“Maybe it’s not an act,” I say softly. “Maybe she really is getting better. Like my mom is.” I hope, I add to myself.
Libby picks at her thumbnail, then looks up at me. “Mom has seemed weird lately. Tired. Not like herself. Kind of like she used to act sometimes…” She trails off. “I haven’t smelled anything on her, but it still makes me worried.”
“Did you tell your dad?”
“No. It’s probably nothing.”
“Right. Nothing.”
We’re both quiet for a few minutes. Is this what it’s going to be like when my mom leaves rehab? Will I be worried forever, too? Analyzing everything she says and does?
Will life ever get back to normal?
“I’ll talk to the support group about it at the next meeting,” Libby says. “That’ll help.” She looks at me hopefully. “Can you come on Tuesday?”
I shake my head. “Maybe next time.” It’s one thing to talk to Libby, but I still can’t imagine telling a whole group of strangers about my problems. Libby looks disappointed, so I keep talking. “Really. I’ll try to go soon. I’m just balancing a lot right now. This and tryouts!”
“Me too.” Libby looks down at the floor. “Do you really think I’ll be able to perform in front of a whole crowd?”
“Absolutely!” I pat her on the shoulder, feeling like Coach Robertson hyping me up before I get up to bat. “You’ll do fine.”
“And you’ll do great at tryouts,” Libby says. “I promise. We’ll both make the team, then we’ll win the talent show. Where we’ll sing. On stage. In front of people who could totally laugh at—”
I reach out and squeeze her hand. Libby’s turning a strange shade of green. “I get it. Really. I feel like I’m going to barf whenever I see Coach Ortiz. I get so nervous that everything I do is stinktastic.”
Libby rolls her eyes. “You’re not stinktastic.”
“I’m not as good as you.”
The old Libby, the one I only knew from rec leagues games and the hallway at school, would have said something about how I’m totally right. How no one is as good as she is.
This Libby looks thoughtful, though. “Maybe not,” she says. “But that’s not a bad thing. Look at all the other stuff you can do. That we can do,” she adds after a second.
I strike the final pose of our dance routine again, and Libby laughs, then heads for the door. “Keep practicing, okay?”
“We have to.” I point to the calendar on my wall. “The talent show is only a few weeks away and softball tryouts are in just over a week.” My head spins just thinking about everything I have to do—and do just right—but I push my worries aside. I’ll take it step by step, day by day.
Just like Mom is doing.
“We’ve got this.”
I give Libby a high five, and she makes her arms into big muscles. “We’re superheroes!”
I mimic her, pretending that I’m wearing a cape and soaring over the city. Over my house and my middle school and even Pine Knolls, so that the building and the beautiful green lawn and Mom and her problems are small and solvable beneath me.
Twenty-Seven
Dear Mom,
I started this letter about a billion times. I wrote about how much I miss you. Then I wrote about how I was fine without you.
I wrote about how awesome things are at home. Then I wrote about how messy the kitchen is and how sick I am of peanut butter sandwiches for lunch and pizza for dinner. (We’ve tried different toppings to mix it up, but I still could live without seeing cheese again for a long time. And let me tell you—anchovies 100% taste as gross as they look.)
I wrote about how I’m rocking softball. Then I wrote about how the All-Star team is the best and maybe even the worst thing that’s happening to me.
I miss you, Mom. I even miss you yelling at me to get up in the morning. I miss you telling me that I can’t have ice cream for breakfast and that if I miss the bus, I’ll have to walk to school backward.
I was angry at you for a long time. I think a little bit (okay, a lot) of me is still angry. I still don’t all the way understand how this is a disease. It’s not hard to make a decision—can’t you decide to drink water instead of wine? Just like I decide to drink pink lemonade instead of iced tea?
Your brain is sick and it yells at you, though. That’s what Dad says. I’m trying to believe him. I’m trying to believe you. To believe in you like you believe in me.
Softball tryouts are soon and I’m super scared. I might erase this part of the letter later. Because even though you guys always say it’s brave to be scared and do something anyway, I still don’t like being scared. Part of me doesn’t want to try out at all.
Does that make me the opposite of brave?
I’m glad I can write to you now. Sometimes I imagine you talking to me when I have questions about stuff. Like how to cook scrambled eggs. (Dad always burns them.) Or where my stationery is. (I’m sorry this letter is on boring old paper. I hope it looks nice enough for you.) Do you ever imagine my voice? Are you forgetting it at all? (I wish I could include a recording of my voice. Except I always sound weird in recordings.)
I do know that you wouldn’t forget me. It’s a scary thought, though, because sometimes it felt like you forgot me and Dad. Like drinking was more important than us.
I shouldn’t have written that. I should cross that out, too. Dad said this letter should be happy, but I’ve filled it with stuff that’s going to stress you out. I want to tell you the truth, though. I want you to know how I feel so we can fix it.
I haven’t been telling the truth to other people. Am I supposed to tell them where you are? Is this a forever secret?
I have a lot of questions, Mommy. I guess my biggest ones are: What do I do now? What happens when you come home? When can I see you? Should I see you?
Those are a lot of big questions.
I wonder if you’re just as confused as me.
I love you,
Veronica
I wrote it.
I mailed it.
Then I totally freaked out.
Twenty-Eight
Of course I wake up with a stomachache the day of tryouts. It’s not that bad, but I know it could make me slower. It could stop me from playing at full Veronica power. My warm-up run is slower than usual, too. Even though Claudia tells me I look smooth and powerful, I can tell that Coach Ortiz is watching me the entire time, wondering why someone as awful as me has the nerve to try out for the All-Star team.
Maybe she isn’t watching me, though. Maybe I’m just imagining those bug-eyed sunglasses tracking my every move, like they’re equipped with some superpowered radar.
Either way, is this what the entire season is going to be like? Feeling the pressure build up in my stomach until it literally twists itself into knots?
I head over to the dugout for my first station and pick up a bat, then swing fiercely, pretending I’m whacking this entire situation into the outfield. My heart feels like it’s split in half, with one chamber wanting nothing more than to make the team and the other chamber wishing that there wasn’t an All-Star team at all, that I could just go back to playing softball for fun and not having to worry about scouts and coaches and high-pressure tournaments.
But whatever happens, I’m here now. I’m going to do the best I can, because I do want to find out if all my hard work over the past few years has paid off. I need to know if me playing on this team is the fix that Mom needs.
“I’m exhausted!” Claudia comes up beside me after my first two at-bats, her face bright red. She’s been across the grass, fielding the ground balls that Coach Ortiz’s assistant has been hitting to a bunch of kids. I kept peeking over at Claudia to see how she was doing. We’ve both been so busy lately, and it’s strange to not know how she’s doing, both in softball and in life. It’s not like we’ve been ignoring each other, but since that last conversation on the phone—and my decision to not tell her about the talent show—it’s been weird between us.
“I’m tired, too.” I pull at the neck of my jersey and wipe away the sweat. (Apparently I can’t get through that rock today, either.) “You’re doing great.” I point back to the ground ball area. “You fielded every one.”
“Almost every one.” Claudia wrinkles her nose. “The sun got into my eyes once and I fumbled the ball. Stupid sun.”
“Stupid sun,” I agree, then yell at myself. Stop talking about the weather! I lean forward and stretch my right hamstring, which is sore from all the dancing Libby and I have been doing. Which reminds me that I need to tell Claudia about the talent show. I’m going to sign Libby and myself up tonight, so there’s no way I can hide the news for much longer.
I need to tell her about Mom, too. And about why I’ve waited so long to tell her everything that’s been going on.
I shake my head. How did everything get so tangled up?
“Veronica Conway, you’re next!” Coach Ortiz yells from across the field. I cringe. She’s really loud.
“My turn,” I say unnecessarily.
“Good luck!” Claudia’s voice is cheerful, but her eyes don’t have the spark they usually do when we’re together, the one that’s kindled by our shared past—by memories of baking mint, peanut butter, and raspberry brownies (sounds gross, tastes awesome) at sleepovers, protecting our shared secret that we’re both afraid of Ferris wheels, and having marathon Mario Kart races.
“Thanks!” I try to make my smile all sparkarific, like I’m one big firework. I try to show Claudia with that one word that things can be okay between us again, that even though I’m not sure what to say about her parents, even though I’m not letting her figure out what to say about my mom, that we’re still Veronica and Claudia, best friends forever.
The firework splutters, though. All I get from Claudia is a fist bump and an awkward smile. Which is okay. We’re not going to be back to normal right away. It’ll take time.
And honesty. I try to push that thought out of my head, though, and step up to the plate. I take a few practice swings, then stare at the pitcher, a girl named Millie who was on another one of the rec teams. She’s been doing awesome so far. So good that I bet she’ll make the team. Millie still has some tells, though. I can tell that when she’s about to throw a fastball, she looks at the dugout first. She whips her arm back a bit differently when she throws a curveball, too.
The first pitch is too wide, and I don’t swing.
“Ball!” Coach Ortiz shouts.
I swing at the second pitch, which I can tell is going to be a curveball. I hit the ball to the left of the third base line, though, which counts as my first strike.
But I felt strong. I made good contact. I know I can get a hit from Millie.
That’s when I notice Coach Ortiz staring at me—so intently she’s barely blinking. My heart feels like it’s been stopped by some supervillain’s freezing ray.
“Veronica?” Millie shouts from the pitcher’s mound. “You ready?”
I nod and immediately go back into my batting stance. It’s a good thing I’m wearing a helmet, because I bet my cheeks are bright red. A pitcher wouldn’t ask me if I was ready during a game. I would have been caught totally off guard, and Coach Ortiz knows that.
The pitch speeds over the plate, but I’m too distracted to make contact.
“Strike two!”
Gah! Why is my brain sabotaging me like this? Coach Ortiz is going to be watching me all day long today—all season long—so I’d better get used to it.
“Come on, Veronica!” Claudia shouts from the sidelines. My heart leaps. Maybe things can be okay between us again …
I shake my head and grip my bat more tightly. I’ll worry about Claudia later. Right now, I need to stay focused. Millie’s next ball goes wide, and even though I want to hit it—want to hit a home run and show everyone that I can do this—I hold back.
Which was totally the right decision.
“Ball two!”
It’s a two and two count, and my knees are shaking. I take a deep breath and give myself a pep talk. You can do this. You’re a softball player. You want this. You thrive under pressure.
That’s the thing, though—I don’t thrive under pressure. And the more pressure that gets piled on, the more I wonder if I actually do want this.
No. I shake my head. Of course I want this. I’ve been watching the All-Star girls for years now, sitting in the stands and dreaming of wearing that awesome uniform with the star on the back. It’s what Mom and I dreamed of, for me to be as good a player as she was. As Grandma Kathy was. As Great-Grandma Rose was.
I keep getting distracted, though, thinking about the lyrics of our talent show song and how to better harmonize with Libby.
I force my attention back to the action. You got this, Veronica. Hit it hard.
Millie swings her arm backward and releases the ball, and my eyes follow it as it travels toward me. I read an article once about some guy who had a near-death experience. He described how time slowed down and his life flashed before his eyes. I’m not having flashes of myself as a baby or anything, but it does feel like time has been set to slow-motion.
I grip the bat tighter, not sure whether I’m wishing for a hit or a whiff. I hear the sharp crack of the bat and feel the satisfying thud as I make contact. Before I can even think about it, my feet propel me up the first-base line.
In a game, I’d be making mental calculations the entire time. Did someone catch the ball? Should I try for another base? This is only the first day of tryouts, though, so all I do is run past first base, then trail to a stop and turn around. My breath comes in gasps, and I immediately search out Coach Ortiz.
She’s already concentrating on Cara Dunbar, who’s up next.
I’m not sure what I wanted from Coach Ortiz—a compliment? A pat on the back? It was just a hit, after all.
“Nice work!” Claudia runs over and gives me a high five. “You nailed that one!”
I grin. Best friends—even if they have been distant lately—always come through. “Thanks!” I grab my water bottle and take a gulp. “I was super nervous.” I decide to try to break through that layer of rock.
“Me too!” Claudia exclaims. “I feel like I’m on one of those reality shows, with cameras recording my every move.”
I snort. “Does that mean that if we make the team, Coach Ortiz will give us a rose?”
Claudia giggles. “It’d smell way better than our gym bags.”
I put my bat in the pile by the dugout and start heading over behind home plate, where we’re taking a water break before our end-of-tryouts scrimmage. It’ll be our chance to show the coaches how we can play in a game-time situation—the most important part of today. The scariest part of today, too.
I made it through the beginning of tryouts, though. Which means I can totally rock the scrimmage.
And do something else that’s scary.
After tryouts, I’m going to tell Claudia everything. I jog toward Claudia, then stop when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“Nice work today!” Libby’s face and uniform are streaked with dirt (“softball makeup,” we call it), and I give her a high five.
“You too!” I’d been peeking at Libby during tryouts and she crushed the ball a bunch of times.
Claudia looks back at me and Libby, her eyebrows arching up in surprise. “Are you guys … friends?” She waves to Tabitha and Lauren, who join the rest of the girls by our pile of water bottles.
Libby smiles at Claudia like nothing at all weird is going on. Which, to her, is true. “Of course we are!” Her
smile gets bigger as she strikes a pose. “Didn’t Veronica tell you about our amazing talent show routine?”
The words emerge from Libby’s mouth as if someone pressed the SLOW MOTION button. I want to jump forward and grab them before they hit Claudia’s ears. I want to turn back the clock and give myself one more minute—one more second, even—to tell Claudia myself.
To prevent the hurt look that’s already spreading across Claudia’s face.
“Talent show?” she asks. “You guys are doing the talent show?”
“Yeah.” I look down at my mud-covered cleats as the rest of the girls start to find their positions on the field around us. “It’s not a big deal, though. Really. We’re just singing and dancing.”
“To our favorite song!” Libby hums a few bars.
“You mean the song we sing and dance to?” Claudia takes a step backward.
“Um, yeah. But it’s not a big deal.” I say the words quickly. “Really. I just forgot to tell you.”
“I didn’t mean to take over something that was yours!” Libby’s face looks stricken. “I was just trying to help Veronica raise money for the softball fees, since rehab is so expensive.” She leans toward Claudia confidingly, like of course Claudia knows what’s going on.
Anyone would assume Claudia would know, after all.
But she doesn’t.
I want to scream at Libby that she promised not to tell anyone. That she’s a huge tattletale traitor. But deep down, I know that Libby didn’t think she was doing anything wrong. She didn’t know that because of her words, the world is now closing in on me, spinning in ever-tightening circles until I feel like my entire body is about to implode.
“Rehab?” Claudia says the word softly, like she’s not sure what it means.
“Yeah. For her mom…” Libby’s eyes widen, and she turns to me as Claudia’s face falls. “You didn’t tell her?” she whispers.
“You didn’t tell me what? Veronica might not be able to play?” Claudia’s head whips back and forth between me and Libby. “What’s going on?”
I look down at the ground and wish that a sinkhole would open up in the middle of the field and swallow me whole. I knew I should have told Claudia the truth.
Life in the Balance Page 13