THROWN
A CURVE
a novel
SARA GRIFFITHS
Copyright 2007 by Sara Griffiths
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote passages in a review.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Bancroft Press (“Books that enlighten”)
P.O. Box 65360, Baltimore, MD 21209
800-637-7377
410-764-1967 (fax)
www.bancroftpress.com
Cover illustration, design, and interior design:
Tammy Sneath Grimes, Crescent Communications
www.tsgcrescent.com • 814.941.7447
ISBN: (ePub)978-1-61088-035-0
ISBN: 1890862487 (cloth)
EAN: 978-1-890862-48-0 (cloth)
LCCN: 2006938837
ISBN: 1890862-49-5 (paperback)
EAN: 978-1-890862-49-7 (paperback)
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
1 3 5 9 10 8 6 4 2
TO JAMIE AND BEN
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Praise
CHAPTER 1
I sat alone in the high school principal’s small office, waiting for my punishment. I leaned my elbows on the desk and covered my face with my hands. Why had I done it? What had I been thinking? How had I gotten to this low point in my life? I was a juvenile delinquent at age fourteen.
I’d never done anything wrong before. This was the first time I’d ever been inside a school principal’s office. It was all my dad’s fault. If he didn’t hate me, if he hadn’t said what he’d said, I wouldn’t be here. I sighed and tried to remember better days, when my life was just about playing games, like baseball . . .
When I was seven years old, my father bought season tickets to the Yankees’ home baseball games. Having lived in New York his whole life, he was a loyal fan. He purchased two seats for each game. One ticket was always for himself, and the other ticket rotated between my two brothers. Brian was four years older than me, and Danny two years younger. Dad never put me in the rotation, and I never asked him to. I thought it was just a father-son thing.
When my brother Brian tried out for Little League that year, I sat in the bleachers, eating handfuls of Swedish fish, stretching their little bodies as far as I could before gulping them down. I watched the other fathers, looking thrilled and hopeful, cheering on their sons. My dad encouraged Brian, but he looked even more intense than the other fathers.
After several hours of watching Brian try out, I wandered onto the playground, took a few rides down the slide, and considered joining some of my classmates in a round of Double Dutch. But then one of the Little Leaguers hit a ball out of the park. It flew toward the playground, hit the ground, and rolled to a stop in front of me. I stared at the baseball’s stitches. Its strange pattern put me in a trance that seemed to last for days. I’d never really thrown a baseball.
“Throw it back!” a coach yelled to me.
I picked up the ball and hurled it with all my might. It sailed over the fence, over the coach, over second base, and hit the pitcher in the head. Oops. I ran back to the playground, hoping no one had seen me.
On the ride home, I sat on the hump in the car’s backseat, squished between Brian and Danny. I kept thinking about throwing that baseball. I wondered if I could be as good as my brothers.
“Brian, you did a good job out there today,” my dad said. “Let’s go out for ice cream.”
As we were downing our sundaes at the ice cream parlor, my younger brother Danny said, “You can throw real good, Taylor. Daddy said so.”
Back then, I thought my father knew everything. If he’d seen me throw that ball and thought it was good, then he was right. He was always right. But if I was good, why hadn’t he told me so himself?
Later that night, I sat by my dad’s feet as he napped on the couch and watched Tom Brokaw talk about the news in the Middle East.
“Hey, Dad?” I said.
“What?”
“I think I’ll play baseball this summer, too.”
Looking confused, he said nothing. He hadn’t said much since my mother left us. And that had been two years ago.
Only one local baseball team had been willing to take a seven-year-old girl—the Hawks. Their assistant coach was the nurse at my elementary school, and I only made the team because she’d gone on and on with the head coach about women’s rights and other stuff I really hadn’t understood. She promised to look out for me. Back then, I wasn’t aware anyone needed to “look out for me.”
I wanted to be a pitcher because Dad said I had a good arm. But the coaches put me in center field.
“You can make that long throw from center to home,” Ms. Miller said, “and you’re too wild on the mound.”
I had a good summer playing with the Hawks. I loved playing baseball. When I was out there on the field, I was so happy. It was weird how something so simple could make me feel so good.
The boys on the team hadn’t cared I was a girl, but the parents had. They made comments to my father when he picked me up after games. He just waved, nodded, and blew smoke rings from his cigar.
Dad never saw any of my games because Brian’s games were always at the same time on Field Seven. My brother Brian was an excellent baseball player—his batting average was .297.
I thought I could’ve played better baseball if my dad had come to watch me. I wished he would sit in my stands, even once. I always looked for him, and when he wasn’t there, it was hard not to cry. I kept thinking, maybe if I became a really good pitcher, never let any batters on base, and won the championship for my team, he’d come one day.
With this in mind, I practiced every chance I got. Once, I pitched to Brian in the empty lot behind our house. He whiffed at three of my pitches in a row.
“You throw too high, Taylor!” Brian screamed.
He swung at them, I thought to myself. But he was eleven, and I was only seven, so I guessed he was right. Dad watched from the back porch, not saying anything. He just looked down, turned, and walked back into the house.
The next three summers, my dad sent me to my Aunt Maria’s house in Cape May, New Jersey to help out with her bed and breakfast. Aunt Maria, my dad’s sister, was widowed, and the only thing she knew about baseball was that the kids’ baseball field in town was too far away, and she didn’t have time to drive me there. She wanted me to take dance lessons at the nearby studio, but I hung around the beach instead.
I hadn’t understood why my dad would send me away during the summer baseball season. I missed playing summer league and being home with my brothers and my dad, but I figured my aunt did need a hand. My one hope was playing fall ball when I got home.
Some nights at Cape May, I played wiffleball on the beach with different kids who were on vacation. One day, I’d seen a family playing a game with real bats and balls. I was excited when I noticed they had gloves and bases,
too, and even a makeshift pitcher’s mound.
“Do you need an extra player?” I asked, eager to participate.
“Sure, you can play outfield,” said the man, who I assumed was the dad.
“Ugh. Outfield. What else is new?” I mumbled under my breath, frowning.
“Unless you want to be the pitcher,” he said, sensing my disappointment at being directed to the outfield.
Darn right I wanted to be the pitcher. No one got a hit the first inning, or the second. By the third inning, the twins in the outfield sat down. By the end of the fourth inning, I again was asked to play outfield.
That had been the summer before I entered fifth grade. It was also before I realized my dad hated me.
After my first day as a fifth grader, I came home and headed toward my dad’s office. I was going to tell him about my boring day and ask him to drive me to fall baseball practice. I heard him on the phone, so I stopped outside the door and listened. That’s when I heard it—the thing I should never have heard.
“Yeah, Charlie, uh-huh,” he said. “It’s just so embarrassing . . . having my daughter on the team instead of Brian . . . I’m the laughing stock of the office. The wrong kid got the right gift.”
I stood frozen in the doorway. I didn’t hear anything my dad said after that. Why would he have said that? The wrong kid? Why wasn’t I the right kid? I felt my whole world come crashing down on me. I was like a building imploding on itself—so my life consisted only of dust and wreckage. If that was the way my father really felt about me, then I’d stop playing baseball.
More importantly, I think I stopped believing in anything.
CHAPTER 2
There comes a day in all kids’ lives when they suddenly start seeing the bad things in the world—the evil that has been lurking around them. For me, that day was when I heard my father say those words. After that, my whole attitude changed. It felt like dark clouds permanently loomed over my head, following me wherever I went. I lost interest in baseball, in talking to people, and in getting up early to see the morning sunshine. I became a sunglass-wearing, drag-me-out-of-bed kind of girl. I wanted to fade into the walls of my bedroom, never to be heard from again. I figured my whole life until then had been a lie. And the truth hurt.
School was the worst. Girls made me nervous because they’d formed cliques by the time we were in middle school, and I hadn’t fit into any of them. I wasn’t smart, but I wasn’t dumb. I didn’t wear make-up or tight clothes, but I didn’t dress like a rebellious ghoul, either. I was somewhere in the middle, which to me felt like somewhere on the outside. I was removed from the field and forced to sit in the nosebleed seats—a spectator in my own life. Where was the clique for girls whose fathers hated them? Or for girls who didn’t want to get out of bed in the morning? Where did I fit in?
I realized I wasn’t just a kid—I was a girl, which was the worst curse of all for a ball player. I thought about baseball every day. It wasn’t the actual game I missed, but the feeling I had when I was playing.
The middle school years flew by, and I found myself a freshman in high school. I was uncomfortable in my own body. My brown hair was stringy and just sort of hung there, and I felt clumsy and uncoordinated. I even had to buy a bra, though my chest was as flat as my back. But I didn’t want to be the only girl in the locker room not wearing a bra.
As a timid, self-conscious freshman, I didn’t have many friends, so I spent my free time reading. Sometimes I read the novels the teachers assigned, but most of the time, I read sci-fi books about people with super powers. They were more interesting than reality. Reading books was a good way for me to hide from the world. I was so shy, I’d sometimes cut class and hide out in the library. Certain classes, such as Home Ec, required working in groups, and some days I wasn’t in the mood to socialize. If it was Oral Report Day in English class, I’d be sure to skip. The high school librarian was old, and the stacks were over-stuffed with books, so by the time she figured out I was there in her library, the period was over. And teachers didn’t seem to care when a quiet student cut class once in a while.
I hung out with a few guys because they were easier to be with than girls. Girls always made me feel inadequate, as if there was something wrong with me because I didn’t care about shopping or which football player was hosting next weekend’s party.
My only true friend was Justin Kennedy, a kid I’d known since I was five. His mother worked with my father. Justin was a junior in high school, so he was two years older than me. He was tall, even for a sixteen-year-old, and had longish brown hair. He hung out with the skateboarders, but he didn’t have their slacker attitude. Justin was a really smart guy and accepted anyone as his friend. He always let me hang out with him and never made me feel uncomfortable. We’d known each other for years, so it was a given that we’d be friends. If it weren’t for Justin, I probably wouldn’t have made it through school. He was the only person who really understood me, and the only one who believed in me.
A couple days ago, Justin and his friends decided to go to the high school spring carnival. I didn’t have anything better to do, so I tagged along.
Besides me and Justin, the usual three guys were with us: Ray, Adam, and Tommy. They were all juniors, same as Justin. Ray, a big tough guy, had a shaved head and a bad nicotine habit. Adam was basically Ray’s wannabe and always carried a pack of cigarettes so Ray could bum them. Tommy had dyed black hair, and a skateboard in his hand at all times. He was a good skater, so we always dared him to do tricky stuff.
The carnival, which was in the dirt parking lot across from the high school, was full of the usual cheesy rides and games, including a Ferris wheel that looked as if it would break down at any moment. The jocks were decked out in heavy cologne and varsity jackets, trailed by giggling girls who wore belly shirts that said stuff like “hottie” or “trouble.”
Stacy Downbaer, sporting a tight white shirt, claimed she was a “heartbreaker.” She and I had hated each other since elementary school. It probably had something to do with the fact that she looked like a Cover Girl model, and I looked like a ten-year-old boy.
Justin and I were devouring a funnel cake when we spotted her at the “baseball throw” booth. Stacy was squealing to her boyfriend, Rick Bratton, “Win me the pink bunny, Ricky!” Stacy was a freshman, like me, but she thought she was Queen of the Universe because she was dating Rick, a junior and the most popular varsity baseball player in school.
“What kind of ‘throw’ game is this?” I said under my breath to Justin. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
Giggling in his best “Stacy” voice, Justin said, “If you win it for me, I’ll bounce up and down some more in my tight shirt.”
“You two got a problem?” Rick asked, turning toward us.
Stacy glared at the two of us, her face all scrunched up. Then she put her arm around Rick. “Just ignore the skater scum and his lesbian hag,” she said haughtily. “Win me the pink bunny.”
Lesbian? Why had she said that? I felt my face growing hot with embarrassment. Was that what everyone thought—that just because I didn’t spend hours fixing my hair and didn’t wear trendy clothes that actually fit me, I must be a lesbian? I hated when people used that word anyway. I wanted to lunge at Stacy and rub her face in the dirt. That small-minded peon! Who did she think she was?
I stepped toward Stacy, but Justin grabbed my arm.
“Let it go, Taylor,” he said.
“I’m just going to rip out all her blonde hair, and then I’ll be back,” I muttered.
Still holding my arm, Justin said, “Wait, I have an idea.” Just then, for the third straight time, Rick failed to win the pink bunny.
“Oh, boo,” Stacy said.
“Want another three tries?” Mr. Sacamore asked from behind the booth’s counter. I knew he was the hippie guidance counselor, but I’d never talked to him before.
That’s when Justin spoke up. “I’ll take three balls!” he said, walking up and paying his do
llar. He took the three tattered baseballs and stepped toward me. Then, putting the baseballs in my hand, and jumping up and down, he squealed, Stacy-like: “The pink bunny, Taylor! Pleeeaaassee.”
“I’m not doing this,” I whispered to him, gritting my teeth.
“Why not?” He looked at me with sad eyes. “Because you know you can? Just do it, Taylor. Do it for me and the guys. I know you can. I remember seeing you throw balls in the yard when we were younger. You’re good.”
I hated the thought of anyone watching me and labeling me. If I won, what would they think? If I lost, what would they think? Struggling with those thoughts, I stood still for what seemed like hours. I gripped the ball tightly and ran my fingers over the stitches, like a blind person trying to read Braille. Strangely, the feel of the ball in my hand calmed me.
I approached the throwing line in front of the booth as if someone else were controlling my body.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Mr. Sacamore said.
I had three balls to knock down the three silver bottles. Each bottle was about a foot apart on the rickety shelf. There was no room for error. I placed two of the balls on the ground beside me. Holding the first in my right hand, I stared at bottle number one.
“Just throw it, girlie!” someone yelled from behind me.
I brought the ball back slowly, staring at my target, and then released it with all my might. Smash! The bottle fell, spinning to the ground. The crowd was silent.
“That’s one!” Mr. Sacamore announced proudly. I leaned down and picked up the second ball. I brought my arm back, and down went the second bottle.
With the third ball in my hand, I hurled it at the remaining bottle. The bottle not only fell, but immediately broke into pieces of glass.
“Holy crap!” Even Ray, tough guy that he was, covered his mouth in awe.
I walked toward Mr. Sacamore. “The big pink bunny, please,” I said, pointing to it with a shaky hand.
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