by Kristin Rae
He switches my bag to his other hand and digs a set of keys out of his pocket. “So, is someone bringing you home, or do you need a lift?”
“I was just about to call my dad to have him pick me up, but if you don’t mind . . .”
Brian convinces me to tell my dad I have a ride, and I follow him through the parking lot and down a couple blocks to the overflow parking, hopping over the occasional puddle and lamenting that it’s not frozen so I can slide across it. Here it is almost February and I haven’t seen so much as a flurry.
A black Chevy truck chirps to my left. I glance around, but no one else is near it.
“After you,” Brian says, opening the passenger door and tossing in my bag.
“Whose truck is this?” I ask, stepping on the running board and settling in my seat.
“Mine!” He shuts me in and walks around to climb in the driver’s side. “My dad just bought a new truck, a big Dodge diesel, so he passed this down to me.”
An abundance of vehicles. How nice for them.
“What about your car?”
“Selling it,” he says, without any emotional attachment. “Interested?”
I perk up. “Uh, yeah!” Then I deflate just as quickly. “But considering I don’t have much saved and there won’t be a lot of help from my parents, it’s not feasible.” I cross my arms over my stomach and let out a huff of air while Brian makes a contemplative grunting noise.
We begin the drive in silence, but I realize quickly it’s only an opportunity for my brain to replay everything I did wrong tonight. I see every shuffle I did instead of a flap, how I turned left when everyone else turned right. And again I hear Jesse barking instructions at me.
Jesse.
I dig my phone out of my bag, thrilled to see he sent me a text about two hours ago.
Jesse: Sorry I’m missing your big night. Hope you’re having fun. You’ll do GREAT! And we’re killing it out here, in case you were wondering. ;)
Me: It was . . . an experience. Happy baseballing!
“So how’s Kristi?” I ask Brian, pocketing my phone but keeping my smile.
“Good,” he says. I catch a glimpse of his grin by the light of a passing car. “I’m actually driving up to Dallas to see her for the day tomorrow.”
“Whoa. Your parents don’t care?”
“No. They met her and her family when we were in Colorado. My mom’s a little too excited about it all, honestly.”
“Uh-oh. Parental approval,” I tease, remembering how my dad said he liked Jesse, though it didn’t bother me. “It’s been known to cause adverse reactions.”
He laughs from his gut as he makes the turn onto my street. “Nah. My mom’s opinion actually means a lot to me.”
As I stare at the side of his face, pondering his genuine confession, it occurs to me that maybe we’re too much alike. Maybe that’s why the kiss was such an awkward disaster. We make good friends, but anything more just feels off.
He pulls into my driveway and I slide down from the truck. “Thanks for the ride.”
“No problem,” he says, still behind the wheel.
“And the flowers,” I add, cradling them under my arm and reaching for my bag. “See you Monday.”
I’m about to close the door when he says, “Hey, wait. I was thinking . . . about my Camry. If you want it—”
“I really don’t see how I can afford it, though. I don’t make a whole lot.”
“I know.” He nods, his floppy hair dipping toward his eyes. “But my parents said I could do what I wanted with it, so I was thinking maybe we could work something out you can handle. Relaxed payments, you know?”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
“I mean, if you want it. I’m not trying to force you into a car payment here.”
“Of course I want it!” I blurt out with a little hop, my bag slipping off my shoulder. “I just want to make sure you understand exactly how relaxed these payments are going to be.”
“It’s no big deal. I mean, I can’t get that much for it anyway. My mom drove it for years before I got it. It doesn’t matter to me if I get paid for it up front or over the next year or so.”
“Is this really happening? You’re totally serious?” Hope swells inside my chest. A car. My very own car. One that can take me places as I blast music that I want to listen to, windows down with the heater on my feet.
He laughs and shifts his truck into reverse. “But don’t think you can cheat me,” he teases, complete with wagging finger. “I’ll be keeping strict records.”
“No cheating. Promise.” I cross the bouquet of flowers over my heart as an oath. “Can I get it tomorrow?” I ask, rising up on my toes like a giddy child.
“I’m going to Dallas tomorrow. Sunday?”
“Oh, right. Sunday!”
We say our good nights and as he drives away, I repeat “Sunday, Sunday, I’m getting a car on Sunday” under my breath all the way up to the house. I dig the house key out of my bag, but the front door swings open. My eyes scan Dad’s outfit of business shirt and flannel pajama pants before I catch the panic on his face.
“Good,” he says, his shoulders noticeably relaxing but still a bit tight for this late at night. “You’re home.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask in a rush, every sore muscle in my own body tensing.
“Baby’s coming.” He grabs the keys from the hook on the wall and drags a suitcase down the front steps.
“But it’s still way too early. Are you sure it’s not just a fake-out like last time?” I ask, looking through the doorway for a sign of Ma, but I don’t see her.
“No.” He starts the car, loads the suitcase, and walks briskly back to me, frozen in place on the porch. “Her water broke. It’s time.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A boy. Just like Ma thought. They’re calling him Christopher James Brooks. Christopher after Dad’s father, James after Ma’s. She confesses they considered letting me name him, but realized I would have gone with Gene Kelly Brooks—this is likely—and didn’t think a modern boy would appreciate the name itself, or that it came from his teen sister.
In my new Camry—Dad made me practice driving near our house practically all day Sunday as a refresher—I follow Dad up to the hospital Monday morning before school. My heart skips with anticipation of seeing my brother for the first time—only my parents have been allowed in the NICU so far. Rider wanted to come into town right away, but they talked him into holding off at least until Friday so he wouldn’t miss any school.
I’m led through a maze of swinging doors, past nurses’ stations, and I’m handed a sterile robe to put on over my clothes before entering the room Christopher’s in. Ma beckons me over to his incubator to see four pounds of a skinny body, eyelids fluttering, legs kicking in irritation at all the tubes and wires stuck to him. He needs help breathing, but hopefully not for too long, and he’ll have to stay in the incubator until he can hold a good temperature. The doctor says he’s strong, and encourages my parents that he’ll catch up in no time.
With a gloved hand, I worm my pinkie under the tiniest fingers I’ve ever seen, and he grips onto it with more muscle than I thought possible.
“Talk to him,” Ma says from just behind me, her hand resting gently on my back. “Let him know who you are.”
“Can he really hear me?” I ask, studying his funny ears, still a bit smashed against his head.
“Of course.”
I speak softly so as not to overwhelm him if he can, in fact, hear me. “Hey, Chris. It’s Maddie. Your sister.” My breath catches on the word “sister,” and I work to convince my head that this little thing is related to me. I’m more than Rider’s sister now. There are three of us.
“Isn’t he perfect?” Ma asks through a sigh.
I nod. “It’s so weird that he was inside you, and now he’s right here. We can see him and touch him, like he’s a real person.”
“He is a real person.” She laughs softly. “And it’s not
too weird for me yet. I did just push—”
“Whoa,” I say, nudging her with my hip. “You can stop. I get it.”
She nudges me back. “Want to know what is weird, though?”
“What?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the new fingers holding mine.
Ma moves her hand to my shoulder and pulls me against her. “That you and Rider were each inside me at one time too, and here you are, practically full grown. I mean, Rider’s taller than me now, so it’s a little harder to comprehend that he’s the same baby I brought home from the hospital nineteen years ago.” She pauses, and one of Christopher’s machines goes through some sort of dance. “Nineteen years.”
The crack in her voice makes me recall all my initial thoughts when I found out they were having another baby. Here they were about to be empty nesters, smooth sailing until retirement, which can’t be that far away because they’re old, and now they have to raise a child all over again.
But this time, at least for the first couple of years, she’ll have my help.
“He’s going to be okay, right?” I ask as Christopher tightens his grip, demanding my full attention.
“He has us as a family,” she says, hugging me even closer to her and kissing the top of my head. “He’s going to be just fine.”
Looking at him now, so small and pink, I’m thankful my parents were smart enough not to give me the responsibility of naming a human. Because he is real. Totally and completely, a real person.
In the school parking lot, Jesse sits on the tailgate of his truck, swinging his legs, clad in the usual jeans and boots. I begin to press on the brake as I approach him and roll down my window, but it’s not until I come to a complete stop behind his truck that he actually looks at me.
His brows scrunch together and his jaw tightens in a hard line. “Isn’t that what’s-his-name’s car? Why are you driving it?”
“It was Brian’s.” I don’t let his obvious distaste beat down my smile. “But I bought it.”
“You bought it?”
“Well, I’m in the process of buying it, Mr. Technical.”
“With what?”
“Money.” I prop my elbow in the window and rest my head against my fist. “He’s cutting me a good deal. Isn’t it great? I have my own car!”
He slides down from his perch. “Is this the surprise you couldn’t wait to show me?”
Now my smile withers. “Maybe.”
His eyes scan the length of the car with a near scowl and suddenly my pride in the detail job my dad paid for yesterday is gone. Did they miss a spot? Is there a scratch I don’t know about? My shiny blue miracle is getting dimmer in my mind as my excitement fizzles. Did I make a mistake?
“You’re not happy for me,” I say as a statement. “You know I need my own car. I can’t keep mooching off everyone, including you. I’m tired of being that girl who needs a ride everywhere.”
“I know. I’m glad you finally have a car, I am.” He bites the corner of his bottom lip. “I just liked that you needed me to drive you places.”
I blink. “As adorable as that is, baseball is about to take over your life. You can’t always be ready to answer my call for spontaneous cupcake runs.”
His face goes sour, but I don’t see that what I said was untrue. After slipping an arm through a strap of his backpack, he closes the tailgate with a squeak and a clank. “We’re gonna be late. You should find a parking spot.”
“What just happened?” I ask, suddenly nervous. “What did you get upset about?”
“You should hear your attitude when the word ‘baseball’ comes out of your mouth.”
“I don’t have an attitude,” I say, replaying what I said in my mind. “I just wanted you to be excited that I needed my own car and now I have one. You’re getting busier, and I’ll be at the hospital a lot until Christopher can come home.”
He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “How is he?”
I brighten, thankful for this change of subject. “He’s pretty awesome. I can’t believe I already love him as much as I do.”
Jesse smiles. My foot relaxes on the brake, and the car starts to coast forward.
“I guess I’m going to find a parking spot,” I say in a rush.
“Hey, wait,” he calls before I get too far. “I . . . was wondering if you’d come watch my practice today after school.”
I stop the car and look back at him. “Your baseball practice?”
He rolls his eyes, forgoing the opportunity to say something smart, which makes me think I really did a number on his mood.
“It’s okay for people to come watch?” I ask.
“Uh, yeah. You can sit in the bleachers. The ball field is behind the football stadium. I’ll already be out there when your last class lets out.”
“Oh. Well, you didn’t come see my show last weekend, so . . . ,” I say, playing hard to get.
“Not my fault,” he defends, voice gruff. “And I’m going to see it this weekend. Look, you don’t have to come, I know it’s beneath you. I just thought it’d be cool if you wanted to.”
Now my mouth drops open at his tone. I can’t help analyzing the way he said it would be cool if I wanted to. I don’t really want to sit around for an hour or whatever watching boys swing bats and throw balls, but now it feels like I’m going to be in trouble if I don’t. Besides, he’s watched me work on my mediocre dance moves more times than I can count. I suppose I could take one for the team, as they say.
I offer what I aim to be an enticing smile, imagining all my tingly and gushy feelings about him in hopes that he can sense them. “Can’t wait.”
Angela never mentioned that she was going to watch the guys practice, but I spot her up toward the top of the bleachers, all the way at the end, near the outfield.
“How can you even see the action from way up here?” I ask, sitting next to her. The chill from the metal quickly seeps through my jeans, and goose bumps travel down my legs.
“I figure Red won’t notice me this far away.” Angela looks up from her phone and adjusts her bright yellow scarf to cover her ears. “I’m surprised to see you here. Aren’t you afraid of encouraging his career of ‘throwing baseballs’?” she teases, with air quotes.
“Yeah, well, he asked, and it’s my turn to do something for him, right?”
“Mmmhmm. What a dutiful girlfriend you are.”
I squint toward the pitcher’s mound to watch Jesse chunk a ball crazy fast over home plate. The batter swings and misses. I think.
“Seriously, can we move closer?” I ask. “I can hardly tell who’s who down there.”
“But—”
“So what if Red notices you?” I say, standing and rubbing my hands together, thoroughly loving that the current cold front is actually capable of making me shiver. “Might do everyone some good,” I mutter.
With a huff, she gathers her tote bag, and we start down the steps.
“That looks like Red coming up to bat,” I say, slowing when we’re about halfway down. “He’s supposed to be some sort of slugger, right?”
“Uh, right,” she says through a laugh. “Slugger. You’re hilarious.”
“What?” I turn on her. “Is that not the correct terminology?”
“It might be. It just sounds funny when you say it like that.”
“Gee, thanks.”
I pick up the pace, glancing up every few steps to watch Jesse pitch. The windup, the leg hike, the hurling forward of his body. Have to say, there’s something strong and attractive about it. Skilled. Red swings, and with a loud ping the ball goes flying into the outfield, where someone hustles to catch it.
Angela lets out a breathy whistle as we settle ourselves on an empty row behind a few parents.
Jesse fires another pitch for Red—I guess they aren’t playing a mock game—and this time there are two pings, one almost immediately after the first. Jesse’s hands fly up to his head, and he drops to his knees, then falls the rest of the way onto his side, curling into a fetal posi
tion.
I can’t breathe. Can’t move.
I’m reminded of that scene in Take Me Out to the Ball Game when Frank Sinatra’s character deliberately konks out Gene’s character by pitching a ball at his head during a pregame gag. It was so fakey in the movie, I didn’t think anything like it could ever actually happen in real life, though I’m sure a line drive to the head from the strongest guy in school is much more serious than if someone is only throwing it.
What if his skull is cracked? What if he’s . . .
Angela yanks my arm and suddenly I’m on my feet and we’re both yelling “Jesse!” as we race down the rest of the stairs toward the field. I keep my eyes on him the whole time we’re running, thankful to see he’s rubbing his feet together, so I can be certain that he’s not: 1) dead, 2) knocked out, or 3) paralyzed.
We approach cautiously, keeping behind the coaches hovering over him as they consult with each other in serious tones about who’s dealt with this situation before, and who’s taking him to the hospital, and who’s going to tell his mother. Once in a while I hear a little groan escape his mouth, and all I want to do is crawl down there next to him and kiss him and make it better. I try to position myself to see his face so I can get an idea of how much pain he’s in, but after I manage to catch eyes with him for a split second, he shuts his eyes and groans again.
Red paces near the pitcher’s mound, hands laced together on top of his helmet, making his elbows stick out like wings. I can just make out the faint string of curses he’s muttering.
“Were you trying to kill him?” Angela nearly screams, shooting past me and slamming herself into Red. She shoves him with everything she’s got, then beats on his massive chest a couple times for good measure. He barely sways backward.
“Oh, right, I was trying to kill your brother.”
“You’re such an insensitive jerk,” she sneers, pulling the crowd’s attention off Jesse and toward their impromptu soap opera.
“It was an accident, Angela. I’m sorry, okay?” He clutches her arms and holds her away from him as she continues to slap at him. “Get. Off. Me.”
She stops flailing, and they give each other that look. That slow-motion-only-in-the-movies look that’s filled with loathing and want and anger that usually precludes a major kiss. They don’t kiss, but the look lasts a moment too long for me to believe he only sees her as a “kid.”