The Thirteenth Chance

by Amy Matayo

  She never did tell me why her brother no longer plays.

  Chapter 16

  Olivia

  It’s my worst habit, but I can’t help it. I’m getting closer to my destination, and the closer I get, the longer and higher I go, eventually getting too anxious to keep climbing. Then I start over. Like decades-old vinyl that hasn’t been played in forever, the words come out slow at times . . . faster at others. And I always skip. Always skip.

  Thirteen.

  I never ever say thirteen.

  The words are a whisper and said like a plea.

  “One, two, three, f-four, five . . .”

  I hate the way I count. I’ve tried to stop so many times, but my counselor says that’s like asking an alcoholic to stop drinking, and most alcoholics take their very first drinks as teenagers, sometimes even adults. I started this stupid counting thing when I was four. I still remember the exact moment it happened. I still remember the weird way it helped, and the way it forever locked numbers in my brain as the fastest way to clear a troubled mind.

  “Olivia, get up there.”

  “But it’s too high, Momma. What if I fall? What if I get scared and I can’t get down?” I held onto the denim fabric of my mother’s shorts and tried not to cry, thinking as long as my fingers touched them, leaving wouldn’t be a reality.

  “Olivia, you’re embarrassing your brother. Everyone else is taking a little brother or sister. Do you want him to be the only one who doesn’t have someone?”

  I looked around at all the other kids not wearing baseball uniforms. All of them were at least a head taller than me, and the youngest one was in third grade. She was the only girl who played with me at ball games. I wasn’t in third grade because I still wore Rugrats sneakers and no one wore Rugrats sneakers after they turned six. My brother told me so right after he threatened to swipe mine and throw them in a dumpster when I wasn’t looking.

  “Can’t he take someone else?” Even the tears already dripping down my cheeks didn’t move my mother. When she had something in her mind, it stayed there. Except right now I was in her mind, and she was making me leave.

  She pulled my arms off her thigh like I was a suction cup stuck to a refrigerator. Even now, I hear the sound every time I remember that day. While my mother pushed, my brother grabbed my arm and began to pull.

  “There isn’t anyone else. You’re it. Now stop crying, go with your brother, and sit down. There’s a seat belt. Nothing bad will happen.”

  My nose ran and dripped down my saliva-sticky chin. “But Momma—”

  My cries didn’t affect her. My wailing didn’t work either. The McClain County State Champions banner strung over my head fluttered in the light breeze. The Take Your Sibling to the Fair sign fell over and skidded to the right. The way my mother looked at it and then snapped her gaze to me made me think she believed it was my fault.

  “Stop it, Olivia.” The whispered words came out on a bite. “The newspaper is here, and you are not to embarrass your brother.” She gave a single nod. “Just count to thirty and it will all be over.”

  My brother dragged me to the seat while I kicked and screamed and cried and watched my mother. She pressed a hand to her red cheek and blew out some air like I was the biggest battle she’d ever faced, then shook her head and began to commiserate with a friend. Both of them shot me dirty looks, and the woman standing next to her wore red lipstick so she looked especially mean.

  The seat belt clicked around my midsection, and I buried my face in the bar.

  My brother yanked me backward, pressed his arm into my stomach, and yelled at me to keep my eyes open.

  The roller coaster began to move at the same time I began to count.

  One two three four . . .

  At thirteen, the car jolted to a stop.

  Upside down.

  Everyone around us screamed—my brother, his friends, the other kids in the car, our parents on the ground—but no one screamed louder than me.

  I was just the only one screaming numbers.

  At seventy-five the car began to move.

  At ninety-six I was finally upright again.

  It wasn’t until one hundred eighty-seven that both of my feet were on the ground.

  At two hundred ten my mother said, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Counting hadn’t helped at all that day.

  But just like on that roller coaster, counting somehow became a habit that stuck.

  “Who are you?”

  The gruff male voice comes from nowhere, and I abruptly jump on the bottom step. I’ve been caught stealing, except I haven’t. I’m actually dropping off a bag of food in secret for the third time this week, and I do not think the discovery will go over well. Or be believed. I’ve had a fear of getting caught since I started coming here. But who gets caught dropping off food, not to mention hiding it under an old wooden plank? Most people ring doorbells.

  I take a step back, intimidated by the man’s size. One look at his unbuttoned shirt and bulging belly, and I’m certain nothing good will come from this encounter. I swallow and force myself to speak.

  “You must be Mr. Hardy,” I say, holding out a shaking hand. “My name is Olivia Pratt. I was Avery’s fourth-grade teacher last year. It’s nice to meet you.” I don’t add that in the nine months I had Avery in class, I never once met the man, and that it would have been nice to have done so before now. I don’t add that parental involvement is the most critical aspect of children’s education—coming before test scores or AP classes or number of books read in order of importance.

  Parents—they are the key.

  Avery’s parents—they never helped at all.

  He studies my hand like it’s a threat before slowly taking it in his own.

  “Name’s Wayne.” He nods. “I’m Avery’s dad.” He lets go and rubs his hand on his pant leg. “I must say, it’s a little embarrassing that I’m just now meeting you. But it’s kind of hard to make school functions when you’re working four jobs. Wish that weren’t the case, though.”

  I blink. That was unexpected. Plus, the man is better spoken than I had imagined he would be. “Four jobs? How on earth do you manage that? Don’t you have other children?”

  He smiles. It’s a kind smile, and it makes me even more uncomfortable. Mr. Hardy is cracking the perception I’ve had of him for nearly a year.

  “Three if you count the ones living here. Six when you add the little ones who live with their mother. They live in Oklahoma City, but they’ll be here tomorrow night. It’s my weekend to have them.”

  “I see. Are they school-age?” I’m making small talk and I’m not a fan of small talk, but sometimes the mouth keeps going when the brain can’t think of what to say.

  “All but one. She’s only four.” He glances at the floorboard, still askew from my poor attempt at covering up the food. “What are you doing here? Looks like you were sneaking something.”

  I swallow the temptation to be indignant. After all, the man is right. “I was just putting a bag under your porch. For Avery.” Saying the words feels like a betrayal, because what will happen now? I bring food for him three times a week and have for the entire school year. If I have to stop now because of the greediness of his father when I know his brothers already rough him up for it . . .

  “Are you the one that keeps dropping off food for him? I see him eating pretzels and applesauce when he thinks I’m not looking, and I’m certainly not the one buying them.”

  My chin betrays my bravado by trembling. Because now that he knows, I’ll have to stop. And how will I be able to live with myself, knowing a child is suffering because of my carelessness? If only I had been more discreet. If only I hadn’t been so busy counting my nerves away to notice the man approach.

  “I am. I’m sorry if that offends you. That isn’t my intent. I just want to help.”

  His head tilts to the side as he studies me. Slowly, his upper lip slides left. “That doesn’t offend me at all. Thought maybe th
e kid was stealing, so I’m glad to learn that isn’t the case. Embarrasses me a little, but it helps to know that someone is keeping at least one of my kids from going hungry. I just wish I could be the one to do it myself, but I guess that doesn’t matter, does it?”

  I can’t move. I’m frozen for a second. Even though I’m an introvert, people sometimes accuse me of talking too much when I’m nervous, and usually they’re right. But now I’m faced with the rare instance of having absolutely nothing to say. Mr. Hardy leans down to pick up the bag, then rifles through the contents. Apples, three bananas, a package of animal crackers, and a box of saltines. Since I’ve never been entirely sure of Avery’s situation, the easiest thing has been to pack things he can shove underneath his bed for safekeeping.

  “I’ll see to it that Avery gets this. That all right with you?”

  I nod, and then test out my voice. It shakes, but miraculously works. “That would be wonderful, thank you.” I back off the porch and turn to leave.

  “That’s very nice of you, ma’am. Thanks for stopping by.”

  I look over my shoulder and smile. I try to make it genuine, despite my flustered state. “It was nice to meet you, as well.”

  And all the way to my car, the only thing I can think is that it was. Nice to meet him. Confusing, but nice.

  Sometimes people throw you. Sometimes they do the unexpected. Sometimes your preconceived notions are not only way off base but completely unfounded and laced with judgment. For someone like me, that’s an especially painful thing to admit.

  Starting today, I’m finished judging Avery’s home life.

  Starting tomorrow, I’m buying food for the whole lot of them.

  Will

  “Are you sure she’s not the same chick that came to your party? The one wearing the Family Guy T-shirt?”

  See? I’m not the only one who thought it was Family Guy.

  “Nope, different girl.” Lies are shooting off my tongue like sparks from a match. But sometimes lies are necessary, even if telling the wrong one might send you to hell.

  “Then where did you meet her?”

  “I told you, at a bar a few weeks back.” This particular lie is bitter and one I should probably go over with Olivia, but I have a reputation to uphold despite also having one to clean up. It’s bad enough that everyone saw me willingly leave with her after the game a few nights ago; if I told them we met over loud music and a cat, I’d never hear the end of it.

  I wind up and throw a ball into Blake’s glove. He tosses it back to me. “Yeah, but . . . Guys and Dolls? That seems like kind of a strange place for someone like Olivia.”

  Someone like Olivia. A few hours and a couple bags of peanuts, and the whole world knows her. I slip off my glove and scratch the back of my neck.

  “She was working part-time as a waitress. Needed the money, I guess. Don’t judge her for it.”

  Blake holds up his hands. “I’m not judging her. Kimberly loved the woman. But I don’t know, man. She said the only job Olivia talked about was teaching at an elementary school. Said she doesn’t sound like the bar type. Said she seemed too nice for that.”

  Kimberly said. Kimberly said.

  As though nice people don’t go to bars. What does that make me?

  “It was a bar.” The words have fangs, and I swallow and throw again. “She was working and it was early, but that’s where we met. She’s a great girl. It’s been fun ever since.” I emphasize fun in a way that would have Olivia slapping me if she were nearby, but she’s not here, and again . . . my reputation. It’s real and it needs mending.

  As for slapping me, I have no doubt she will do it eventually, and this time not just on the arm.

  “Don’t have too much fun, man. Or have you already forgotten what happened when you had fun with the owner’s stepdaughter?”

  He makes quote marks around the word fun with his fingers, and the reminder pisses me off. Aren’t catchers supposed to have bad memories from getting hit in the head so much? Didn’t I read that somewhere?

  “I haven’t forgotten. I doubt I’ll be allowed to forget anytime soon.” And I won’t be. Just this morning I got my fourth call from Jerry. Turns out Lexi hadn’t yet turned twenty-one when we had our little date. The news made me want to hang myself with my own size-eleven shoelaces, because why was she at a bar? Why wasn’t anyone taking better care of her? Why was I too stupid to walk away when I realized she wasn’t Olivia? It doesn’t matter that her birthday was two days later. What matters is that her stepfather is furious to the point that he’s talking trade. Me, that is. Myself for some pitcher in the minors what doesn’t have half my talent and is so young that he hasn’t yet started down the pathway toward recklessness that all of us wind up on. Heck, I’m coming out on the other side, despite this latest revelation.

  The only good news is that Lexi has yet to press charges. Now that she’s an adult, the choice is no longer her parents’, not that I think they’d sue. I’m too good a player, and her stepfather has threatened this sort of thing before. I’m hoping her conscience settles heavily on her, because—when it comes down to it—I wasn’t that drunk. Four beers does not add up to alcohol poisoning, even if the memories are fuzzy. It doesn’t even add up to a good night’s sleep. I should know; I haven’t had one of those in years.

  “Good. I’d hate to see you traded, even though I believe that will happen about as much as I believe the Cubs will win the World Series next year. This’ll die down, it’s just a matter of how long it will take.”

  At that, I laugh. Poor Cubs. They don’t stand a chance, and I say this as a loyal Cubs fan. It sucks to face so much disappointment year after year. I wonder what happened to that fan that reached down and caught that ball in the play-offs all those years ago. He was in protective custody right after, but I haven’t heard anything about him in years. The Cubs haven’t had that good of a chance since then.

  I send a ball behind me and brace myself as another comes toward me. “Hopefully not too long. I’m already sick of it.”

  “Especially now that you’re dating Olivia. She’ll do good things for your reputation, I’m sure of it.”

  I don’t say that this is my plan; that it has been all along. I don’t say that Olivia is exactly what I need to rescue myself from—

  “Speaking of,” Blake says, and I feel my spine stiffen. I hate it when people say speaking of to me. It usually means my own words are on their way back to bite me. “Kimberly asked me to invite you guys over Thursday night for dinner. It will just be the four of us, so don’t say no. Think you could talk Olivia into it?”

  Suddenly the pain in the palm of my hand is a good thing. It distracts nicely from the iron fist of dread now curling in my stomach. First the games and now this. It’s one thing to convince the woman to be my fake date for a few weeks. It’s another to actually take her on one. I can’t afford for the lines to get blurred here, no matter how attractive I sometimes find her.

  She’s a job. A means to an end. Something to use and dispose of, as crass as that may sound. She knew the stakes when she agreed to my plan. As far as the newest date, though, what choice do I have?

  “I’m sure she would love to,” I say.

  Maybe she will, maybe she won’t. Either way, why do I feel like I just slipped a noose around my own neck . . . like all that’s left for me to do is jump, flail a bit, and die?

  Chapter 17

  Olivia

  “No, I haven’t kissed him.”

  I’m immediately assaulted by shrieking, so I pull the phone away from my ear. But not far enough away to avoid hearing the next question.

  “If I haven’t kissed him, what would possess you to think I’ve spent the night at his place?”

  “I don’t know, Olivia. Wishful thinking? You’re dating Will Vandergriff. Surely it hasn’t been entirely chaste up to this point.” I should have known my silence would prompt her next statement. “Please tell me it hasn’t been entirely chaste up to this point.”

>   I squeeze my eyes shut and put the phone on speaker, then lay it on the counter in front of me. This is not how I pictured getting ready for my first date with Will. “Define chaste.”

  Kelly sighs. “With or without a dictionary? Here’s my version: no hand-holding, no kissing, no making out, no nothing. Apparently you actually meant it when you said you don’t like ballplayers.”

  I roll my eyes even as Will’s words come back to haunt me. You obviously have an aversion to my kind. “Then I guess it’s been entirely chaste. Except just because I once said that doesn’t mean I still feel that way.”

  “Then what are you waiting for, Olivia? I read an article online about you two dating. People know. It isn’t like you can hide it. But more importantly, you can’t keep worrying so much about letting a guy in. Especially not when it’s Will Vandergriff.”

  “He has a reputation, you know.”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “I know. But . . . he’s Will Vandergriff.”

  I let my mascara wand fall. So much for looking out for me. “You keep saying his name like it’s a big deal.”

  “Because he is a big deal.”

  Of course I know this, but why does he have to be? A better question: why am I starting to like him? To like someone means letting them get to know you. To let them get to know you means taking a risk that your heart will get broken. I’m not sure my heart can take it. What if I’m left trying to piece together something that will never function right again?

  With that image in my mind and a promise to call her later and fill her in on the details, I hang up the phone and get to work on my other eye.

  I tried to talk him into letting me meet him at the DeMarcos’ home, seeing that it’s only a five-minute drive from our apartment complex—yes, Will and I live in the same nice part of town, but no, it’s nothing like the neighborhood we’re headed to—but he wouldn’t have anything to do with the idea. I shift in the seat next to him and look down at my hands. They’re sweaty and sticky and bendy and my knuckles just popped.