by Marta Brown
“Are…are you serious?” I stammer.
“As a heart attack, kid.”
I stand up from the squeaky chair and shake Coach’s hand across the desk scattered with playbooks, stat sheets, and batting averages. “Play next season as well as you did this last and you’re a lock. Proud of you, kid.”
“Thanks, Coach. I won’t let you down.” I turn to walk out of his office, wanting to get home to tell Pete the news when it hits me. Next season. The MCATS. The reason I was here in the first place.
I stop dead in my tracks, and turn back around to face him.
“Something wrong, Tyler?” Coach makes his way to the front of his desk before leaning against it with his arms crossed.
Yes. I mean no, not really. I don’t know. My mind swirls, less sure of the correct answer than I was on the test I just finished.
“Uh…no, sir,” I falter. “I just…thanks, again.”
“Don’t thank me, you worked hard and deserve this opportunity.” He smiles. “Now, go on and get outta here, it’s summer vacation, after all.”
Giving Coach a head nod, my mind starts to calculate the pros and cons of this potential opportunity like I calculate the dilution of stock solution in my Organic Chemistry lab. Very carefully.
The minors? Or med school?
“Oh, and Tyler?” Coach says, interrupting my thoughts. “Don’t go getting into too much trouble this summer with the beer and the babes. I need you in top form next season. Mickelson, too.”
Beer and babes? More like baseball, bug spray, and bruises.
“Don’t worry, Coach, I’ll stay outta trouble.”
Chapter 3
Emily
Dinner is not exactly a birthday celebration.
Mom and I sit across the table from each other, not speaking. The only noise, besides the silverware scraping against our plates as we gnaw on the over-done pork chops, is Mom’s frequent sighs of disappointment. Which I know I deserve, but lying to get out of camp is a means to an end. And at this point I’ll do anything to keep my parents together.
Fidgeting with my lumpy mash potatoes, I drag my fork through the starchy heap while getting more and more worried that Mom’s anger at me is slowly shifting into fury at Dad for being late for dinner. Again.
The garage door opens, and this time I’m the one that sighs. It’s about time. Now Mom can tell Dad what I did, and they’ll be too mad at me to be mad at each other. Perfect.
I brace myself.
“Pam? Emily?” Dad calls out from the laundry room where his whistle jingles against the wall as he hangs it up. His bag full of playbooks hits the floor with a thud. “Anyone home?”
Mom tosses her fork down before getting up and going to the kitchen island. Despite not saying a single word in over an hour, the banging of each and every pot while making Dad’s plate speaks volumes. She’s pissed.
Dad strolls into the kitchen with a smile on his face, clearly unaware of the mood in the house. “Oh good, you’re both home. I have the best news.” Dad un-tucks his polo shirt with the UConn Husky embroidered on the pocket and sits down in his chair at the head of the table, happy.
For someone who reads plays for a living, he isn’t doing such a good job reading the room.
“I spoke with Jim today, and it looks like I’m gonna have two kids getting called up to the minors after next season. Isn’t that a hoot?” Dad unfolds his napkin before tucking it into his shirt. “I mean, it’s not great to lose two great players for the following season’s prospects, but it could definitely help with recruiting if the players see potential to move up the ranks and—” Dad stops abruptly when Mom drops the plate of food—drenched in way too much gravy to be edible—in front of him with a plop.
Dad looks up. “Pammy?”
I smile on the inside at Dad’s nickname for Mom. He uses it so rarely these days.
“You know what, Bob?” Mom snaps. “If you had been home on time, you would know your one and only kid, who is obviously not as important to you since she’s not getting called up to the minors, was busy calling up someone herself.”
“What’da you mean, not important to me?” Dad yanks his napkin off and tosses it down on the table before pushing his gravy ladled plate away from him. “I resent that,” he barks. “Now, I can’t come home and be excited about my job, or my players?” He throws his hands in the air, the way he has a million times before when he’s had enough of their bickering back and forth. “Is there anything I can do right these days?”
“I don’t know, Bob? Can you do anything right? Where’s Emily’s cake? In the car? Or— let me guess—you forgot to pick it up?” Mom plants her hands on her hips, her jaw set. Clearly she’s had enough, too. “Did you even remember it was her birthday?”
For the first time since walking in, Dad looks up and really sees me. With regret written all over his face, he doesn’t even say anything about my hair. He knows he’s in the doghouse. He did forget. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
Offering up a small smile, despite feeling a lump rise in my throat, I shake my head to let him know it’s okay—things happen.
“See,” Mom snips. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.”
Dad pushes away from the table and stands. “You know what, Pam? I have a lot on my plate right now trying to devise a plan to get the team to the playoffs next season, hiring a new batting coach, and working with a slashed budget. So give me some slack, why don’t you,” Dad fires back. “I’m not perfect, but then again, you’d never let me think otherwise these days, now would you?”
“Dad, it’s no big deal,” I say, trying to defuse the tension and figure out a way to get their focus and anger back on me. “We’ll just get cake tomorrow night, or the next. Whichever.” I shrug, hoping this will do the trick.
“Don’t you start with this again, Emily.” Mom narrows her eyes, giving me ‘the look.’
There we go.
“What’s going on?” Dad asks Mom, before turning to me and blowing out a deep breath. “What’d you do now?” He slumps back into the chair and waits for the play by play. This isn’t the first time this year he’s come home to find Mom furious at me for something I pulled earlier in the day.
“Besides dying her hair to look like a streetwalker?” Mom shoots her arm out and gestures in my general direction. I roll my eyes. It’s not that bad. “Your daughter also decided it would be a good idea to call up Camp Champ today and impersonate me, lying about a family emergency that would keep her from going this year.”
Dad runs his hand down his face. “Emily, when is all this going to stop?”
A pang of guilt pierces my heart. I don’t know. Not as long as it keeps working.
“I’m sorry, but, Dad, camp is for little kids. And it’s my last summer before college starts—I want to spend it with my friends,” I say, leaving out the truth. I don’t think their marriage will survive without me being a distraction all summer long.
“Maybe some fresh air—and some new friends—is just what you need to stop this ridiculous behavior of yours,” Mom says, crossing her arms, no maybes about it.
But Dad looks torn. Yes.
“I don’t know, Pam. Maybe we should consider not sending her this year. She’s right, it is her last summer. And just think of the money we’ll save,” he adds, trying to reason with Mom’s frugal side, as he shoots me a smile like we’re in this together—even though I’m pretty sure he’s only on my side because he feels guilty for forgetting my birthday. But whatever. I’ll take it.
Mom undoes her apron and tosses it on the counter. “I cannot believe you right now,” she yells. “You want to reward our daughter after she was caught lying? And what about commitment to your obligations, huh? Or is that little life lesson only for your players?”
Dad winces as Mom throws one of his infamous ‘Coach Bob speeches’ about commitment and obligation to yourself and your teammates back in his face.
“Emily committed to being a junior counselor this year, and she shou
ld have to honor that commitment.”
“But, Dad—”
“No,” he says sternly, cutting me off. “Your mother’s right.”
I glance at Mom as a faint smile crosses her lips and I take a deep breath. Dad said the magic words; ‘your mother’s right.’
“You need a serious attitude adjustment and maybe camp is exactly where you’ll find it. So, if I were you, young lady, I would get to my room and start packing.”
“But—” I whine, turning to Mom, knowing exactly what she’ll say.
Come on, Mom. Don’t let me down.
“You heard your father.”
Bingo.
…
With my ear pressed up against the small crack in my bedroom door, I can’t make out exactly what my parents are saying all the way down the hall, but they’re definitely not fighting anymore, so I consider it a home run.
Well, except I’m still stuck going to camp, and that’s one obstacle both my parents’ marriage and my summer plans might not survive.
I shut the door to my bedroom, before snatching my phone from the bottom of my purse. Dialing, I slide off the edge of the bed to the floor, right next to the extra large duffle bag Mom left in my room. Subtle.
“Hey, you almost ready?” Kat asks when she answers, music blaring in the background.
“Change of plans. Camp called.”
“Nooooooo.”
“Yes.”
“So, are you like grounded for life?”
“Worse. They’re still making me go.”
Kat’s music quiets. “I’m sorry, Em…but maybe it will be good? I mean, maybe your parents just need some time alone to work things out,” she says softly, knowing as well as I do how unlikely that is to happen. “And maybe they aren’t the only ones who need some alone time,” her tone lightens and I can hear her smile, or maybe I just know her too well. “I bet some alone time with Todd-the-Bod’s abs would do you some good, too.” She laughs.
“Yeah, maybe.” I shrug, feeling defeated. Even Kaitlin’s attempt at cheering me up with the idea of Todd’s abs can’t lift my spirits.
Maybe what I need to do is to stop causing problems so they’ll keep fighting against me and not each other, and finally come to terms that my family is falling apart. No matter what I do.
Resigned, I unzip the duffle bag I haven’t used since last summer, and at the very bottom, tucked deep into the corner, a patch of red catches my eye. I dig down, the duffle bag swallowing my arm momentarily, before yanking out my bright red color war tee-shirt from last year. It’s covered, front to back, in the sharpie marker signatures of all my bunkmates, our team motto in bold black letters across the back. Never give up.
“Em? You okay?” Kaitlin asks, sounding worried. “You know I was just kidding about the abs thing, right? I was only trying to make you laugh.”
I hop up from the floor. An idea forming in my mind. Never give up.
“No… I mean…yeah. It was funny, and I’m fine, I swear.” I am now. I smile. “Pick me up in twenty, kay?” I say before hanging up.
I have no time to waste as I stuff the duffle bag with every tank, tee, and pair of shorts I own, before tossing my color war tee-shirt on top.
I won’t give up on my family, or my plan. Just because they send me to camp doesn’t mean I have to stay there.
I can already hear them yelling at me. Together.
Chapter 4
Tyler
At the edge of campus, I round the corner onto my street and stop as I take in the sea of people crowding my front yard.
The party.
I shake my head with a smile, having completely spaced. This is exactly what I need after the two finals I had today and the talk with Coach.
A twinge of guilt, the same one I get on the rare occasions I do let loose hits me in the gut. Tommy. I swallow hard, reminding myself I am not my brother. Taking a night off from planning and studying and following the rules to have some fun is not actually going to ruin my future.
“Yo, Ty,” Pete calls out, leaning against the door jamb, a beer already in his hand. “It’s about time, dude.”
Weaving through the crowd while the sound of hip hop blares from the living room speakers—now sitting on the front porch—I try to avoid the empty cans already littering the front yard and make my way up the concrete steps. “Yeah, well, one of us had actual classes to take, and finals to pass…dude,” I snatch the beer from Pete’s hand, twist the top, and take a swig.
“Yeah, well, not everyone can be as gifted as me.” Pete laughs, then reaches behind him and pulls out another beer from his back pocket. Gifted is right.
“You do know General Studies is the easiest degree you can get, right? I wouldn’t be calling Mensa anytime soon, bro.”
Pete clinks his bottle against mine and smiles. “I managed to take three pass/fail classes and only one class with an actual final this semester. So, who’s the dummy now, Dr. Ford?”
I laugh. He has a point.
“Touché.”
Pete tosses his arm around my neck as we walk into the house and towards the kitchen. “Dude, save the French for the ladies, because right now, we speak nothing but All-American.”
“You mean English, dude. We speak English.”
“Nope. I mean All-American. As in, the great American pastime, brother!” Pete shouts as we turn the corner into the kitchen and are assaulted by a steady spray of beer being tossed, shaken and poured all over us.
Completely drenched in cold suds I wipe the froth from my eyes to find the entire baseball team cheering for me and Pete.
“Let me guess—you talked to Coach?” I ask Pete, who is now pouring his own beer over his head, laughing.
“Hell, yes, I talked to Coach, and we’re going to the big leagues, man,” Pete yells, throwing his hand in the air and giving me a high five.
“More like the minors but…close enough.” I laugh at the insanity of it all before lifting my own beer over my head and letting it rain down, temporarily washing away the stress of what I should do. I deserve at least that since school is done for the year. I have the entire summer to decide between going to the minors or continuing to pursue med school.
Tonight, with my best friend, I’m going to soak in the excited shouts of congratulations from my teammates, and let loose, the best I know how.
…
Pete’s shirt is still soaked and sticking to him when I come back down from taking a shower and changing into clothes that don’t smell like a brewery anymore. “You showering?”
“What’s the point, dude? I plan on spilling at least a half-a-dozen more drinks on myself before the end of the night.”
“Good goal.” I shake my head, cracking open an import and letting the cool drink quench my thirst.
“Forget that…I have a new goal,” Pete says, staring at the front door. “I want that cute blonde over there spilled all over me tonight.”
I choke on my sip of beer. Only Pete. And in all probability, he’ll succeed too.
I glance over his shoulder to check out the unsuspecting co-ed who’s about to be swooning over our star pitcher and I’m not surprised by the look of her. She’s totally his type. A leggy blonde.
“Dude, at least let her get in the door before pouncing.”
“And let Jacobson snag her? No way,” Pete says before taking off towards the door, swiping two of my imports from the case on his way.
I set my bottle down on the edge of the pool table and start to rack the balls when he returns with the girl and her friend, his arm already slung over the blonde’s shoulder.
“Ladies, my friend Tyler. Tyler, the ladies.” Pete picks up a pool stick and hands it to the girl under his wing. “How about a game of two on two?” Pete winks, and the girl—as expected—giggles. I swear his stats off the mound are as impressive as his stats on it.
“I’m Kaitlin, and this is Emily,” the blonde says, nodding to the girl standing next to her wearing a short black leather jack
et over an even shorter black dress. Even with a pair of sky-high red heels that perfectly match the dyed tips of her light brown hair, it’s the tiny silver star jewel just to the right of her eye, sitting high on her cheek, that catches my attention. I tilt my head, recognition gnawing at me as I take her in.
No. I shake my head. I’d definitely remember a girl like her. I down a deep pull of my drink, thankful Pete’s into blondes and not brunettes, because she is smoking.
“How about you make it a game of strip pool, and we’re in,” the blonde girl named Kaitlin says, causing Pete’s jaw to drop. Considering every party we have, Pete tries to rally a game of strip pool, I think he just met his match, or maybe his future wife.
Sharing a look with one another, the girls laugh and for a brief moment I wonder if we’re about to be swindled. They both seem way too confident at the prospect of playing a game of strip pool in the middle of a raging party. Too bad they have no idea that Pete’s a money shot.
This should be fun.
“You’re on.” Pete grabs the pool stick from the top of the table, trying to hide his confident smile. “Guys against girls?”
“Obviously,” Kaitlin purrs, taking the stick out of Pete’s hand and giving him a wink before handing the pool stick to her friend. “We’ll break.”
I can’t help but stare as the girl named Emily leans over the table and lines the tip of the pool stick with the cue-ball. She pulls back, strokes the stick, and then looks up and locks eyes with me before letting the stick shoot forward and sending the cue-ball barreling towards the other balls. With a crack, the brightly colored balls, which were racked neatly in a tight triangle, fly in all directions and drop into multiple pockets. Oh shit.
We’re the ones getting swindled. And she totally caught me staring.
“We call solids. Now take’em off boys.” Kaitlin beams at her friend before leaning against the table with her arms crossed, waiting for us to remove an item of clothing.
I glance at Emily, as she plants the pool stick on the ground, cocks her hip to the side and smirks at me, her dark-rimmed eyes shining.