“So how were you feeling?”
“Uh, I was feeling good. Happy, I guess. That day, after I hit Stacy and you told me all those things on the bleachers, I was freaked out, but in a good way.”
“But you never talked to me after that,” Justin said. “It was like you wanted to pretend it didn’t happen or something.”
“No, that’s not it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I didn’t know how to react . . . I’ve never had anyone like me before.”
“Come on, Taylor.”
“Seriously.” I hesitated. “No one ever kissed me before,” I said.
“That was your first kiss?” he asked, shocked.
I shrugged, slid onto the floor, and leaned against the bed. I felt stupid and immature. “Justin, you’ve known me since I was five. You ever seen any guys around?”
“I just figured . . .”
“Figured what?”
He slouched down next to me on the floor. “You seemed so good at it, I figured you must have done it before.”
“Don’t mock me,” I said.
He touched my hand and ran his finger up my arm and back down again. “Seriously, that kiss made me feel drugged-up for the rest of the day,” he said.
It sounded like a better rush than baseball. I touched his face, and he pulled me closer. This time, I kissed him first, and he kissed me back. Then Justin said, “So if I tell Tommy you’re my girlfriend now, that would be okay?”
“Yeah, that’s okay with me.”
We sat there together until it grew dark outside and my bedside lamp gave the room a soft yellow glow. We talked a little bit, but mostly we just sat there, wrapping our fingers together and kissing quietly. Eventually, I heard footsteps on the stairs, and we quickly widened the gap between us.
Brian knocked and stuck his head in. “Hey, Taylor, it’s like 10:30. Maybe Justin should go home. It’s getting late,” he said in his best Dad imitation. Justin stood up.
“I’ll walk you out,” I said.
Brian made a funny face at me as I followed Justin out of my room. As we descended the stairs, Brian loudly blurted out, “Oh, I get it. You guys are like girlfriend-boyfriend now?”
God, he was such a jerk. Justin laughed and opened the front door.
“Bye, Brian,” he said, starting down the sidewalk. “See you later, T.”
“Bye, sweetie!” Brian yelled, cracking himself up. I gave Brian a good whack in the arm, but I was in such a good mood, I laughed too.
So now I was done with Justin. Well, not done, but fixed. Fixed baseball, fixed Stacy, fixed Justin. One thing left.
Later that night, I was lying in bed, unable to sleep. I pulled on my sweatshirt and wandered downstairs. I heard the TV on in the family room, and I saw the back of Brian’s head on the couch. I stood quietly for a minute, making sure Lori wasn’t around. I didn’t see her, so I took a step closer. What was he watching? It looked like a home video. Brian still didn’t know I was behind him. I continued to watch the TV screen. It looked like our backyard. People were waving at the camera, and Dad was standing by the grill. Wow, he looked a lot younger then. And then I saw her—my mother.
“Is that Mom?” I blurted out.
Brian’s head whipped around. “Jesus, Taylor! You scared the crap out of me. How long’ve you been standing there?”
“Just a second,” I answered. “So is it?”
“Is it what?”
“Mom?” I said softly.
He nodded. “Yeah. I think it was like my seventh birthday. I found it in the basement. Weird, huh?”
I sat down and stared at the TV, mesmerized by her. She was handing Brian presents and clapping as he unwrapped them. I saw myself, sitting in a little plastic chair. I was probably three at the time. The video was so jumpy, it made me dizzy to watch after a while.
“You remember her, Bri?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“You miss her?”
He shrugged. “Not any more. It’s been like nine years.”
“I don’t remember her,” I said.
“Hey, you were only five or something,” he said.
“Did Dad ever tell you why she left or where she went?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “A year or so after she left, I found a letter postmarked from France, but I don’t know . . .” He paused and scratched his head. “I guess you’re old enough now to know why she left.”
“You know?”
“Yeah, but Dad doesn’t know I know.”
I waited and then said, “Well?”
“Well, I read that letter. I guess I was ten or so when I found it. I was snooping around Dad’s desk. I don’t know why he kept it. It was from Mom, saying she was sorry, but she was in love with Robert and planning to marry him.”
“She was cheating on Dad?”
Brian nodded. “It sounded like it had been going on for a long time.”
I thought about what Brian had just said. I wasn’t angry or surprised, really. I figured Mom was with someone else by now. And I didn’t really know her anyway, so it wasn’t that big a deal. I felt bad for Brian, though, because he seemed bugged by it. It also explained why Dad hated when I played ball. I reminded him of her, and he probably hated her for cheating on him.
I looked at Brian and said, “Bri, do you ever feel like Dad doesn’t like me?”
He laughed. “Are you kidding? I know he likes you. I’m the one he hates.”
I was shocked. “What? You’re his favorite. He went to all your baseball games, coached your team . . .”
“Yeah, but I didn’t like playing, so I quit, and he’s been pissed ever since.”
“He never said that,” I said.
“But I know that’s what he’s thinking.”
“Don’t assume that. I think he’s really proud of you.”
“Maybe,” Brian said and shrugged. “You should get to bed.”
“OK.” I got up and headed for the stairs.
“And remember, this stuff about Mom is just between you and me.”
“I won’t say a thing. Night, Bri,” I said.
“Night, T.”
CHAPTER 19
Dad came home the following day. The doctor had told him to “take it easy,” but I wasn’t sure if Dad knew how to do that. He was used to rushing around all the time and working late every night. I was worried he wouldn’t be able to rest.
Brian set Dad up on the couch in the living room. He pulled the coffee table next to the couch and placed the remote and a glass of water on the table. Dad lay down, propped himself up on a few pillows, and flicked on the TV.
“Okay, Pop, you’re all set,” Brian said. “You need anything before I take off?”
Dad shook his head. “No, Bri, you get back to school. Thanks for watching the kids.”
“No problem,” Brian said, placing the phone on the coffee table. “If you need anything, call me.”
“Sure thing,” said Dad. “Get going.”
Brian gave him a side hug and headed toward me in the kitchen. “You’re in charge, Taylor,” he whispered. “Call me if you need me.” I sat at the kitchen table and stared at the back of my father’s head for a while. I wasn’t sure what to do, being in charge and all. I went to the cabinet, pulled out some crackers, cut up some cheese, and placed the cheese and crackers on a plate, which I carried quietly into the family room and put on the table next to the water. Dad’s eyes were open, and he smiled. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he said.
There it was again—“sweetheart.” Maybe the concussion had affected his brain, and he suddenly thought he liked me. Having switched channels, he was now watching the ball game—Yankees vs. Red Sox. I turned to leave, but then thought, What the heck, and sat down at the end of the couch, next to his feet. It was a Yankees–Red Sox game, after all.
“What’s the score?” I asked.
“Two to one Yanks,” he answered. “Eighth inning.”
The first batter swung and missed. “Ooh, nice curv
eball,” I said without thinking. My dad looked impressed.
“Listen to you, Miss Baseball. Nice curve,” he said and laughed.
I perked up. “Well, it was,” I said.
“Okay, smarty. Let’s see if you can tell me the next pitch.”
“All right.” I stared at the screen. “Heater,” I said proudly. “Too high, though.”
“I agree,” he said, then was quiet for a while. “How’s your fastball these days?”
I was shocked. My father had just asked me about my pitching. I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Well?” he asked, waiting.
“It needs more heat, actually, but my coach says my curve is a killer.”
And that’s how it happened. For the first time in years, my father began to talk to me. We sat there watching the game and talking about baseball. I told him about tryouts and my shutout. He told me about the first time he’d ever gone to Yankee Stadium for a game. It didn’t matter to me what we were talking about, though. It just mattered that we were talking. In my fourteen years on earth, it was probably the best day of my life.
After the game ended, he shut off the TV and pulled himself up to a sitting position on the couch. He looked very serious and nervous.
“Taylor, I think I owe you an apology for the last few years.”
I was so afraid of ruining a good day, I said, “Dad, you don’t have to—”
“Yes, yes I do,” he said, waving a hand at me. “The other night after the barbecue, you tried to talk to me, and I brushed you off. I’ve been a pretty crappy father, and I want to explain. So just let me do this, okay?”
I nodded. “Okay, go ahead.” I felt like I was Sacamore for a minute.
He rubbed his eyes and sighed deeply. “You know that picture of your mother? The one you found in my closet?”
“Uh-huh,” I answered.
“Well, that’s how we met. She was playing on the softball team at school, and I was on the baseball team. Back then, even a girl who played as well as your mom wouldn’t try to play with the boys. She’d probably be really proud of you if she knew what you were doing,” he said, smiling at me.
I felt a heavy weight on my chest, and I had to hold back the tears.
“In any case, I guess every time I look at you, I see your mother. You walk like her. When you’re upset or angry with me, you make the same faces. And you definitely throw a baseball like she did.” He laughed. “Except, it seems like you throw twice as fast as she did. Anyway, when I was lying in that hospital bed all alone, all I could think about was that I might die without ever making things right with you.”
Now I was crying. Dad shifted on the couch and repositioned his broken arm. “I guess I just thought if I could make you into one of those girlie type daughters who liked to wear dresses and paint her fingernails, it would erase some of your mother from my life. But, the funny thing is, you found baseball yourself, even though I tried to keep you away from it. Or maybe baseball found you.”
I wiped my eyes and sniffed. “Yeah, it did. Even though I tried to ignore it, it always came up somehow.” I thought about how being angry with my dad had caused me to throw bricks through the school windows, which, in a strange turn of events, led to my winning a spot on the team.
“Dad, I think I should come clean with you about playing on the team this year.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t know if Mom would exactly be proud of me. You see, I was forced to try out for the team by Mr. Sacamore, the guidance counselor.”
“I thought you started talking to him after you made the team, when you got into that fight,” he said, squinting.
I shook my head. “Actually, I started sessions with him after I, uh, sort of got drunk and threw some bricks through the school windows,” I said. I hung my head and bit my lower lip, waiting for him to yell.
“Whoa,” he said, surprised. “I guess I really have had my head in the sand.”
I couldn’t believe he didn’t yell. “Dad, how many of those pain killers did you take?”
“Lucky for you, probably one too many.”
We both smiled at each other.
Then Dad said, “Maybe, after I heal up, I should talk to Mr. Sacamore with you. I never knew you were doing things like that. I can’t have my little girl drinking. You know that’s a bad choice, right?”
“I do now,” I said. Boy, do I ever.
“Is there anything else I missed that I should know about?”
“Um, well, Justin is kind of my boyfriend now,” I said shyly.
He shook his head. “Okay, that’s enough talking for one day. In my fragile condition, I don’t think I can handle the thought of you and boys.” He pulled the blanket over his head, pretending to faint.
“Dad,” I said, nudging him, “are you okay?”
He pulled the blanket back down and smiled. “I guess I’ll survive.”
Just then, Danny came bounding through the back door. Dad winked at me. “Why don’t you go order a pizza?” he said.
“How about Chinese instead?” I suggested.
“Sounds good to me,” he said.
Later that night, I headed upstairs to my room. Everyone in the house had gone to sleep long ago, but I stayed up watching late night television because I couldn’t sleep. When I got to my room, I noticed something on my pillow—an envelope that said “Taylor.” I sat down on the bed and opened it slowly. Inside was a letter written by my father. The faded date in the corner was from four years ago.
The letter read:
Dear Taylor,
If this letter looks faded, it’s only because I waited until I felt you were old enough to understand. If at any time over the years, you’ve felt I didn’t love you, I want you to know that was not my intention. I’ve been hurt very deeply, and it’s been hard to put on a happy face.
I want you to know that your mother did not leave you. She left me. She left me because I was cold and distant, and I didn’t give her the love she needed or deserved. She found someone else to love her, and then she left me to start a new life with him. I don’t want you to blame your mother for this. It was all my fault.
Your mother left because I wasn’t a good husband. And I probably haven’t been a great father, either. I feel guilty for driving her away and for the fact that you’ve had to grow up without a mother. Just know that, although I may not always show it, I love you, and I’m proud of you, no matter what.
Love,
Dad
I read the letter’s last line over and over. I sat on my bed and held the paper against my chest and cried. But this time, I didn’t cry for me. I cried for my dad. All these years, I’d thought I’d been the only one who was suffering. But when I realized what Dad had been dealing with, I cried for what he’d gone through.
When morning came, I hurried down to the kitchen. Dad was sitting at the table having coffee. Danny was next to him, eating his cereal. I walked over and kissed the top of Dad’s head. Danny gave me a strange look. “I’ve got a game to get to,” I said, grabbing a banana. “See you guys later.”
“Good luck!” they both said in unison.
When I got to the field and started warming up with Louis, I didn’t feel nervous at all. I thought about all the people who cared about me: Justin, my two brothers, my dad, and even Sacamore. I felt like I could take on anything. People really did matter after all.
The whole team was in the outfield warming up, stretching and throwing balls around. I put down my glove and leaned down to tie my shoelaces, when a ball came whizzing by my head. I looked around to see Rick holding his arms up in innocence. Louis stood up from his catcher’s position, took off his mask, and stared at Rick. He walked over and nudged Tony, who’d seen the whole episode. They approached Rick, and about six of the other players fell in step behind them.
I stood frozen and watched. I looked toward the dugout and noticed that Coach Perez was walking toward the outfield to see what was going on, but then h
e stopped.
Just then, Louis yelled, “Hey, Bratton, what’s your problem, man?”
“You trying to hurt our best pitcher?” Tony added.
Rick said nothing.
All the guys started yelling at him, and Tony gave Rick a shove in the shoulder. “You need to check yourself,” Tony said.
Coach Perez picked up his pace. When he reached the mob, he pointed at Bratton and said, “I think you need to sit this one out, Bratton.”
Rick was shocked. “What?” he said.
“Yeah, I need team players out here, not immature selfish brats. Take your stuff and hit the showers. You’re done for the day,” he said, pointing his finger toward the school.
All the guys were still crowding around Rick. He knew he’d lost this time. Shaking his head, he jogged away. “Whatever. Good luck without me, losers,” he said and kicked at one of the extra balls on the ground.
Louis jogged back toward me as if nothing had happened. He crouched down and slammed his hand in his glove a few times. “Okay, Dresden, let’s see some of those curveballs.”
With Rick gone, I felt as if a great weight had lifted from me. I relaxed and felt like I was eight years old again.
As I jogged out to the mound for the first inning, I heard a loud cheer come up from the home-side bleachers. I looked up to see Justin, Mr. Sacamore, Danny, and about ten girls from the softball team clapping and whistling.
And sitting next to all of them was my father, looking proud and smiling.
For the first time ever, I could hear him mouthing the words: “That’s my daughter.”
And so I’ve come almost to the end of my freshman year in high school—both the worst and best year of my life. I’ve learned a lot of things about people—and from people.
Justin taught me to see the good in everyone.
Trudy showed me how to laugh at myself, and at her.
Mr. Sacamore made me realize that all of us are just trying to figure out how to get through this life with a little bit of happiness.
Even Stacy and Rick taught me something. They showed me that all problems can’t be resolved quickly and easily—I still have things to work out with the two of them, and I will try my best with them.
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