Play On

by Michelle Smith

  I shouldn’t read her personal stuff. That’s the first rule in the history of rules: never read a girl’s journal, or diary, or even her freakin’ notebook. But the scrawled writing across the first page practically screams at me as I pick it up.

  I’m slipping again. Nothing’s helping. Nothing.

  I don’t know what to do.

  My heart races as I glance to the doorway. What the hell does “slipping” mean? Not literally, I’m assuming, considering it’s kind of hard to slip and write at the same time. But it’s not like I can ask her what it means, because then she’ll know I was reading her stuff, and then I’ll be the one mysteriously “slipping” down the stairs with a pissed-off girlfriend at the top. And I value my pitching arm a little too much for that to be a possibility.

  Footsteps pound up the stairs. I slam the notebook closed and place it on top of the pile. Marisa appears in the doorway, cute and happy and sweet as ever with that smile that drives me wild. And all I can think about is what I read on that stupid piece of paper. This is what I get for being a nosy ass.

  “Hey,” she says, crossing the room with our bowl of popcorn. “You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  My mouth opens, but no words come. Come on, words. You can do it. Speeeeeak.

  I got nothin’.

  She sits next to me on the bed, the springs squeaking beneath us. She cringes, and finally, a laugh bubbles up in my throat. It’s ridiculous and creepy and borderline psychotic, but it’s better than silence. She nudges me over until I’m in the middle of the bed, and when I look into her eyes, all I see are scribbled words and scars etched into her skin. And I hope to God they’re not connected. I don’t know what I’d do if they are. I’m not sure I could handle it.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, the words coming out in a croaked whisper.

  Her eyebrows scrunch together as she crosses her legs on the bed. “I’m great. Why?”

  She says she’s great. She wouldn’t lie to me. Run with it. “You promise? You wouldn’t lie to me, right?”

  She tilts her head, seeming insulted that I even asked her. “Are you okay? You’re kind of freaking me out.”

  No. I’m confused as hell. “Yeah,” I reply. “Yeah, I just—” I shake my head, looking down at the comforter. “I’m good. Fine. Never mind.”

  She shifts, placing her arm around my back. “I wouldn’t lie to you. I don’t have any reason to. I’ve told you pretty much everything there is to know about me. You know that, right?”

  She gazes at me with those big green eyes, all wide and doe-like. I stare into them again, trying to find any hint of a lie or even a bent truth, but there’s nothing but innocence. So if she says she’s fine, she is, right? Maybe that wasn’t the last thing she was writing. Maybe it was a passing thought of hers.

  Maybe I should just stop thinking altogether.

  I cup her chin, bringing her to me for a kiss. Here, with my lips pressed against hers, everything’s okay. Everything makes sense. And I trust her. If she says she’s fine, she’s fine. That’s all there is to it.

  She rests her forehead against mine and asks, “You all right now, worrywart?”

  I pull away with a nod. “If you’re okay, so am I.”

  “Good, because I can’t have you being all crazy when I leave for Maryland next week.” She squeezes my leg and points to my book. “Now show me what we’re working on tonight.”

  I flip through the pages until I land on the chapter Mr. Matthews emailed me the study guide for. “I missed all this while I was out sick,” I tell her. “Alkali metals. The study guide doesn’t look that hard. I’ve already memorized which elements are designated as alkali—”

  “Wow.” I look up at her. Her smile falters, but returns quickly. “It’s just that you’re getting good. At this studying thing. Soon you won’t even need my help anymore.”

  There’s something strange in her voice. Something almost sad. Unsure. Wrapping my arm around her back, I pull her to me for a side-hug. “You have no idea how far you are from the truth.”

  chapter seventeen

  Every season, the road to the away game at Beaufort is paved with blood, sweat, and tears. Usually ours. Okay, always ours. We haven’t won a game on their turf in the three years I’ve played varsity. Tradition isn’t on our side tonight.

  Our team bus squeals to a stop outside the Eagles’ field. I yank my earbuds out and stuff them into my gear bag, along with my phone. Their guys are already out there warming up. Their bleachers aren’t nearly as packed as ours, but they’ve got a decent crowd. Baseball doesn’t rule supreme here, but that doesn’t mean a thing when they’re whoopin’ our asses.

  “We’re not gonna get our asses whooped today,” Eric mutters beside me. I glance over. He slides on his sunglasses. “It’s a good day to break the streak, Braxton.”

  No pressure.

  Matt leans over the seat and slaps my shoulder. “Dude’s right. Don’t wanna disappoint your fan club.” He points out the window. A white van with Channel 5 Action News! plastered on its side is parked next to us.

  Panic shoots through me. They wouldn’t be here for me, right? Our own town doesn’t send a news crew to the games. A few write-ups in the paper are my only claim to fame.

  I shift in my seat so I can see Matt. “The hell’s that got to do with me?”

  “Beaufort ain’t nothin’ special,” he says, settling against his seat. “Why else would they have a news van out here?”

  I turn back around, facing the front. “You’re a prick, Matt.”

  “And you’re an overrated—”

  “Shut the hell up,” Eric says. “Why don’t you go fu—”

  “Gentlemen,” Coach shouts from the front of the bus. He glares in our direction, his face tight. I swallow hard. “You’ve clearly noticed we have extra eyes on the field today. Very public and very prying eyes. Eyes that would eat up even a hint of fighting amongst teammates.”

  He crosses his arms, steeling himself. “That night I brought y’all to the field, before this season even started, I reminded you of one fact: you are a family. And while you’re on my field, or in my locker room, or on my bus, you will act like you’re on a damn episode of Little House on the Prairie instead of some reality BS. Do we understand each other?”

  I lower my head and mutter, “Yes, sir” along with everyone else.

  “And for God’s sake,” he adds. “Watch your damn mouths.”

  The doors squeak. Coach stomps off the bus, which I guess is our cue to follow. The team mood’s gone from low to downright funeral-worthy. This game should be a blast.

  Coach is standing off to the side as I step off the bus. He curves his finger, signaling me over. I tug on the brim of my cap, shielding my eyes from the setting sun as I walk up to him.

  “That van isn’t here for you,” he says in a low voice. “I got a message from the Eagles’ coach, telling me the local news is doing a showcase on their pitcher. He’s heading to Florida State this fall.”

  My lungs deflate. For some stupid reason, Matt got to me. I should’ve known better.

  Coach pats me on the back. “Don’t let people like him under your skin. You’re better than that. He isn’t worth your sanity. You hear me?”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.”

  “Tunnel vision,” he reminds me. “Go take your place, and let’s play some ball.”

  We’re winning. I don’t know how the heck it happened or what twisted sacrifice one of our guys offered to the baseball gods, but I’m not one to question the powers that be. When who I hope is the final batter steps to the plate, we’re up 4-3. All I’ve got to do is keep it that way.

  I glance over my left shoulder. Over my right. Runners are at the corners, holding steady at first and third. My arm’s sore as all get-out, but if I can just send this guy packin’, we’re golden. Three more strikes to conquer the Beaufort curse. I can do this. I have to do this.

  Wind up. Release. The ball soars into Jay’s glove with
a solid smack. Okay. Maybe this is actually possible. I send another ball flying past the batter, one that he never even saw coming. Jay lofts the ball back to me, and I roll my shoulders, gearing up for the final strike. Because it will be the final strike, damn it. And in Jay’s words, we’ll be one step closer to knockin’ back beers at the river and livin’ easy during Spring Break.

  On home turf, now would be the time to scan the bleachers for Marisa’s smiling face, for that last push of motivation. Here, even glancing to the bleachers would be a death wish. Dozens of fans drove out here from Lewis Creek, but I have a feeling I don’t want to see their faces.

  My knees buckle slightly as I stare down the batter. One more strike, and I’m golden. Jay signals curveball. I grip the ball just right. Wind up. Release.

  I already know it’s off.

  Crack.

  The ball soars over my head. I whirl around, praying that Matt snags it in centerfield. Going. Going. Matt slams into the fence, his glove outstretched as the ball sails right over it. Gone.

  Game. And a piss-poor one at that.

  Jay stands as the Beaufort players spill onto the field, tackling their guy once he crosses home plate. He pulls up his mask, shock clouding his face. I know exactly what he’s thinking: What the hell just happened?

  And I know the answer: Long live the Beaufort curse.

  Yanking off my glove, I head into the lineup that’s forming. I walk down the line. Shake their hands. I hate ’em. But they played better.

  Their pitcher is at the end, a guy named Troy. He grabs my hand in a shake, a smirk on his face as he says, “I’m still wide awake, Sandman. Didn’t live up to your hype. Not that I expected you to.”

  I freeze. His eyes lock on mine, daring me to say or do something, anything, that’ll make for a good show. But what he doesn’t realize is that I just don’t have the damn energy. I snatch my hand from his and keep walking.

  The bus is silent as we pile on. I flop back in my seat, with Eric doing the same beside me. No one speaks to me. No one even looks at me. Here’s to hoping it stays that way. Coach stops in the aisle up front, waiting for us all to settle down. His gaze passes over me. I lower mine.

  “Y’all started off strong,” he says. “I’ll give you that. But after that first inning, your offense was weak.” Yep. “Pitching was off.” Yeah. “Defense was terrible and completely uninspired.” Nailed it.

  “But more than that,” he continues, “you walked onto that field with God-awful attitudes. That was shameful. Pathetic. You don’t win games like that. You’re champions, and champions walk onto fields with their heads held high. Champions act like a team. You play like a team, even when you want to rip each other’s throats out. Don’t make me start eliminating weak links. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” we all mumble.

  “What was that?” he asks.

  “Yes, sir,” we shout.

  He pats the driver’s shoulder and sits in his own seat. As the bus lurches out of the parking lot, I dig into my gear bag and pull out my phone. My forehead wrinkles as I scroll through my messages. Marisa said she’d text after work. It’s past seven, so she should be long gone by now.

  Hey, I type. Home yet?

  The time ticks by on my phone’s screen. Seven-seventeen. Seven-eighteen. Seven-nineteen. At seven-thirty, I try again. You there?

  By eight, still nothing.

  Eric’s got his head tossed back against the seat, with his earbuds in and his cap over his face. I glance across the aisle. Brett and Jay are in the seat beside ours, with Brett passed out against his window. Jay’s mouth is dropped open like a fish as he snores. I don’t need to wake everybody up, but—

  Screw it.

  I hit Marisa’s number. The phone rings half a dozen times before I finally get a quiet, “Yeah?”

  I stare out the window, watching the fields fly by. “Hey,” I say, keeping my voice down. “Everything all right?”

  “Fine.”

  Something tugs at me inside. She doesn’t exactly sound fine. “You sure? You sound…” I almost say upset, but instead go with, “tired.”

  There’s a quick sniffle. My eyebrows scrunch as I wait for her to say something, anything. She’s been crying. She’s been crying and I’m not there, and I won’t be there for another hour.

  Finally, she says, “I’m okay. Promise.” There’s this weird emptiness in her voice, a dismissiveness. “I’m kind of out of it, but I’m okay. I’ll call you later, all right?”

  No, it’s not. It doesn’t sound all right at all. I lean forward. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m okay now, and I’ll be okay the next time you ask,” she snaps. I wince. “I’ll call you later, Austin.”

  The phone goes silent. My heart screams at me to call her back, to tell her I’m here, to beg her to talk to me. My head tells me to wait, to trust her, to have faith that everything will work out. The sad thing is, I’ve never really been good at telling which one is right.

  One in the morning. Two in the morning. Three in the morning comes and goes with no call. No text. Before I plug in my nearly dead phone, I scroll through my contacts and hit Marisa’s number. It goes straight to voicemail. I don’t know what’s going on with her, but it’s safe to say that it’s freaking me the hell out.

  I don’t think she’s okay. And I have no idea what to do.

  chapter eighteen

  On my way to school Friday morning, I call her cell again. No answer.

  Before homeroom, I break down and call her house number. Her mom says she’s “fine—sick, but fine,” and that she’ll call me sometime later. And I’ve decided that I really freakin’ hate the word “fine.”

  On my way to the shop that afternoon, I should be happy that I nailed another Chemistry test. I should be excited as hell that it’s officially Spring Break and I’m free from school for two weeks. But the only things coursing through me are worry and panic because I haven’t talked to my girlfriend in nearly twenty-four hours. When I was with Jamie, going a day or two without speaking to each other was nothing. She had her friends, and I had mine. But with Marisa, things are infinitely different.

  Also, Jamie didn’t exactly have a history of slicing up her arm. But I’m trying really hard not to think about that right now. And I feel like an asshole for my brain even going there.

  I swerve into my spot in front of the shop, my heart skipping a beat when Marisa’s space is empty. She’s supposed to be here. She’s supposed to be here and we’re supposed to talk this out, because that’s the way I’ve been envisioning things in my head all day. Of course that’d be too easy. I must have seriously screwed something up in a past life.

  I jump out of my truck and jog up to the door, where Momma’s cleaning the windows. Marisa’s job.

  “Where’s Marisa?” I ask.

  Momma looks about as tired as I am freaked. “No practice today?”

  “No more practice ’til after Easter. Where is she?”

  “That’s right.” She uses her sleeve to wipe the hair out of her face. “She called out this morning. Didn’t sound well at all.”

  Somehow, my stomach drops and leaps into my chest at the same time. “Momma—”

  “I’m sure your girlfriend’s just fine,” she says, squeezing my shoulder. “I know you want to rush in and save the day, but for all you know, the poor girl’s sick as a dog.”

  “Then I can help her. She came over for me. I’ll take her soup, or ginger ale, or something. Anything.”

  “Relax.” She shoos me on toward the counter. “That’s what her momma’s there for. Give the girl some space. Her momma can handle things just fine until we close up. If she says she’ll be okay, then she’ll be okay.”

  That’s three hours from now. I can handle three hours. I think.

  Dang it. No, I can’t. I’m gonna go insane. I plop onto the stool behind the counter.

  The sky darkens outside as clouds roll in. Our weatherman said to expect one heck of a storm th
is afternoon. I usually crave a good thunderstorm, but today, I really hope he’s wrong. Storms always bring the bad shit that life throws at you.

  The bell above the door chimes. Mr. Joyner strolls into the shop, a frown on his face.

  Speaking of the bad shit.

  See, people in this town love our team. They’ll do anything under the sun for us when we’re on a winning streak. But when we lose? You’d think we just proclaimed our love for torturing kittens. It turns nice guys like ol’ Mr. Joyner into hornets.

  “Lordy, Lordy,” Momma mutters under her breath. She plasters a smile to her face as he approaches the counter. “What can we do for you, Mr. Joyner?”

  Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he nods toward me. “Thought I’d take a minute to talk to Austin here about last night’s game.”

  I’d prefer if he didn’t. Coach talked to us enough. And I’m really in no mood to watch him smack on his chewing tobacco.

  Momma folds her arms. “If it’s all the same, Austin has work to do. Some other time.”

  Shock flashes across Mr. Joyner’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. He strokes his chin, looking between the two of us. That Lewis Creek High baseball state championship ring on his finger glimmers beneath the store’s lights. I’ve got my own ring from last year, but there’s no way in heck I’d wear it on a daily basis; that thing’s a prized possession. I’m pretty sure Mr. Joyner never takes his off.

  He drums his hands on the counter and points at me as he backs away. “Remember to keep your eyes on the prize,” he tells me. “Eyes always on the prize.”

  The door slams behind him. Momma blows out a breath and squeezes my shoulder, her hand lingering there. “There are more important prizes than baseball,” she says. “That’s all you need to remember.”

  At six o’clock on the dot, I flip the door’s sign to Closed. Not that I really need to, considering I haven’t seen a soul other than Momma since Mr. Joyner went on his way. Rain splatters against the shop’s windows like nobody’s business as the wind whips, rattling the awning above the sidewalk.