I stroll into the living room. Grandma’s in her chair watching the analysts talk about an upcoming game. She’s sporting a new housedress with baseballs and logos from all the Major League Baseball teams on it. The colors are so bright I can barely stand to look at it. But what bothers me more is that last week, if she had seen that dress on a rack, she would’ve left it there.
“Grandma?”
She turns around and holds out her arms. “Look what I got at the dollar store!”
I force a smile. “I love it, Grandma! There’s a lot of baseballs and . . . colors on that dress.”
She points at two logos near her belly. “The Dodgers are playing the Astros today.”
Now I can’t help but grin. “Sounds like a good game. I’ll watch it with you.”
She giggles. “Oh, goodie! How was your lunch today? Did you have enough to eat?”
“Plenty.”
“I’ll make your lunch every day if you want.”
I hold up a hand. “Uh, no thanks, Grandma. But it was very good.”
She grins and fires another question. “Were you going to practice your pitching tomorrow?”
I’m in shock. “I can if you want me to.”
“I need to see a curveball up close. I’ll come watch you throw a few. Dinner’s on the table. I thought we’d eat ballpark style tonight. Hot dogs are covered up on the stove. Is that okay with you?”
I grin. “It’s better than okay, Grandma. It’s perfect.”
“Well hurry up and make your hot dogs. The game starts in five minutes.”
“Okay. I’ll make yours, too.”
Grandma looks over her shoulder. “I was hoping you’d say that! Mustard only, please!”
I head to the kitchen, thinking about Laura Ann, and I slow my walk to give the situation more thought. To me, even though Laura Ann was a great athlete, she made some major mistakes and she doesn’t add up to amazing. I think she was a slave to Pierre, but that doesn’t have anything to do with the shack. So as far as I’m concerned, I’m still on track to win that bet.
Chapter Nineteen
BOOMP . . . BOOMP . . .
I roll over and . . . KA-BLAM!
This falling out of bed is getting old.
BOOMP . . . BOOMP . . .
I scramble to my feet and then sit on the edge of my bed.
My heart’s thumping as I try to figure out what that noise is and where it’s coming from. It can’t be the slave zombies coming to get me, because the sun’s coming through my window. Is that burned toast I smell?
“Grandma?”
“In the kitchen!”
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
I grab my robe at the end of my bed. “Okay, hold on, I’m coming!”
The smell of burned bread is overwhelming. Just as I step out of my room . . .
ZZZZZZZZZIP! BOOMP . . .
I duck. “Grandma, what was that flying through the kitchen?”
I cover my head and rush to her. There’s a bowl of charcoal-black biscuits on the table. She points at them. “I burned those but figured out a way to use ’em.”
I scan the kitchen. There’s rock-hard biscuits and black crumbs all over the floor.
“Grandma, what are you doing?”
She grabs a burned biscuit, winds up, and hurls it at the trash can against the wall.
ZZZZZZZZZZIP! BOOMP . . .
The biscuit hits the wall and falls into the trash can. I tilt my head at the five black biscuits on the floor, obvious misses, and listen to Grandma explain.
“I’ve gripped these bad boys different ways and still can’t figure out how to throw that curveball.”
I’m wondering how many people have a grandma who practices curveballs with burned biscuits at 7:30 on a Saturday morning.
She stops and sips her coffee. “I’m ready whenever you are. I can’t figure it out.”
I giggle. “Oh, that’s right. Just give me a second to put on some sweats.”
In no time, we’re in my pitching area, and I bring the bucket of balls close to the mound.
“Okay, watch carefully. I’ll throw a knuckleball, then a curveball.”
I explain how the knuckleball doesn’t rotate when it’s thrown and the strange movement it has on its way to home plate. I show her my knuckleball.
“Batters see it coming, and then right before it reaches them, it drops out of the air like a dead bird. Here, I’ll throw another one.”
Grandma shakes her head. “No, that’s okay. A dead bird pitch sounds sad.”
I shrug. “All right, here’s the curveball.”
I tell her how the ball looks like it’s going to miss the plate but then curves back in for a strike.
“Watch.”
I throw one and she claps. I grab another ball. “Your turn! Let’s see your curveball.”
She rubs her hands together. “I’m ready!”
I put the ball in her hand, place her fingers in the right spots, and let her throw a few. Her first one hits the ground before it reaches the glove. She turns to me.
“That wasn’t very good, was it?”
I grin. “It was better than the first one I ever threw. Here, try again.”
She does, and on her fifth try she hits the side of Dad’s glove.
“That was good, Grandma!”
She points her thumb over her shoulder.
“He’s outta there!”
I point my thumb over my shoulder, too, and laugh. Grandma hugs me.
“That was so much fun, Laura, but I need to lay this old body down for an hour or so. Now I really do understand why pitchers need rest.”
I nod. “I’m going to throw a little more before I come in. Have a good nap!”
I put my earbuds in and turn on the iPod clipped to my pants. My arm’s good and warm now. I should be able to make some excellent pitches. I’ll throw a few more curveballs.
POP . . . POP.
I grab another ball from the bucket but accidentally drop it. When I reach down to pick it up, I see a pair of brown boots and I almost trip on my pitcher’s mound.
I take the earbuds out and smooth my hair. “How long have you been standing there?”
Troy shrugs. “Long enough to see you throw the nastiest curveball ever. Did your dad teach you how to throw? Where did this pitching area come from? It wasn’t here last Saturday.”
“Dad made it for me on Sunday. You were so busy spraying the garden on Wednesday that you didn’t notice. I come out here and throw whenever I want. Why are you here?”
He’s still checking out my pitching hookup. “My dad and I cut grass on Saturdays, and I fertilize the garden on Wednesdays. How long did it take you to learn how to throw that curveball?”
“About a week.”
Troy looks around, as if he’s about to tell me some top-secret information.
“Mine isn’t that good. Actually, my curveball . . . doesn’t curve.”
“Then it’s not a curveball. No wonder you guys got the snot beat out of you in the season opener.” I give him a baseball. “Let me see how you throw it. Maybe I can show you what you’re doing wrong.”
He spits, then stands on my mound. “Pitching lessons from a girl? I don’t know. I don’t have any money to pay you. And I’m not going to do some crazy favor for you, either.”
I join him on my mound and get right in his face. “Did I ask you for anything? I’ll tell you what. You’re here to cut the grass, right? Then go cut it! And get off my mound!”
I put my hands on my hips and wait. But then his shoulders drop as he shakes his head.
“Okay, my bad. That was uh . . . my bad, Dyson. I’ll show you my curveball.”
He winds up and throws the saddest imitation of a pitch ever thrown.
Plop. Dang.
Grandma’s was better. If I were that baseball he just threw, I’d roll somewhere and hide so he could never throw me again.
He looks my way. “See what I mean?”
&nb
sp; I’m trying to find nice words to say, but instead, I shift my weight to the other leg.
“Troy, show me how you hold the ball to throw a curve.”
He shrugs. “I don’t hold it any different than when I throw my fastball.”
I frown at him. “Really? And you seriously don’t know why the ball won’t curve?”
To me, that’s just common sense, but then I see his face. It’s blank as the pages in a brand-new notebook. So I reach down and take his hand. It’s warm, and my breathing speeds up.
But he pulls away. “What are you doing, Dyson?”
At first I’m startled. Then I blast him. “Do you want to learn how to throw a real curveball, or are you happy to get rocked the rest of the season?”
He gives his hand back to me. It’s all about concentration, and I need every ounce of mine to keep from screaming with joy. I grab another ball and position his fingers on the laces, then make him do it himself. Once he’s holding it right, I show him how to snap off a nasty and unhittable pitch.
“If you don’t get that snap in your wrist as you throw, it’s not going to work. When you start the windup, and the ball is up here, near your ear, you’ve got to know what you’re going to do with it. Snap that wrist and throw toward the mitt. Give me the ball and I’ll show you.”
I break off another nasty curveball and Troy grins at me. “That’s sick.”
I grab another ball from the bucket. “That’s not sick. That’s strike three. And right after you throw it, stare that batter down with no emotion, like this.”
I stand on the mound, appearing unfazed as I stare at home plate. “Got it? No emotion. Look like it’s just another day on the mound for you and another strikeout for him. Make the batter feel like you own him, understood?”
Troy’s nodding fast. “Yeah, own him. You’re right. Let me try. Wow, Dyson! How many guys have you struck out?”
I stare at Dad’s glove. “I’ve never pitched to anyone other than my dad. And sometimes I think he strikes out on purpose.”
I back away and watch Troy mimic what I did. His ball starts off straight then suddenly breaks toward Dad’s glove.
POP!
Troy freaks. “No way! Did you see that?”
“Yeah! I call that pitch Slimfast. You know, like that diet stuff, because it makes curves. Get it? Go ahead, Troy, throw it again.”
He does everything I showed him and looks so good standing there. He throws the pitch again, and this time it lands right inside Dad’s glove. Troy bangs his fist into his open hand.
“I can’t believe it! That pitch is money!”
A strong voice with lots of bass makes me jump. “Troy! Why aren’t you working?”
Troy’s freaking out. “Dad, come here a minute!”
A thin man in faded jeans, work boots, a long-sleeved flannel shirt, and gardening gloves comes from the side of the shack. He waves as Troy does the introductions.
“This is Fa . . . uh . . . Laura Dyson. She’s Mrs. Anderson’s granddaughter.”
Mr. Bailey winks. “Nice to meet you. Your grandmother is a wonderful lady.”
Troy grabs a ball from the bucket. “Hey, Dad, watch this.”
He grips the ball, goes into motion, and throws a perfect curveball. Mr. Bailey claps.
“That was incredible! Who taught you how to throw that?”
Troy nods my way. Mr. Bailey chuckles. “Where did you learn how to pitch like that?”
“My dad taught me. He was a catcher in college. A really good one.”
Mr. Bailey smiles. “I’d have to agree. I’d love to talk baseball with your dad.” He turns to Troy. “Next time you pitch, that curveball should be your secret weapon.”
Troy chuckles. “Yeah. My secret weapon.”
Mr. Bailey pats Troy on the shoulder. “Okay, Slugger, back to work.”
Troy watches his dad leave, then turns to me.
“You got a fastball?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I bet I could smack it to Jupiter. I’ve got a bat in the back of Dad’s truck. I’ll be back.”
Troy’s gone for only a moment and returns with his bat. He stands in front of home plate.
“Throw your fastest pitch, Dyson. But say good-bye to that ball, because it’s history.”
Sweet Father of Fiery Fastballs! I can’t believe this is happening! He’s got the bat high over his shoulder, waiting for the pitch. I wind up and throw a laser.
SWOOOSH!
He stands there with the bat still high above his shoulder. The ball drops out of Dad’s glove and falls behind him. Troy shakes his head as he walks to the mound.
“Trust me, Dyson. Your dad’s not striking out on purpose.”
I grin and kick at my mound. “I should have let you take a few warm-up swings.”
He spits in the dirt. “I don’t think that would’ve helped. Thanks for teaching me that curveball. That was mega. Seriously, you don’t know what you did by helping me with that.”
“Yes I do. Everybody knows the Pink Chips put you on Blue Chip probation.”
He stares at me as if he didn’t know. But then, after looking closer into his face, I realize that’s not what his eyes say at all. I put my hands on my hips.
“Don’t you even care about being on probation?”
He starts grabbing at weeds around the trees. “I’ve never cared about that Blue Chip stuff. I don’t want to be one. They didn’t even ask me.”
That’s a piece of news Sage doesn’t know. “So if you don’t care about them, then why are you trying to get that curveball right?”
He tenses up again. There’s anger in his face, and I’m wondering if this boy’s got a demon. “Why are you all in my business, Dyson?”
I turn away from him, put my earbuds back in, and gather the baseballs from around the tree. Right now, it doesn’t matter that he’s the cutest boy in the world, especially when he talks so mean to me. Maybe he doesn’t care about Blue Chips, but after that remark, I’d fill his dimples with cow chips if I had ’em.
I’ll never have a need for that kind of attitude. I’ve got enough drama. And now that I am one hundred percent sure that Troy’s a jerk, why am I . . .
There’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn around, take the earbuds out, and let him talk.
“That didn’t come out right. Can you just give me a break?”
I move to put the earbuds back in, and he caves.
“All right! I’ll tell you if you promise to keep it a secret.”
By the look on his face, I can tell something’s trying to make its way to his throat but it’s stuck. Even his dimples are sagging. So I give him all of my attention and soften my voice.
“Seriously, I won’t tell anybody. I promise.”
“I’m doing it for my dad. Since he lost his company, he doesn’t smile much anymore, except when he’s watching me play sports. When I play really well, he smiles and seems so happy. But when I don’t do good, he still smiles, but I know that smile is fake. I think when my game ain’t on, it reminds him that he didn’t do good enough to keep his company.”
I interrupt him. “Troy, that can’t be true.”
He frowns again. “How do you know, Dyson? On opening day, I stank up the place. I was a loser, so I reminded Dad that he’s a loser. Don’t you see?”
I let him know I understand, then grab another ball. “You hang out with your dad a lot?”
Troy pulls a trash bag from his back pocket. “Yeah. Since he made me a partner in his business, we hang out all the time. We do just about everything together. Drives my mom crazy!”
He opens the trash bag, picks up a few twigs, and chuckles. I smile to hide that I feel sorry for him. “That’s nice. But what are you going to do when he finds a different job?”
He spits in the grass again. “On the real . . . I hope he never finds one. I know he needs steady work, but I like hanging with him, learning stuff. And you know, we’ve got a business now.”
I nod. “And it’s a
good business.”
Troy agrees. “We just need more customers, that’s all. I’ve got to go, Dyson. Thanks for the curveball lesson. Your fastball is wicked too! You got any more awesome pitches?”
“All my pitches are pure gold! I even named them. I call my curveball Slimfast and I already told you why. My changeup is called Almond Joy because it’s my favorite pitch and Almond Joy is my favorite candy. I named my fastball Expresso because it’s got lots of mojo behind it. And my knuckleball is called Chuckle Knuckles. Doesn’t that sound like an ice-cream flavor at Baskin-Robbins? Uh, can I have two scoops of Chuckle Knuckles?”
I’m in my own world, enjoying the names I picked for my pitches. But when I look at Troy’s face, he’s just staring at me. I pick up a ball from the bucket.
“Maybe next time you’re over here, I’ll hook you up with the Chuckle Knuckles pitch.”
I’m talking too much, but I can’t help it. I’m with the cutest boy in the world, in the woods, talking about one of my most favorite things.
I’m expecting him to say something about my pitches, but instead, he just nods.
“Later, Dyson.”
As he walks away, I call to him. “Oh, I almost forgot one megathing.”
He turns around, so I grin and point at the shack. “I’m not the first Laura to throw fire.”
His eyebrows rise, and I toss a ball up in the air and catch it in my glove.
“That’s right. There’s a woman named Laura Ann in my Line. She threw heaters long before I did. Chew on that!”
Troy grins. “No wonder you’re so good at pitching! It’s in your blood! See you later.”
Soon a lawn mower revs up and he’s driving around the farm cutting grass. Troy hasn’t called me Fat Larda in three whole days. Now he calls me Dyson. I like that! Finally he doesn’t see me as fat. He just sees me as someone who can teach him how to throw a curveball.
And I can thank Laura Ann for that.
Chapter Twenty
After a shower, I can’t wait to get dressed and head back into the shack. I don’t know what’s happened to me and why I suddenly don’t mind that ugly place, but I’ll have to figure it out later.
Inside the shack, I grab the ledger, then look around a bit, especially at the pictures on the wall. I’m careful not to trip over Laura Jean’s sewing machine or Laura Elaine’s typewriter. On my way to the table, I put my hand on that little uneven chair, knowing that back in the day, Grandma sat in it and sang and colored in a book as she watched her mother type. That chair is so wobbly! And it’s short! But none of the big chairs have a big-time story like this little one.
The Laura Line Page 12