Thrown a Curve

by Sara Griffiths

  He handed the bunny to me, his mouth gaping open. “We have a big winner,” he said as I walked away with my prize.

  Justin practically hopped up and down like a bunny himself as I handed him the fluffy pink nightmare. “You’re my hero,” he said, grinning.

  “Can we get out of here now?” I asked, pushing my way through the crowd.

  “Whatever you say,” Justin answered.

  As we left the carnival, I was feeling . . . Actually, I didn’t know how I was feeling. At first, I’d been angry and embarrassed, but now I felt like hugging Justin and kicking his bony butt at the same time.

  “That was so awesome what you did back there,” Ray said. “You made that jock look like an idiot. How’d you learn to throw like that, Taylor? You don’t throw like a girl.”

  I didn’t answer him. The truth was, I didn’t know what to say. I guessed my dad or my big brother had taught me how to throw, but I had no recollection of being shown. When I’d played baseball, I’d figured it was something I was born being able to do.

  “We have to hit up some more school carnivals,” Ray said to Justin, patting him on the back. “Maybe we could even swindle some cash out of a few jocks next time.”

  All of a sudden, I felt the need to get away from everyone. I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened with Stacy at the carnival. She had been annoying me since second grade. I may have been an ugly, scrawny geek, but I didn’t have to take crap from her. Her curvy body, long pretty blonde hair with highlights, and perfect cheekbones made me so angry. She was the girl all the guys drooled over, while I was just some girl who could throw. And now I’d have to go to school on Monday, and everyone would be talking about me. “Hey, did you hear about that weird girl—I’m not sure what her name is—who threw a baseball better than Rick?” I couldn’t stand the thought of people saying those things about me.

  As we crossed the next street, I started running. Ignoring the yells from the guys, I kept running until I was in my backyard. Out of breath, I slumped down on the ground. I sat there and cried for a long time, thinking about how strange I felt every minute of every day. I didn’t belong anywhere. My family ignored me. School was a black pit of despair. My arms were too long for my body . . . I didn’t know who I was.

  Confused about my life and identity, I walked into the house and yelled “hello.” No answer. Everyone was probably still at Danny’s ball game. I opened the fridge, thinking I’d feel better if I ate, but nothing looked appetizing. I closed the door and leaned against the counter.

  The kitchen was a mess—as usual. No one had taken out the trash or the recycling. Soda cans and beer cans were stacked next to the sink. I guess Dad was sending me a message—that it was my turn to take out the garbage. But if he was going to come home and drink beer, he should have been the one to throw the cans away.

  I pushed a few cans into the sink, feeling pissed. The cans had weird labels on them with words I couldn’t pronounce. My Uncle Ted visited us every few months and always brought my father beer from countries he’d visited on business. “Here’s a little something to help you get through the tough days,” Uncle Ted always said.

  I picked up one of the cans and stared at it. I wondered if it really did help people get through bad days. Justin always said drinking was for morons and made people stupid. But, at that moment, I didn’t mind thinking less smartly. My problem—or at least part of it—was that I couldn’t stop thinking.

  I went back to the fridge and opened the door. A six-pack of beer was on the top shelf. I stared at it for a moment, then closed the door, but I didn’t let go of the handle. My dad wouldn’t miss it. I was fourteen—other kids my age drank. I opened the door again, grabbed the six-pack, and walked out the back door toward the lake behind the high school. I heard the school carnival winding down across the field. Stupid carnival.

  Settling myself down against a big oak tree, I opened the second can—I’d finished the first one while walking there. I’d never drunk alcohol before, and I didn’t know why I did it then. I suppose I just needed something to do besides throwing a baseball with all my might or trying to fit in with people who considered me an alien.

  By the fourth can, I found myself standing by the school’s front door. I don’t remember much more of that night, except for Justin walking me—more like carrying me—back home.

  “Come on, Taylor, we have to get out of here,” I remembered him saying, the faint sound of sirens wailing in the background.

  The next day, which was a Sunday, I was awakened by the sound of my phone ringing—loudly. I covered my head with a pillow, hoping the annoying sound would stop. It kept ringing.

  I bent over and picked up the phone from among my clothes piled on the floor. “Hello?” I said groggily.

  “Taylor, it’s Justin. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay . . . except for the banging inside my head.”

  “What happened last night?” Justin asked. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “I know. I’m sorry if I freaked you out . . . I know how you feel about drinking and stuff. Sorry you had to take care of me.”

  “Taking care of you is part of being your friend, idiot. What I’m concerned about is your butt getting thrown in jail.”

  “Why? Did someone see me drinking?” Justin’s words had jolted me awake.

  “I don’t know if anyone saw you drinking,” he said, “but someone probably saw you throwing bricks through the windows of the new science lab at school!”

  I held my breath. “What are you talking about, Justin?” I got out of bed and went to look out my window, as if I was being watched.

  “I guess you don’t remember that part, huh, booze hag?”

  I paced around the room and said, “You saw me do that? I, uh, don’t remem—” Then it came to me. I stood still, remembering the pile of leftover bricks from the new gym . . . the shiny new glass windows in the science lab . . . the anger . . . feeling better watching the glass shatter . . . Was any of that true? I thought it had been a dream. I panicked. I had to go see for myself.

  “Justin, I have to go.”

  “Wait, T,” he said just before I hung up. I quickly threw on my sweats and sneakers, and sprinted over to school.

  When I arrived, two police officers were in front, talking to Mr. Sacamore, the guidance counselor, and Mrs. Sullivan, the principal. I ducked across the street and hid behind the trees.

  “Out for an early run, Superwoman?”

  I turned to see Rick, jogging up the sidewalk toward me.

  “Yeah,” I stammered. Oh, God. Of all the people I did not need to talk to right then, he was at the top of the list.

  Rick slowed his pace, looked at me, then nodded toward the school. “Someone must have had a pretty good arm to reach those second floor windows,” he said, sprinting away.

  If the cops knew I’d thrown the bricks, why hadn’t they come for me Saturday night? Did Rick really know it was me? I watched the policemen shake hands with the administrators and then get in their squad car. They did not turn on their sirens. I breathed a sigh of relief as they turned out of the school driveway, heading in the opposite direction of my house. I was safe—for the moment at least.

  The rest of that day, I hid in my room, nursing my headache, and periodically peeking out the window. I was waiting for the police to show up, and waiting for my dad to bang on my bedroom door and scream at me.

  But the cops never came, and, as usual, my dad never knocked.

  CHAPTER 3

  Early Monday morning, when I entered the school building, I noticed that the broken windows were covered with silver duct tape and cardboard. I tried to ignore it—most kids ignored stuff like that. The adults were the ones who noticed, shook their heads, and said, “What’s happening to today’s youth?”

  I assumed I’d gotten away with my vandalism because the police hadn’t come to my house. And I was feeling safe, at least from the law, while I was failing my Algebra quiz during se
cond period math class. Oh, what a sweet pleasure I got from screwing up another math quiz. I could’ve studied yesterday while lying low in my bedroom, but I didn’t. I was so dumb.

  In the middle of the quiz, the classroom door opened, and Mr. Horner, the Dean of Discipline, stepped inside.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Miss Griffin,” he said. “I need a moment with one of your students.”

  Oh, no. This was it. The hammer was about to drop. My luck had run out.

  “No problem,” Miss Griffin answered.

  “Taylor Dresden,” he said, scanning the room because he wasn’t sure who I was. I looked up quickly, and he caught my eye. “Please come with me.”

  Oh, crap. They knew.

  Mr. Horner marched me toward the office, past the secretary’s desk, and into a small square room, which I assumed was the principal’s office. The room had only one window and smelled like a musty basement. The walls and the floor were made of gray cement. Great. I was in the school’s jail. “Wait here,” Mr. Horner said, quickly closing the door behind him.

  I sat down and put my head in my hands . . . Dad was going to kill me.

  I ran my fingers through my stringy hair and tugged at the roots. Tears bubbled up in my eyes, but I blinked them back. Look innocent. Maybe it’s not about the windows.

  Like a trapped animal, I sat alone with my thoughts, with the anger I felt toward my father, and with the building disgust I felt about myself. This wasn’t the real me. The real me wouldn’t drink and destroy property. Who had I become?

  Eventually, Mr. Sacamore, the peace-loving guidance counselor, entered the room. He was wearing his usual hippie outfit—blue jeans, a checkered flannel shirt, and those weird leather sandals of his. Everyone, including me, thought he was a weirdo. He always had a five o’clock shadow, and today, he smelled like the outdoors did right before it snowed, like clean air mixed with pine trees. I wondered what had happened to Mr. Horner.

  “Taylor Dresden, I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Mr. Sacamore,” he said, extending his hand. I shook it, but I was confused by the nice-guy act.

  “I have some good news and some bad news for you,” he said, sitting down and opening a manila folder. “Which do you want first—the good or the bad?”

  “I guess . . . the bad,” I answered.

  “All right then, here it comes. I saw what you did Saturday night after the carnival,” he said calmly, sitting back and folding his hands in front of him.

  “Oh,” was all I could manage to say.

  He looked at me and waited.

  “I guess I’m in trouble, huh?” I said.

  “That depends, Taylor. You see, I’m the only one who saw you throw those bricks. And here comes the good news for you. I didn’t report you to the authorities.”

  “You mean the police?”

  “Exactly. I decided we could keep this between the two of us, but with a few conditions.”

  “Suspension?” I asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  I squirmed in my seat. What was he planning to do to me? Whatever it was, I just hoped his plan didn’t include telling my father.

  “What, then?” I asked, not really wanting to hear his response.

  “Well, there are two parts of my plan for you, Taylor. One involves you helping out the school. The other involves you helping yourself out.”

  “Okay,” I said, confused.

  “The first thing I need to know, though, is do you think you need help?”

  “With what?” I asked.

  “Anything,” he said.

  “I guess my grades need some help,” I said, wondering what he was fishing for.

  “That’s it?”

  I shrugged.

  “What about how you feel about yourself? Do you feel good about yourself? Are you happy?”

  No one had ever asked me that before. I was definitely not happy. I was downright miserable. But what did that have to do with me vandalizing the school? I sat in the old office chair and stared at my hands. Why should I tell this guy if I was happy or not? It wasn’t as if he could change the way I felt.

  “I guess I feel fine,” I said, looking at the floor.

  “Well, maybe I should start by explaining my plan. Let me begin by saying you have a choice. You can go along with my punishment, or you can decide not to, in which case I will turn you over to the police. Okay?”

  “Yeah, okay,” I answered.

  “First, I would like to meet with you on a regular basis,” Sacamore said. “I’d like to get to know you, talk with you . . . that sort of thing. How about coming to my office every Friday during study hall?”

  “Uh . . . okay,” I said. I guessed he wanted to do some sort of therapy with me. At least it was better than telling my dad or going to jail.

  “And there’s also a second part,” said Sacamore. “I figure you owe something to this school, because you broke those expensive new windows, right?” He looked at me expectantly.

  “Yeah, I guess so.” I wondered where he was going with this.

  “So, one of the things the school needs is help in the Athletic Department.”

  “You want me to clean the gym equipment or something?”

  “No. What the Athletic Department could really use is a winning baseball season. They haven’t had one in a long time.”

  “So, what does that have to do with me?” I said skeptically.

  “They need a strong pitcher. I’ve decided that you’ll pitch for them.”

  I snorted out a laugh. Was this guy a lunatic? He must’ve thought I was someone else. Then I got defensive.

  “That doesn’t make sense, Mr. Sacamore. Number one, I don’t play baseball. Number two, the team is for boys.” I sounded like I was pleading with him to change his mind, but a part of me was strangely excited. I missed playing baseball. The sport was so easy for me, and everything else was so hard and complicated. But my fear of humiliation took hold of me, and I said, “Isn’t there something else I could do to help the school?”

  “Your other option is a ride in a squad car,” he said firmly.

  I spit out the words in a final plea, “But . . . I’m a girl.”

  “There’s no rule against girls being on the baseball team. They’ve just never tried out before.”

  “I haven’t played on a team since I was little, when I was like eight years old,” I protested.

  “Listen, Taylor, relax. I saw you knock down those bottles at the carnival. You’re a natural. Tryouts start Thursday after school. I’ll let the coaches know you’re coming.”

  Desperately, I asked, “What if I don’t make the team?”

  “If you try your best at tryouts, and they cut you, then we’ll come up with a new plan.”

  I sat there, dumbfounded. The bell rang for third period.

  “Hurry along now, so you won’t miss any more class time,” Mr. Sacamore said, ushering me to the door. “Remember, Thursday, after school, in the gym. I’ll be watching.”

  I walked slowly back to class. I felt numb from what had just happened. I guessed I should be happy I wasn’t going to the slammer for the rest of my high school years . . . but baseball?

  For the past six years, I’d tried so hard to not think about baseball. When my dad or brothers watched games on TV, I avoided the family room. And I never went to any of Danny’s Little League games. Heck, I even pretended I had cramps when it was baseball day in gym class. Now, this whacked-out guidance counselor wanted me to play. What a sick, twisted turn of events!

  I entered third period five minutes late.

  “Taylor, do you have a pass?” Ms. Clark asked as I walked slowly to my seat.

  “No, I was in the office,” I answered.

  “If you cannot produce a pass, I will see you after school,” she said in a matter-of-fact, case-closed kind of voice. She turned back to the class. “Let’s open up to page nineteen in our novel.”

  Great. An after-school detention—just what I needed wi
th all my problems.

  After lunch, I snuck out the back door of the school while everyone else was heading to the afternoon pep rally. I had to figure out what to do about this baseball thing. I couldn’t play, could I? I mean, baseball was the only thing that ever made me happy, but playing now would be like letting my dad off the hook for what he’d said. By not playing, I figured, I’d be punishing him. I never told him I stopped playing to hurt him, though, and he probably wasn’t hurt anyway. He was most likely thrilled that I quit. So the only person I’d be punishing was myself. I was in a daze by the time I pushed open my front door.

  After school that day, Justin stopped by my house. He found me lying like a slug in front of an afternoon talk show.

  “You actually watch this crap?” he asked.

  “I’m not really watching,” I said. “I’m trying to slip into a coma so I never have to go back to school again.”

  “What happened second period? I saw Horner taking you out of Algebra.” Justin pushed my feet off the couch so he could sit down. “Did he know about the windows? Are you suspended?”

  “Horner didn’t know anything. But Mr. Sacamore saw the whole thing.”

  “That sucks,” he said, shaking his head. “What are they going to do to you?”

  “Well, Sacamore said he wouldn’t report me to the cops—”

  “Oh, that’s good.”

  “On two conditions.”

  “What?”

  “That I meet with him every Friday . . . and that I try out for the baseball team,” I said quietly and a bit embarrassed.

  Justin laughed. “The baseball team?” he said. “Now, that’s rich.”

  “I’m glad you think it’s so funny.”

  Still chuckling, he said, “It’s not funny, Taylor, it’s just . . . well, most people would be happy they weren’t suspended or arrested. You’re moping around here when you should be celebrating about how easy you got off. Typical Taylor—seeing only the dark side of things.”

  “It’s not easy, Justin,” I yelled. “You don’t understand about me and baseball. It’s not easy for me to just pick up a baseball and start playing again.” I was close to tears.