball team all year. But it’s not like she’s really close to us. I’d expect Claudia to tell Tabitha or Lauren before Bethany.

  Claudia nods. “Yeah. Her parents got divorced last year, so I knew she’d understand.” She shoots me an apologetic glance. “Not that you wouldn’t. Just … you know. Bethany gets what it’s like to have a family that’s not, well … perfect.”

  I turn another corner and pick up my pace. Of course Bethany would understand divorce stuff better than me. My parents are still married. And for all Claudia and Bethany know—for all Tabitha and Lauren and Mr. Robertson and my teachers and the entire world know—my parents are in the happiest marriage ever. Mom may be “traveling,” but that’s normal for some families. Everyone’s parents are busy and miss games sometimes.

  It should be a good thing that from the outside, everything in my life—in my family—appears fine, brushed with a rosy-pink, sparkly glow.

  I should be happy that my secret is still a secret. Relieved. Dancing down the baseline.

  But as Bethany and Claudia start talking behind me, about their parents fighting and sleeping in different beds and dividing up the furniture, I don’t feel like dancing. The music floating across the field from the band room sounds dull and lifeless.

  I want to slow down and let the girls catch up to me. I want to tell them how my mom is the furthest thing in the world from perfect. I want to tell them how much I miss her and how scared I am that she won’t get better.

  But then Bethany starts talking about the uniforms again, and how excited she is for this summer.

  Then Claudia says that even without sequins, we’ll still rock all our games, and that I’m going to be the star of the team.

  And just like Mom being the “perfect mom,” I want to cling to this fantasy for a bit longer.

  So I run and laugh and joke, each step bringing me closer to a plan. I don’t care what Dad says—I will play on the All-Star team this year. I’ll raise the money.

  Then Mom will get out of rehab in time to watch me. To cheer me on, just like she always did.

  I’ll make my fantasy a reality.

  Twenty

  “Veronica?”

  There are five minutes left of lunch period and I’m rustling through my locker, trying to find my science homework, which I thought I’d put in here earlier but has somehow disappeared into the great black hole before me. I try to look over my shoulder but bonk my head against the locker door.

  “Ow!” I pull backward and raise my hand to the rapidly forming bruise on my forehead. “This place is dangerous!”

  “Sorry.” Libby Kemp stands in front of me, touching her own forehead in sympathy. “I did that a few weeks ago. It’s the worst.”

  I wince again, then pump my fist when I notice the edge of my science assignment poking out between the pages of my math book. “Sweet! I found it.” I clasp the papers to my heart. “I spent hours on this dumb lab report and Ms. Davison takes ten points off for each day something’s late.”

  “That’s tough.” Libby holds up her own science textbook. “Ms. Fisher’s strict, but not that bad.”

  “Oh. Cool.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.”

  We stand in the hallway for a few minutes, just staring at each other. Everyone else is either in class or at lunch, so there’s nothing to distract us from the awkwardness between us. I’ve never really talked to Libby before—I more stare in awe at her every time she plays and try to hide how jealou
s I am.

  She looks just as nervous as me, though, which is what makes me finally speak up. “Did you … want something?”

  Libby shuffles her feet. “Oh. Right.” She giggles. “Sorry to be Admiral Awkwardsauce here. I just don’t really know how to say this.”

  My stomach flips twice, then bounces into my throat. Is she going to tell me how I have no right thinking I could ever be on the summer team? Or is there something wrong with my outfit? Did I forget to zip my pants after going to the bathroom earlier?

  I turn away, then peek down at myself. Phew!

  “I saw you the other night,” Libby finally says.

  “The other night…,” I say slowly. “Which night?”

  “At the park.” Libby pretends to throw a ball. “At the cages and the backstop. Remember? You … um … you looked upset.”

  Of course I remember! I force my face into a happy expression, though. Nothing to see here, la-di-dah!

  “Oh, right.” I toss my hair back in my best approximation of Bethany. “That.”

  Think fast, Veronica, I tell myself. Give her a good reason for why you were crying in the park after dark.

  Is there a good reason for crying in the park after dark?????

  Maybe that’s why I tell Libby the truth.

  Maybe it’s because Libby looks like she really cares. Maybe it’s because she’s not stuck in the quicksand of her own issues or squealing about sequins.

  Maybe it’s because Libby doesn’t know me that well, so I don’t have to be happy-all-the-time Veronica. All she knows is what’s in front of her. Who I am now.

  Whatever the reason, this time I don’t lie. I don’t make things sound better than they are.

  Instead, I tell Libby everything: about my mom and her drinking, about Dad’s new job and maybe not getting to play softball this spring and summer. About feeling so alone it’s like I’m in the middle of a crowded room but no one can see or hear me.

  “I … I…” My breath catches in my throat, the sobs rising up like a tidal wave, threatening to pull me under. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t play.”

  Libby’s face matches my own, which reassures me that she understands the severity of the situation. Of course she understands. Libby loves softball maybe even more than I do. She’s better than me, at least. I really thought I had the potential to get as good as her, though.

  I just needed the practice time. Now I’m going to fall way behind.

  “So that’s why you were crying,” Libby says. “I’d be upset, too.”

  “It’s not just softball,” I tell her, then look down as I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. “It’s more about my mom. No, actually it’s both.” I slam my locker door closed. The clang echoes through the empty hallway. The teacher in the room next to us peeks his head through the little window in his door, then retreats backward.

  “You’ll totally make the team,” Libby assures me. “Coach Ortiz is tough, but you’re good.”

  “It doesn’t matter if I’m good if we can’t afford for me to play.” I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. “I just don’t know what I can do to fix that. It’s not like I can go work at Panera or something. Or become some super-famous Instagram influencer in a week or two.”

  “Strike a pose!” Libby pretends to take a picture of me, but I can’t even fake a smile.

  “See? There’s no hashtag for what I’m going through.”

  Libby puts her hand on my shoulder. “There kind of is.”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean, I get what you’re going through,” Libby says softly.

  No, you don’t get it, I think to myself. No one could possibly imagine what this is like unless they’ve been here, too.

  The look on Libby’s face, though, a mix of concern and sadness, makes me feel good. It makes me think that in this case, her imagination may be enough to help, if only the teensiest bit.

  “Thanks.” I say it softly, even though there’s still no one else in the hallway to hear me. Because sometimes you have to say things softly. Things that need special care. Things that mean the most.

  “I do get it,” Libby continues. “I mean, I really get it. My mom is … well, she does that, too.”

  That’s when I see the truth in Libby’s eyes. The understanding. The pain.

  And I get it, too.

  “Is she better?” I’m not sure if I want the answer or not.

  “I think so,” Libby brushes a strand of hair behind her ears. A second later, it falls forward again. “I mean, she has been. For a year. Thirteen months, actually. That’s how they measure it. In months.”

  “They?”

  “At the meetings she goes to. They count how long they’ve been sober. How long since they’ve last had a drink. They talk about stuff, too. Like how hard it is not to drink.” Libby makes a face.

  “Is not drinking still hard for her?” Libby seems upset, but I can’t stop myself from asking the question. It’s like she’s my very own crystal ball in human form.

  “Apparently. Although I don’t know why it should be.” Libby crosses her arms over her chest. “I worry about her a lot, though. Like when…” Libby shakes her head. “Never mind. Nothing happened.”

  “Okay…” I decide not to pry. Libby will tell me what’s going on when she’s ready. Or not. She doesn’t owe me anything, after all. It was my choice to blurt out my entire life story.

  “Recovery is a journey,” Libby says. It sounds like she’s quoting from a book, like she’s fluent in a language I’ve just started taking classes in.

  “That sounds like something my dad would say.”

  Libby snorts. “Ha! Mine, too.”

  “My dad tells how to feel,” I say. “Like that I should trust Mom. Even though he doesn’t seem to trust her himself,” I add darkly. “And acts like everything is totally fine.”

  “It stinks,” Libby says.

  “All of it.”

  “One hundred percent. One zillion percent!”

  I smile weakly. “Thanks. For listening, I mean.”

  Libby smiles. “No problem. I wanted to pass it on.”

  “Pass it on?”

  “To tell you that things can get better and you’re not alone. Like people did for me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I go to a support group. For people who want to talk about our messed-up families.” Libby shrugs. “It sounds weird, but it helps.”

  “So you just go and talk about your feelings and cry?” I shake my head. “Not my thing.”

  “That’s what I said at first!” Libby exclaims. “I protested for months before Dad made me go. He said we couldn’t go on vacation unless I tried it, which was totally unfair, but I guess I’m glad he blackmailed me. Because it helps.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “All I’m picturing is a scene from a TV show where a bunch of people gather in some big church basement and sit on metal chairs and hug each other.” I hold my arms out like I’m pushing those potential huggers away. “Not my thing.”

  “It’s not like that. Really.” Libby smiles. “Maybe you could come to a meeting? Just one?” She shuffles back and forth on her shiny ballet flats. It’s weird to see Libby so unsure of herself. Usually I’m around her on the softball field, where she’s basically like a queen surveying her kingdom.

  Except right now, there’s no throne in sight. We’re on the exact same level.

  “Maybe,” I echo, even though there’s no way I’m going to be all mushy-gushy with a bunch of strangers.

  “Cool.” Libby smiles. “It usually meets on Tuesday nights. I’ll text you the details.”

  “I can’t wait.” I try to make my voice sound all perky, but even though I’ve been tricking everyone else lately, Libby doesn’t seem fooled.

  “Maybe we could get together before then,” she says after a second. Her voice is unsure, her eyes flicking between my face and the ground. “We could try to figure out ways to make you that money.”

>   “Really? You’d do that?”

  A grin flashes across Libby’s face. “Of course! We’re friends … right?”

  “Yeah!” I smile back. “That’d be cool.” My heart beats a bit faster in my chest. “Do you really think we could make enough for me to play? If I make the team, I mean.”

  “Of course you’ll make the team.” Libby says it like she’d say the sky was blue. Or that pizza is the best food in the universe. “You’re too good at softball not to play. And you love it so much.”

  Love it so much.

  The words linger in the air. Do I love softball like Libby does, in the way that makes it my reason for getting up in the morning?

  Then I shake my head. Of course I love softball. I’m just nervous—about tough Coach Ortiz and how the All-Star kids supposedly have to run three miles before every practice.

  “We’ll totally figure out how to make the money.” I say the words to reassure myself as much as Libby.

  “Of course we will.” Libby winks. “We’re good figure-things-outers.”

  “That’s not even a word!” I laugh.

  “It should be. See you after school?” Libby asks.

  “After practice, you mean?” I elbow her in the side. “We’re playing you guys on Saturday and you need all the practice you can get.”

  “Ooh, fighting words!” Libby exclaims. “And you’re wrong, because we’re totally going to kick your butt!”

  Our debate probably could have gone on forever, but the bell rings and kids start streaming out of the cafeteria.

  “Six o’clock?” Libby asks.

  “At the park?”

  “Perfect.” Libby nods, and a tiny sprout of hope blooms in my stomach. It’s not flowering yet, but it’s on its way. It’s not a weed, either.

  “Should we invite Claudia?” Libby asks. “Since she’s your best friend, I mean.”

  I think about how Claudia was too busy for me the other day. How it feels like she doesn’t want anything to change between us, even though that’s basically impossible.