One True Thing

by Lynne Jaymes

  “Trying to sir.” I grab the towel that’s hanging on the door to the cage and put it around my neck. It’s getting hotter now that April is almost over. I thought I could handle a Texas summer, but now I’m not so sure.

  Coach motions me over. “Listen,” he says, looking around, his voice low. “Nothing official yet, but I hear there’s a scout from the Astros coming to the game against New Mexico on Friday.”

  “Yeah?” I’ve heard it before. I’ll believe it when I see it.

  Coach must read my expression. “I know these things have been said before, but I heard from a very reliable source this time. You’d do best to bring your A game.”

  “Always sir,” I say, tossing the towel back on the door handle, pushing the button and stepping back into the box. I can feel his eyes on me as I set the bat, watching as the ball is released from the machine and hurtles toward me. I put all my energy into hitting it as hard and far as I can, feeling good as it hits the net at the very back of the cage. I don’t notice when Coach walks away, I just stay there in the cage for as long as my arms and shoulders can stand it, swatting balls, missing a few, until I feel spent and empty. These days, it’s best if I go back to Rowan’s place tired, so that I can just fall asleep on the couch and not think about what Jenna’s doing or who she’s doing it with. I did what I had to do, I made good on my debt and now we’re both free. Except I don’t feel very free. I miss her every minute of every day.

  There are still a bunch of guys in the locker room when I’m finally done. I don’t see Mitch, but his locker’s open so he must be in the shower. I toss my bag on the bench and open my locker. It’s gone almost totally quiet as I pull out a giant container of grape Kool-Aid and a big, empty bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Fucking hilarious, because everyone knows that black folks love their fried chicken and Kool Aid. Nobody’s pulled this shit on me since middle school. I look around—everyone’s watching me and a couple of the guys across the room are busting into laughing fits. Rowan’s sitting on the bench in front of his locker and he catches my eye with the barest perceivable shake of his head. I think about Rowan and the tutu and how that’s all blown over.

  “You assholes had to go and eat it all?” I say, turning the bucket over. “I’m fucking starving.” I hold the Kool Aid up and make a show of putting it into my gym bag. “And now I won’t have to go to the store for at least a week.” At the bottom of my locker is a pack of Golden Oreos. I hold them up, ripping the pack open and shoving one in my mouth. “Nice touch.”

  Rowan smiles and turns to his locker and the groups of guys break up when they see I’m not going to make a big deal out of it. Is that what they wanted? Austin and Danny and the other assholes? For me to start a fight? Not going to happen. Not when there might be scouts coming. There’s no way I’m jeopardizing my spot on the team at this point, they can pull all the shit they want.

  “Ooh, cookies,” Mitch says, walking back to his locker with a towel around his waist. He reaches down and palms a handful.

  “Thank the guys,” I say, glancing around the locker room.

  Mitch chews thoughtfully. “Oreos? I don’t get it.”

  I hold one up. “Not just Oreos, Golden Chocolate Oreos. White on the outside, brown on the inside?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Shit. Really?”

  “Whatever.” I pull my stuff out of the locker. “If they want to buy my groceries, I’m going to let them.”

  “You know it’s mostly Austin and Danny, right? They’re pissed at you for ratting them out to Coach about the party. Nobody else even cares.”

  “I know.” I look around at the rest of the guys who pretended not to notice. Exactly like I did when they were pulling this shit on Rowan.

  Mitch pulls a shirt over his head. “Hey, want to hit the bar tonight? Nina’s got too much homework, so I’m flying solo.”

  “No, man. I’m not feeling it.”

  “Sitting around Rowan’s place moaning about Jenna isn’t going to help anything. A night out with a few beers might be just what you need.”

  The thought of sitting alone at Rowan’s again tonight is more depressing than anything. “Sure.” I slam my locker shut. “Where?”

  “McCarthy’s, where else?”

  I shake my head. “No way. I hate that place.”

  “Are you going to let a bunch of redneck assholes keep you away from the best beer in the tri-county area? If you bail, they win. I thought you were better than that.”

  “I don’t want to go looking for trouble.”

  “No trouble. We’re going to get a few beers, hang out, maybe shoot some pool. We’re allowed there just as much as anyone else is.”

  “Last time I was there it cost me over a thousand bills.”

  “Well, now you don’t have your bike to worry about anymore.”

  “Yeah. Thanks for pointing out the bright side,” I say. I hate it how Mitch usually says what I’m thinking. “Fine. I’ll see you there at eight.”

  Several hours later I’m sitting at a table with Mitch, Rowan and Stewart. We’ve already killed one pitcher and Mitch is up getting a second one. I’m finally starting to enjoy myself. Nobody is watching us, none of the assholes who like to think of this as their place is giving us any shit.

  “Would you relax?” Stewart says, downing the last of the beer in his glass.

  “I’m relaxed,” I say. Rowan is sitting next to him, but in public, you’d never know they were sleeping together. We look like three straight, white guys out on a Thursday night looking for girls.

  “If that’s relaxed, I’d hate to see you tense,” Stewart says, looking around the bar. “These poor assholes don’t even know they’re being invaded by faggots and minorities. This is how we take over the world. One redneck bar at a time.”

  “I’m glad you can laugh about it.”

  Stewart clinks my glass with his. “If I don’t laugh about it, I’d probably cry.”

  Mitch sets the new pitcher on the table. “What are you crying about now?”

  “How the faggots and minorities have to stay undercover in order to avoid getting the shit beat out of us,” Rowan says.

  “Right.” As the only actual straight, white guy at the table, Mitch doesn’t have a lot to say about it.

  “We could test that theory,” Stewart says. There’s a glint in his eye that looks dangerous.

  “What do you mean?” Rowan asks, staring at Stewart.

  He lifts one eyebrow. “You and me. Maybe I should bend you over this table and we can make out right here in the middle of the bar.”

  Rowan’s face clouds over. “We already talked about that,” he says quietly, glancing around.

  Stewart scowls. “So I’m out in public with my amazingly hot, talented boyfriend and I’m not even allowed to touch him?”

  He puts one hand on Rowan’s arm, but Rowan snatches it away. “Stop it! You know I have too much to lose,” he says, his voice barely audible above the music blasting through the bar. “You knew what the deal was when you got involved. If you don’t like it, you can just fuck off.”

  Stewart takes another sip from his beer. “I came out of the closet when I was eighteen. I resent you trying to shove me back in it all the time.”

  “Then do whatever the hell you want. Just leave me out of this.” Rowan pushes his chair back and I stand up with him.

  “Hey, Rowan,” I say. “The table’s free. Let’s go shoot some pool, okay?” I start walking in that direction. “Come on.”

  Rowan hesitates, then follows me to the pool table in the other room. “I knew this was a fucking bad idea,” he says, shaking his head. “I should never have let him convince me to go out in public together. This is nobody’s business but ours.”

  I hand him a stick. “It’ll blow over,” I say. “Stewart’s just trying to see how far he can push it.”

  “Stewart’s fucking dangerous,” he says, his voice low. This room is fairly empty with only a small group of guys standing by a tall round ta
ble. “And if I break up with him, then what? All it took was one line in the Gazette and your shit was blown wide open.”

  “He wouldn’t do anything.” I chalk my stick and look at Mitch and Stewart still sitting at the table in the other room. “And even if he did, all you’d have to do is deny it. There’s no evidence, is there?”

  “No.” Rowan racks up the balls and nods to me to take the first shot. “I made sure of that. No incriminating texts. No emails. And for God’s sake, no photos.”

  “Then you’re fine,” I say, aiming my ball for a clean opening shot. I remember the stress of hiding everything just a little too well. No family photos anywhere, not even in my phone. Keeping my hair short. Lying about Mom. In a way, it’s almost a relief to have it out in the open. But I know it would be worse for Rowan. He’s right—he doesn’t need to be a martyr for the cause.

  I sink a solid, and then aim for another ball and miss. Pool isn’t really my game.

  “I’m stripes?” Rowan confirms.

  “Yeah.” I watch as Rowan expertly sinks the next four balls. “Something tells me I’m glad there’s no money on the game.”

  Rowan grins as he leans over the table for the next shot. He looks more relaxed and I know this was a good idea. “We used to play for pizza freshman year.” He sinks another ball. “Let’s just say I got sick of pizza after a while.”

  After a few more minutes, Rowan finally misses and I look at the table and all of the solid balls still left on it. “Right there,” I say, pointing to a corner pocket. I lean over to shoot, but accidently knock the stick into one of the guys who’s standing around the table behind us.

  “Sorry, man!” I say, straightening up. There are a few drops of beer spilled on the guy’s shirt.

  “What the fuck?” he shouts, brushing his shirt off.

  “Listen, sorry about that. Let me get you another beer.”

  “And a new shirt?” the guy sneers. He’s got a thick brown mustache and several days scruff on his chin.

  “Oh come on, it’s not that bad. Just a few drops.”

  His face gets red. “I’ll be the judge about what’s fucking bad and what’s not fucking bad.”

  I put my hand up. “No harm done.”

  I don’t like the way one of the other guys is looking at me. I really don’t like it when he leans over and says something in the mustache’s ear. The guy looks at me carefully. “No shit?”

  “Yeah,” the other guy says. “It was all over the paper.”

  The first guy walks up in my face and puffs out his chest. “So you think you can walk in here and take over our bar? Shove that goddamned pool cue in everyone’s face?” He puts both hands on my chest and pushes me so that I stumble back a few feet.

  “Hey!” Rowan shouts, steadying me. “What the fuck?”

  All of the anger from the past few weeks builds up inside of me and I lunge for him, only to be held back by both arms. “Let it go!” Rowan says in my ear. “He’s not worth it.”

  I try to twist out of his grip, but Rowan is stronger than I thought. “This isn’t your fight,” I say through gritted teeth. The guy with the mustache nods at me, daring me to come closer. My fists are itching and I know that nothing will feel as good as connecting with flesh and bone right now.

  “It’s not yours either.” Rowan pulls me back a couple of feet. He turns me to face him. “If you get in trouble, there’s no game on Friday.” He nods to the group of guys. “Is this asshole worth risking your career over?”

  I feel my muscles unclench as I think about what he’s saying. He’s right. None of these guys is worth fucking up my career. I shake Rowan off and this time he lets me go. I don’t even look their way because if I do, I know I’ll change my mind. I’m turning to leave when I feel something crash into the back of my head and I’m thrown onto the floor. I put my hand up to my skull and see blood on my fingers. I struggle to my feet, but the room seems to spin around me. So much for walking away—Rowan is already in the middle of the group of guys, fists flailing and the guy with the mustache is trying to smash him with a pool cue.

  “Get the fuck off him!” I yell, and throw myself into the mix. I’m aiming for the first guy when I connect with one of his friends, a satisfying crunching noise as my fist meets his nose.

  The room is filled with shouts as bodies throw themselves into the fray. I feel another blow to my jaw, but I can still move it as I try to find Rowan. In seconds, I feel my arms pulled behind my back as I’m lifted out of the mess.

  “Let me go!” I shout and try to twist away, but I hear the click of metal handcuffs on my wrists.

  Without a word, the cop hands me off to another uniformed officer and I’m led out of the room. He looks exactly like the stereotypical cop—reddish hair that’s almost military short and a visible chip on his shoulder. If it was daytime, I’m betting he’d be wearing mirrored sunglasses. I don’t see Mitch or Stewart anywhere as we walk through the main part of the bar. The music is still blaring, but the place is in chaos with overturned chairs and puddles of beer on the floor.

  He pushes me up against the back of the cop car and pats my pockets down. “Are you carrying any weapons? Drugs? Anything that could injure an officer?”

  “No!”

  The cop feels my wallet in my back pocket. “Do you have a driver’s license?”

  “Yeah, in there,” I say. “But it’s from California.”

  He pulls my wallet out and puts it on the hood of the car. “Watch your head,” he says, opening the back door of the cop car.

  I turn, as much as I can with handcuffs on. “What for? I didn’t do anything!”

  “Just sit down,” he says roughly and pushes me into the car.

  I feel blood trickling down the back of my neck and the spot on my head where the guy clocked me with a pool cue is starting to throb. Through the window, I see a group by the front door shouting and gesturing and I see the mustache guy and Rowan on opposite ends of the fight as the cops try to break it up.

  A different cop opens the door. He’s got straight dark hair and brown eyes so I glance at his nametag. Suarez. “Do you need medical attention?” he asks. To his credit, he actually looks concerned.

  “I don’t know,” I say. My head hurts, but I can’t tell how bad it is.

  “Let me see.” I turn my head and he parts my hair with gloved hands. “There’s a cut here—not too big, maybe half an inch, but it’s bleeding pretty good. And a bump that’s coming up.” He stands up again. “It’s up to you.”

  I shake my head. “I’m fine. I just want to get out of here.”

  “So you’re refusing treatment?”

  “I guess so.”

  Suarez closes the door again and I see the crowd at the bar breaking up, but I don’t see anyone else being put into cop cars. Mustache guy is being pulled away by one of his friends and the cops don’t seem to be doing anything about it.

  The first cop opens the door again. “Why are you letting that guy go?” I shout, nodding at the group as he’s walking toward the parking lot. “He’s the one who hit me with the pool cue!”

  “We got his statement,” the cop says. “Says it was self-defense. Witnesses say that you hit him first.”

  “What? That’s bullshit! I bumped him when I was playing and he nailed me as I turned to walk away.”

  “That’s your version. You can tell that to the judge tomorrow.”

  “What? I can’t go to jail! This is bullshit. That guy starts the fucking fight and I’m the only one in handcuffs?”

  Just then Officer Suarez walks up to the car and taps the other cop on the shoulder. “The owner wants a word.”

  The cop hesitates and then walks back into the bar.

  Suarez looks down at his notes. “You’re the Tyler Branch from the Gator’s baseball team?”

  I try to calm down, but it’s hard when handcuffs are digging into your wrists. “Yes. How did you know?”

  He gives me a smile. “You’re right famous around h
ere—I saw you play against Indiana. Hit two homers back-to-back. There’s talk that you might get recruited for the majors.”

  I can feel him opening up and know I have a little bit of an in with this one—I just have to play it right. “With any luck.”

  “My cousin had a try-out for the A’s once. Made it onto their triple-A team in Stockton.”

  “Yeah? What position?”

  “First base,” he says. “Couldn’t hack it though. Got sent home after the first season.”

  “That’s too bad.” I glance over at the door. Rowan and Mitch are standing there talking to one of the cops. “Listen…this is total bullshit. This isn’t the first time we’ve had issues at this bar. I was walking away from a fight when that big asshole tagged me with the stick. He should be sitting here, not me.”

  Suarez glances toward the front door. “The owner’s saying that you and your friends are a nuisance and he wants to prosecute this time. I’m not sure if there’s anything I can do about it.”

  “I’ve got major league scouts coming to see me play on Friday. I can’t go to jail.” I glance at him. “If I was a white guy, you and I both know I wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

  He looks uncertain, but I know I’ve got him. We both know the truth even if there’s no way he can admit it. “Let me see what I can do.” He shuts the door again and walks back to the bar. I shut my eyes and lean forward, my head against the plastic partition. If I go to jail, I won’t be able to start the next game. If I don’t start, the scout won’t see me play and I’ll blow the best chance I’ve had in years of making it happen. He’s got to fix this. He’s got to.

  I jump when the door opens again. Both cops are standing by the car. “Hop out Mr. Branch,” the first cop says. My heart is in my throat as I kick my legs out of the car and struggle to my feet. “Turn around,” he orders. It feels like I can finally breathe again when he unfastens the handcuffs and my wrists are free.

  “Thank you.”