Press was up next. He put his beer down and stepped into the batter’s box. He took a few more practice swings. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Matt and Amara chatting away as if they’d known each other for a lot longer than a few minutes. Matt had even taken his hands out of his pockets. Amara’s hair blew in the light breeze, and when a strand caught in her mouth, Press saw her reach up, separate her lips and slip it out.
Matt, he saw, noticed that little gesture, too.
Press narrowed his eyes and concentrated on the batter. A line drive to right field would bring in the tying run.
The pitcher delivered. Press swung. A screaming line drive whizzed past the first baseman. Press took off.
“Foul,” cried the alums.
His classmates moaned.
Press trotted back to the batter’s box and picked up the bat. He tapped it against the insides of his sneakers.
The breeze picked up. Again, Amara’s hair blew in front of her face. This time, Matt reached over and brushed it aside for her.
Press ground his teeth. What the hell is Matt doing? She’s a kid. He narrowed his eyes and stared down the pitcher.
He delivered.
The ball arced slowly toward home base. The sound of a girl’s giggle infiltrated his brain. Amara. He swung, a sudden surge of adrenaline fed his muscles and the bat made contact with the ball. Thwack! He followed through, twisting from his hips. Then took off, his head down. The hoots of the spectators reverberated all around him. But still he heard that little giggle as he raced toward first. He was rounding the bag and halfway to second when he nearly ran into Doug.
“Hey, slow down, buddy.” Doug held up his arms. “You can go into your home-run trot. Didn’t you see it? You hit the thing out of the park.”
For the first time, Press looked up and saw the right fielder turned with his back to the crowd as he watched the ball sail over the fence.
People were jumping up and down. Clapping. Screaming. The one-time hot prospect at second base even high-fived Press as he eased up into a sedate jog.
Press rounded the bases and headed for home, jumping on the bag with two feet. He raised his hands and did a little dance.
His classmates crowded him, slapped him on the back, patted him on the head and doused him with beer.
He looked frantically around. For Amara.
The next second she was next to him, being pushed up against his body by the crunch of people.
“You were incre—” she shouted.
Press shook his head. Her words were drowned out in the din. He reached for her shoulders and pulled her close. “What? I couldn’t hear you,” he said. He pointed to his ear and turned his head sideways. His hands were still on her shoulders.
She went up on tiptoe and spoke into his ear. “I said, ‘You were incredible.’” She looked into his eyes.
He studied her face, the alluring combination of innocence and yearning etched on every feature. He waited a beat.
She parted her lips. Breathed in sharply through her mouth.
And then he let his hands drop and stepped back. He shook his head. “No,” he said.
“But…but…I thought that…that…maybe we could spend time together tonight? You know, even celebrate? You and I? And…and…” She took another deep breath. “I just want to do something special—make it special between us.”
Press knew immediately where she was going. He moved his jaw. Whoa. He’d figured out already that she had a crush on him. But this was taking it to another level.
He went to pull her away from the crowd where it would be easier to talk. They’d only moved a few feet when the class president lunged between Amara and him. “Hey, Press, way to go, bro.”
“Oh, yeah. Lucky hit,” Press responded. Right now a softball game was the furthest thing from his mind.
“Luck, nothing. It’s unanimous. This belongs to you for the year.” The president plunked a Grantham baseball cap on his head with a straggling lion’s tail pinned to the back. “This year, you get ‘tail,’” he said with a guffaw, then hurried back to the celebration by the keg.
Press slipped the hat off his head. It was sweat stained and faded. The polyester lion’s tail looked as though several real animals had chewed on it. The annual tradition of passing “The Tail” to the game’s MVP was usually a joyous moment. On Press, it was lost.
He paused and made eye contact with Amara. Jeez. The kid looked as if her whole world depended on what he was about to say. “Listen,” he said. “I like you. You’re nice. More than nice. But you’re also a kid.”
“Like I said, though, I’ll be eighteen in August.” There was a hint of desperation in her voice.
“And I’ll be twenty-two on August twenty-seventh. Don’t you see? That’s a big four years.”
She suddenly perked up. “Me, too. My birthday’s the twenty-seventh. Don’t you see? It’s like we’re fated to be together.”
Press shook his head. “I don’t believe in fate.”
“What do you believe in?”
“Science. Friendship, I guess.”
“Not love?”
“No.” He swallowed. “And that’s why you deserve someone better than me. For you first time, especially. I’m right, aren’t I? It would be your first?”
She tossed her hair. “I mean, it’s not like it’s a big deal.”
“No, it is a big deal. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
She studied the ground. “Like you care,” she said under her breath.
“Yes, I do. Like I said, I like you. But as a friend.” He searched her profile for a reaction.
She emitted a sarcastic laugh. “Please. That’s like saying I have a nice personality.” Then suddenly, her expression changed. She waved.
Press swiveled his head to follow her line of vision. Matt was heading toward them.
“Hey, there, hero of the day. Why am I not surprised to find you with a pretty girl?” Matt stood awkwardly next to Amara and offered his usual tense smile.
Maybe it was just as well that Matt had showed up when he did, Press thought. What more did he have to say to Amara? Nothing. Right? It’s not as if he could see himself sitting down with her at some quiet coffee shop having this heart-to-heart, divulging his innermost secrets—like how his father barely spoke to him, or if he did, it was with total disdain. I mean, what kind of person turns out normal with a parental role model like that?
Nah, that wouldn’t be something he would do. Which just went to show how wrong he was for someone like her.
So he took the easy way out. Acting as if the whole encounter with Amara had never happened, and he asked, “So, Matt, you’re staying for the pig roast that’s on now, right?” He pointed toward the picnic tables and the meat roasting in a large pit. “Seems just about ready.”
Then he glanced casually—really casually—at Amara. “You’re welcome to stay, too.” It was a pathetic move, he knew. But she’ll thank me in the long run, he rationalized.
Amara merely gave him a forced smile. “No, thanks. I just came by to check on the game,” she said in an easy-breezy manner.
Matt had his phone out. “I gotta go, too. Promised Katarina I’d meet her and Dad and the baby at Babička’s for dinner soon.” He looked at Amara. “Katarina’s my stepmom and Babička’s her grandmother—she’s just the greatest, especially her cooking.”
“But you’ll come back to Lion Inn later for the dance?” Press purposely didn’t look at Amara.
“I’ll try. Otherwise, I’ll catch you tomorrow afternoon at your talk.”
Press groaned. “You would have to bring that up.”
Matt swiped the cap from Press’s hand and plunked it on his friend’s head. It sat at a lopside
d angle. “Hey, it doesn’t look bad. Only you could get away with wearing the stupid thing.”
Press saw the way Amara looked at him, and he did something he didn’t think was possible. He blushed. But then he cleared his throat and adjusted the bill of the cap so that it was positioned correctly.
Doug waved to him from near the roasting pit. “Hey, Press. You got to come over and have some of this. It’s fantastic.” He held up a sagging paper plate to demonstrate.
Press waved. “I’ll be there.” Then he shifted his attention back to Amara and Matt. “So I guess I’ll see you guys around, then.” You guys. Would she get the message?
Amara left without bothering to say goodbye. Just a wave, no big deal, and she headed toward the bike.
“Hey, wait up,” Matt called. “I can walk with you, if you don’t mind not riding?”
She flipped her hair.
She frigging flipped her hair, Press screamed internally.
“Sure, why not? It’s too big for me anyway.” Amara slipped a key from her back pocket and undid the lock. Matt waited while she’d stowed it in the basket, and then the two of them walked off with Amara guiding the bicycle between them.
Press shook his head when he saw Matt catch himself from stumbling on the uneven grass. “Isn’t the hero of the game supposed to get the girl, not some nerdy political-science major who wants to save the world?” he mused to himself.
Then he stopped. Because he’d just noticed something—something shiny that was peeking out the back pocket of her tight jeans. The one that she’d slipped the key from.
There was no mistaking the foil packet. Press watched the way it moved back and forth, bobbing with the sway of her hips as she sauntered off into the sunset.
With his best friend, no less.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
PENELOPE AND NICK SAT in Nick’s rental car, a Ford Explorer. Each stared ahead, out of the window. The engine was running with the air-conditioning blasting. The car was still in Park.
“Sorry, I get a little jacked up,” Nick explained. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
“That’s understandable. Being on camera, knowing the whole production rests on your shoulders is a stressful situation. Furthermore, the direct relation between stress and secretions by the adrenal glands is well documented, with the net effect not only a rise in blood pressure but an elevation of heart rate.”
Penelope furrowed her brow and turned to him. “I realize you are very good at what you do, but excessive levels of adrenaline have adverse effects on your health,” she said earnestly. “Perhaps, therefore, you should take up more restful activities such as yoga or meditation to help relieve the pressures of your work?”
Nick raised his eyebrows. “Yoga?”
“You’re right. That might be a stretch.”
Nick slumped back on his seat. “You entirely misread the source of my stress.”
“I did? I mean, unlike with most people, I seem to be able to judge your verbal and nonverbal cues more easily.” She folded her hands in her lap.
Nick turned to face her. “You’re the reason I’m stressed out.”
“I am?” Penelope squeaked. Then she cleared her throat. “I am,” she repeated, her tone lower. She hesitated. “And that’s a good thing?”
Nick smiled. “It could be. Most definitely.” He reached over and picked up one of her hands.
She stared at her small slender hand in his large one. His knuckles were large, and she noticed scars from various cuts and burns, hazards of being a professional chef, she presumed.
“Tell me something, Penelope. Not to pry, but did you ever stop to analyze why you feel awkward with most people?”
“Yes, of course. When I was in graduate school at Oxford I went to a psychiatrist. I wanted to find out if I had Asperger’s syndrome—you know, a mild form of autism.”
“Asperger’s?” He turned her hand over in his and ran his index finger along one of the lines. “And what was the diagnosis?”
“He said he needed multiple sessions before making a firm diagnosis. Unfortunately we never got that far.”
Nick stilled his finger. “And that was because?”
“Actually, it’s something of a source of embarrassment for me, if you must know the truth. You see, he informed me that over the course of the one session he had observed that I was already starting to experience transference, that is, where the patient believes he—or she—is falling in love with the doctor.”
“Yes, I know what transference is.”
Penelope nodded, glad to proceed as quickly as possible with her story. “He then went on to explain that this feeling was perfectly natural. In fact, he said that was a good thing because he had observed that he was also attracted to me.”
Nick looked up. “So what did you say?”
“Why, I didn’t say anything. I merely stood up, picked up my backpack and then I socked him around the head with it. After that, I left.”
Nick threw back his head. “You’re fantastic, you know that?”
“Frankly I find it strange that you have a positive reaction to the fact that I used physical violence.”
He shook his head. “If only you knew.” Then he brought her hand to his chest and laid it flat against his shirt. “Do you feel that?”
“You mean the quality of the cotton of your shirt?” She paused. “That was a joke.” She cocked her head, pleased. “I made a joke.”
“Indeed you did.” Nick emitted a light laugh.
Penelope found the lines radiating from the corners of his eyes highly attractive.
“And, furthermore, in the view of Dr. Rheinhardt—moi—that is clear evidence that you couldn’t possibly have Asperger’s or any other form of autism.”
“And what medical-school degree allows you to make that judgment?”
“The proverbial school of hard knocks, or in my case, the years of being a line cook. Trust me, nothing tells you more about people than working in a restaurant. Take the organization alone. The hierarchy is rigid, starting with the chef de cuisine, then the sous-chef, on down to the chef-de-partie or line chef, which in turn has its own order of first and second cook, not to mention areas of expertise like fish chef or sauté chef or pastry chef.”
“It sounds similar to the bureaucracy at the Vatican.”
Nick nodded. “Could be.” He lightly kissed her hand before guiding it to his lap. “Anyway, as I was saying, you quickly learn in a kitchen where you stand in the pecking order and who the head honcho is.”
“This is all very informative, but I’m still not sure what it has to do with me and my…my social failings.”
Nick shook his head. “You don’t have social failings.”
Penelope stiffened her back. “I beg to differ. You should have seen my teaching evaluations. They were hardly glowing.”
“So a bunch of snot-nosed kids didn’t appreciate you. In my opinion, whatever failings exist are not yours but your father’s. Asperger’s my ass. Okay, you’re a little shy. I’ll grant you that. But what you’re really manifesting is Stanfield’s syndrome.”
Penelope straightened her shoulders. “Stanfield’s syndrome? You’re saying my father—”
“Deliberately separated you from society by insisting on homeschooling you. Then he molded you in his image, like some Mini Me. And you, being a good daughter who wanted to please him, went along willingly.”
“I’m not sure about the Mini Me reference,” she responded. “Nor, from personal observation, am I entirely convinced that you are an expert on good daughters.”
She held up her free hand, pointing with her index finger. “Here, let me digress by saying that Amara is a very good girl, despite her recent problems.” That poin
t made, she lowered her arm. “Now, regarding your evaluation of my relationship with my father—you make it sound like he tried to brainwash me.”
“Well, isn’t that essentially what he did?” Nick asked.
“Without his time and encouragement, I never would have excelled in the Classics. Staying in school could never have afforded the same advantages.”
“But were you happy?”
“That never came into question,” she replied swiftly.
“Did you ever kick a soccer ball with friends on the weekend? Have sleepover birthday parties? Deal with nasty girl cliques? Go to the Senior Prom?”
“Of course not. I didn’t have any friends, and even if I did, you must remember that I used to wear glasses with lenses as thick as the bottom of Coke bottles. I wasn’t exactly a prize catch.” She stared awkwardly at the floor of the car. A gum wrapper was lying, half-folded, on the mat next to her feet.
Nick reached over and, applying pressure to her chin, turned her head so that she had to look at his face. “I’m sorry to admit it, but in college I was one of those immature, superficial males of the species who didn’t know any better than to look behind those glasses. Because what’s there is amazing.”
“It is?” Penelope blinked rapidly.
He slanted his head this way and that, as if memorizing each contour, each nuance of her face. “Indeed it is—now more than ever.”
“Oh, that’s because of the laser surgery. It’s remarkable. I can actually get up in the morning and be able to read my alarm clock without having to put on my glasses.”
“It’s more than the glasses, Penelope,” Nick insisted.
“It is?” She experienced a fluttering of hope in her stomach, which, truly, was a physiological impossibility, but which she nonetheless accepted with a sense of cautious anticipation.
“Very much so. Because I believe you have finally stopped being that very good, very obedient daughter.”
“You’re saying I’m no longer good?”
“Of course you’re a good person.” This time, he held up his hand. “You know what? Let me get back to my universe once more—cooking. I kind of got sidetracked before. Do you remember how I was talking about being a line chef?”
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