Singled Out

by Sara Griffiths

  We ate pancakes with strawberries and drank a few more cups of coffee. I held the warm cup in my cold fingers and answered all of her questions. I wanted to ask questions of my own, but I realized I didn’t have to do everything at one breakfast, unless for some reason she got depressed again.

  So I settled for the one question I had always wanted to ask her. The dishes had been cleared and I knew I was up against the clock. “Can I just ask you one thing?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “I apologize for just coming right out with this, but it’s been like a dozen years since I’ve seen you, so I—”

  “Just ask, Taylor. It’s fine.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  She put her head in her hands and stared at me for a few moments before letting out a huge sigh. “I’ve been through a lot of years of therapy because of what I did to you kids. I’ve never forgiven myself for that. I was a sick person, Taylor,” she said. “I didn’t know what was wrong with me then. It was many years later, after many breakdowns, that I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, which basically means that most of the time I feel sad, but I have the occasional overly happy day. I couldn’t control what I was doing back then. The whole thing is like a long blur. But mental illness or not, what I did to you was wrong and I am truly sorry.”

  “But you’re better now?”

  “Today is a good day. I can only take one day at a time, but this time I’m really fighting for myself.”

  I didn’t understand what her disorder was. It sounded kind of made up, but I didn’t want to be rude. Bipolar? Sounds like some sort of bear. She seemed sincere enough about it all. I believed her when she said she hadn’t forgiven herself. I wasn’t going to say that it was okay and that I forgave her, so I just said, “Thanks for answering my question.”

  “Of course, and thanks so much for agreeing to meet with me today. Do you think we could do it again sometime?”

  I didn’t know what this woman, who I hadn’t seen for most of my life, would now become for me. I didn’t think we’d become best friends, go shopping together, and talk on the phone every day, but a little relationship seemed better than none at all. At least I thought it did. “Yeah, sure.”

  “How about we do it again next month? I’d be happy to pick you up at school, or we could just meet somewhere again.”

  “Uh, maybe, yeah, I’ll think about it. How about you call me?”

  I gave my mother my cell number. How weird was that? My mother didn’t know my phone number! She paid the bill and walked me to the door.

  We said our goodbyes inside the restaurant. I gave her a quick no-pressure hug. I didn’t have a ride home, so I figured I’d just walk. I could use the exercise. Although it was really cold, I didn’t want to walk out with her and have her feel pressured into giving me a ride. All the way back, my mind was focused on the cold, which was good because it kept me from overanalyzing the meeting.

  Tryouts were scheduled for Wednesday, after school. I was ready. In my corner now were two new people—my mom and Sam.

  I hoped so, anyway.

  Chapter 21

  It was the day of tryouts. I couldn’t focus in school at all. I sat in the café at lunch, trying to force down a turkey sandwich. I had to eat to get my energy level up, but my stomach was churning. Madison and Sabatini had said that tryouts were really just a formality for me, but at Hazelton, everyone had to try out, whether they were on scholarship or not. I knew I was good, and I had seen a few other junior pitchers working out with Madison who didn’t seem to pose much of a threat, but I still didn’t want to mess up. Everybody has an occasional bad day on the mound. I just hoped today wasn’t my turn.

  I saw Tuttle storm into the café. He seemed perturbed about something. He huddled with his Statesmen group for a few minutes. I flipped through the pages of the new book I had for English, Of Mice and Men, by John Steinbeck. I was happy to see it was only one hundred pages long.

  I wondered how men could be like mice, but my thoughts were interrupted when I saw Tuttle coming toward me. What the hell does he want? If he were a mouse, I would snap his head off in a trap. I should have known he was going to try to rattle me on tryout day. As he approached, I braced myself.

  “Hey, Dresden,” he said, acting casual, “I saw you on the list for tryouts today.”

  “So?” I asked, trying to remain mellow and calm.

  “You know that anyone carrying below a C-minus in any course can’t try out, right?”

  “Yeah, so?” I said, sounding pissed.

  “Well, aren’t you failing Trig?”

  “Uh, excuse me, but are we friends or something now? Why so concerned with my grades all of a sudden? I don’t remember discussing them with you in the past.”

  He knew that I knew he had messed with my quizzes. But what he didn’t know was that I had fixed everything with Mr. Moesch. I could see him putting it all together in his head. His expression changed.

  We stood there in silence for a moment. Then, from out of nowhere, two underclassmen stepped casually between Tuttle and me, acting as if they hadn’t realized they were walking into a confrontation.

  “Oh, excuse me, Dresden,” said the shorter of the two boys before continuing on his path across the café. I didn’t know him, but there was something in this guy’s gesture that struck me. He said “excuse me” to me, not to Tuttle, king of the Statesmen. He said it to me! I felt empowered.

  They’re not all Statesmen.

  I gathered my things and stood up. Getting close to Tuttle’s face, I said, “Two can play at your game, Tuttle.” Then I walked a few paces from him before turning and adding, “See you on the field today. Good luck.” You’re going to need it.

  Later that afternoon, I set off to change into my tryout outfit. It was still bitterly cold out, and though we practiced in the bubble, tryouts would be on one of the outdoor practice fields. I went into the ladies’ room and put on the gray uniform pants I’d saved from my old school. I slipped on a tight, white thermal shirt, and then a red jersey t-shirt I’d worn last year for tryouts. I figured it would give me some good luck.

  From my bag, I pulled out my good luck bear-charm necklace and fastened it around my neck. Then I slipped my feet into my black and white cleats. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and then through the back of the old red Phillies hat my grandpa had given me after I’d pitched my first no-hitter. I didn’t usually braid my ponytail, but I decided to do it today. Getting struck out by a girl was bad enough, but a braid would just twist the knife in the wound a little more.

  You can do this, Taylor. I leaned on the sink and stared at myself in the mirror. Relax, this is what you want—a challenge. Then came a knock on the door.

  “Be done in a minute!” I yelled.

  Again, the knock. “Taylor, it’s me, Sam. Open up,” he whispered.

  I cracked open the door. “What are you doing here?”

  “Come with me a minute,” he said, opening the door wider.

  “Uh, okay,” I said, following him down the hall.

  He opened the door to the equipment closet. “In here,” he said, motioning, looking down the hall to make sure no one was watching us. I stepped inside and he quickly closed the door.

  I sat on a stack of floor mats. “What’s up?” I asked, confused. I hadn’t talked to him since the Valentine’s Day dance.

  “Just want to tell you to be careful. The guys are pissed about the Trig thing.”

  “I’ll be fine, Barrett. Don’t worry.”

  He paced around before sitting down next to me. “I’m not in the loop anymore, so I don’t know what they may do.” He was obviously upset.

  I patted his hand. “Don’t worry, I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

  “Well, if you can’t, I’ve got your back.”

  “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  We sat quietly for a few moments. I kicked my feet against the mat a couple of times. He turned and looked me up
and down and smiled.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing. You look cute in your whole uniform thing.”

  I blushed and looked down at my feet. “Shut up.”

  “No, you do,” he said.

  “Thanks, I guess,” I muttered, still staring at my feet.

  “I’m serious. You really do,” he said. And then, he slowly put his finger under my chin and lifted it up. Oh my god, he’s going to kiss me.

  “I didn’t plan on doing this when I brought you in here, but I can’t help myself.” He moved his face toward mine and I met him halfway. His lips were so soft. My body temperature went up a few degrees as he kissed me.

  “Are you trying to ruin me for tryouts?” I asked after our kiss ended.

  “Sorry. Yeah, you’re right. We should save our adrenaline for the field, huh?”

  I stood up and agreed, “Yeah, we should.”

  “Maybe we could meet up after?” he said.

  “Dude, you’re killing me,” I said. “Could you just act like you hate me for the next few hours? I need to be a rock and you’re turning me into Play-Doh, acting like this.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Did the Statesmen tell you to kiss me to mess with my head?” I said. He stood next to me and shook his head before trying to kiss me again. “Not fair,” I said, stepping back.

  “Oh, right, act like I hate you. I got it.” He walked quickly toward the door and opened it. Then he yelled back to me, trying not to laugh, “And another thing, Dresden. You suck!”

  I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.

  Tryouts were anything but funny. I’d never been through such an exhausting round. There were a total of eight people trying out for pitcher. Three would make varsity, three would make JV, and two would be cut. The coaches started everyone with a few laps around the field. They paired up all the pitchers with catchers, and a group of coaches walked around observing each pair.

  Then came the batters. The coaches made all the pitchers face a whole lineup of hitters. The first three guys gave up a few hits. Tuttle was fourth to pitch, and he hadn’t given up a hit yet. For some reason, I was set to pitch last. I overheard one of the pitchers complaining that the batters would be tired by then and I’d have it easy.

  I called him out on his crap. “What number are you?”

  “Fifth,” he said, flashing his number at me.

  I grabbed it and tossed him mine. “Here, now you’re eighth, smart ass.”

  “Uh, I didn’t mean—”

  I walked away before he had a chance to argue. I refused to let anyone think I was getting on this team just because I was a girl.

  Then, all of a sudden, I was up. I passed Tuttle, who in the end surrendered only one hit, as he walked down into the dugout. He decided to shift sideways, forcing me to dodge right. Class act, that Tuttle.

  I took my spot on the mound. The first guy went down in three pitches. The second batter took a ball, then swung like a madman and missed my next three fastballs. The third guy made contact with my second pitch and fouled it back, but that was the only contact he made.

  The fourth batter was Sam. When I saw him approach the batter’s box, I forced back all inclinations to smile. I also tried to forget what had just happened in the equipment room.

  He stood on the left side of the plate. What are you doing on that side? You know righty is your stronger side. Trying to make it easy for me, are you? I stepped off the mound and signaled Coach Madison. He jogged out quickly. “What’s up?”

  “May I request that he bat righty?”

  Madison knew why. “Gotta love a girl who loves a challenge,” he said. He whistled at Barrett and pointed. “Other side, Barrett.”

  Sam shook his head and smiled as he switched sides. I began my delivery. Ball one. Shoot. Curve ball, strike one. He just watched that one.

  Next one, fly ball, deep left field.

  Caught.

  The next four batters went down easily. I was the first pitcher not to give up a hit. I went back to the dugout.

  Madison nodded and tapped me on the shoulder with his clipboard. “Impressive,” he whispered.

  I stuck around and watched the rest of the pitchers. Pitcher number eight got roped. I guess the batters weren’t tired after all.

  Once everyone had finished, Barrett caught up to me as I walked off the field.

  “I will strike you out one day, Barrett,” I said.

  “Too bad we’re playing on the same team.”

  “There’s always batting practice,” I said. I kept a good distance from him. I didn’t know who could be watching.

  “You’re on, Dresden,” he said, closing the gap between us.

  “So, should we talk about what happened earlier in the equipment room?”

  “Yeah, I’d love to,” he said, nudging my arm.

  I was surprised he was confident enough to touch me in public. “Well, what does it all mean?” I asked.

  “Hmm, what does it mean?” he said. He pretended to mull it over. “It means whatever you want it to mean, I guess. I don’t want to put any pressure on you. I just know if I do that again with anyone anytime soon, I hope that someone is you.”

  “What about all the Statesmen?”

  He shrugged. “Who?”

  I wasn’t sure if this meant Sam Barrett and I were a thing, or going out, or what, but I had to focus on baseball right now and prepare for the scouts. I decided to relax about Sam and let whatever was going to happen just happen.

  Chapter 22

  That Friday, the list of people who made the varsity team was posted outside the gym. I heard it was put up after lunch, but I didn’t want to look while surrounded by a big crowd of guys. I figured I would wait until later. I did really well in tryouts, but I still felt nervous that the Statesmen might have messed it all up somehow. What if they’re powerful enough to fix it so I don’t make the team? I’d have spent all this time here suffering alone for nothing. No scout will ever see me. I’ll never get into a decent college.

  I felt nauseated, but I kept my distance from the gym. I wanted to see that list when no one was watching.

  I had asked Sam to keep our relationship quiet in school, because I didn’t want to draw any more attention to myself. But he still sent me a text once or twice a day that kept me smiling. Shortly after the list was up, a text came in.

  “See the list?”

  “Nope.”

  “Go look.”

  “Later.”

  “Want me to tell u?”

  “NO!”

  “Ok, text me.”

  During study period, I couldn’t take it anymore. I asked to use the bathroom and hustled toward the gym. I stared up at the long list of varsity names on the door: “Atkins, Barrett, Brown, Dunnell, Dresden . . .”

  “Yes!” I said, slapping my hands together. Yes, yes, yes. The last few months of solitude, torture, and studying had all been worth it.

  I ducked into the nearest ladies’ bathroom, took out my cell, and dialed my dad at work. “Dad, I did it. I made the team!” I exclaimed, excited.

  “Of course you did,” he replied happily.

  Daily practice began the following week, and it was a killer. I was so tired afterward that sometimes I fell asleep in my room before 9 p.m. My muscles had never hurt so bad and been so happy at the same time. Things were finally going my way.

  Then came our first practice game.

  The junior varsity and the varsity were to scrimmage against one another. Although it was obvious that the varsity team would win, it was a good way to allow the teams to play together, and for the players to get to know each other as a team. We were set to play the full seven innings. I wasn’t scheduled to start, but the coaches said they were going to field everybody.

  I really wanted to start. I’d been a reliever all summer, but I wasn’t fond of that role. Starters were, in my opinion, the real pitchers. Closers and relievers just had a lot of heat. I liked the feeling I used to get sticking
it out for the whole game. It took stamina to go the distance, to wear the other team down, one batter at a time. I wanted to be a starter. When the time was right, I was going to mention that to Madison.

  Most of the varsity team—my team—was made up of juniors and seniors. I’d seen most of the guys in class and, to my knowledge, the only Statesmen on the varsity team were Sam, who had recently resigned from the group, Grossman, Roberts, and my “friend,” William Tuttle. At least I knew I wouldn’t have to be on the field at the same time as him. Of course, I might have to relieve him, or vice versa, and that would be, well, interesting.

  I figured I’d made it this far, and I knew, although he was one of the four Statesmen who beat up Sam, that alone, Tuttle was intimidated by Sam. He had obviously spent the last four years looking up to him, and I sensed he still knew that Sam was somehow superior. Sam had moved on with his life, grown too mature for the whole evil clique, and Tuttle was jealous. He was looking to prove himself. As I watched him enter the gym, I thought that maybe I was in trouble.

  Before the game, we all met inside the gym with the coaches. They were treating the scrimmage like a real game, going over game plans, giving us the lineup that would probably remain for the season. Barrett was the leadoff man. Tuttle was starting pitcher.

  “All right, get in uniform and meet us outside on the field. It’s cold out there, so dress warmly, especially you pitchers,” Coach Houghton said.

  There was still no locker room for me to use, so I went out into the hall and down past the equipment room to the ladies’ room. I changed into my Hazelton practice uniform. (Yes, this school actually had practice uniforms for scrimmages. Must be nice to be filthy rich.) The shirt was blue, and across the front was the word “Hazelton.” On the side of the sleeves was a big “V” for Varsity.

  I was all set and ready to go. I unlocked the bathroom door and tried to pull it open. It wouldn’t budge. I tried to lock and unlock it again, but it still wouldn’t open. I yanked and threw my shoulder into it, trying to release it, but then the handle fell off and onto the floor. It had cracked in half and the handle on the outside of the door was still on, so I couldn’t even see into the hallway. Drat!