Likely Story!

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Likely Story! Page 42

by David Levithan


  “Hey there,” said Jake, moseying up to me. “I knew there would be payoff when I agreed to pick up Amelia.”

  I held up a hand, as if the international sign for stay-away-from-me-you-leprous-swine could keep him at bay. “Gmf mafay frm ee,” I garbled through a mouthful of sour apple.

  “‘Kiss me, Jake?’ Anything you say, luscious.”

  He actually leaned in. So I took out my gum and pasted it on his face. “Eat it.”

  He was unfazed. “That’s no way to treat the president’s brother,” he said, stretching the gum from his nose and twirling it around his finger. “You should be nicer to me. I do all of Amelia’s press releases. I could start adding your name to the letterhead if you’re not careful. Then you’d have no choice but to attend every single fund-raiser she ever throws.”

  “You know, if you put half the effort into proofreading your work that you do into torturing me, I might actually take you seriously.”

  “Spell-check takes too long. Besides, no one would think a fan club is for real if its newsletters went out without a few typos.”

  “Well, for future reference,” I said, “there’s a z in extravaganza.”

  He shrugged. “The z button on my computer sticks. You figured it out. And you’re not exactly the brightest bulb, are you? Shapely … just not bright.”

  I felt like I could pick up a disease just talking to him.

  “Is there a problem here?”

  Jake and I turned to see Dallas.

  “Everybody’s climbing the walls waiting for the gum, Mallory,” he said.

  “We’re kind of having a conversation here,” said Jake.

  “It looks pretty one-sided to me,” said Dallas.

  I agreed, and took Dallas’s arm to lead him away before things got any tenser.

  “But, Mallory,” cried Jake, “you forgot your gum!” I didn’t have to look behind me to know it was wadded up and displayed on the end of a certain finger.

  Dallas and I walked back to the field, silent most of the way.

  “Does that guy skeeve you out as much as he skeeves me out?” he asked.

  “Nah … Jake’s a walking health-code violation, but ultimately he’s pretty harmless.” I was keeping mum, mostly because I didn’t know how to broach the subject of our encounter the other day. It would have been so much easier, at least in the short run, if we didn’t mention it. But it had to be done. I just wished it didn’t have to happen while I was wearing tube socks and Umbros.

  “We kind of had a moment, didn’t we?” I asked.

  “I feel like we’ve had a bunch of moments. That one in my dressing room was just the biggest and latest one,” Dallas said.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I admitted.

  “I should’ve told Alexis to beat it right away.” He sighed.

  “And I shouldn’t have run out. I got kind of overwhelmed. A lot of things hit me all of a sudden.”

  “Keith,” he said.

  “Definitely Keith.”

  “No,” said Dallas, pointing. “Keith.”

  I looked toward the dugout and saw Keith in his CPK uniform balancing a stack of pizza boxes as Alexis pushed a bundle of cash into his pocket.

  “Maybe now isn’t such a great time to talk,” Dallas said.

  “No kidding.” I watched as Keith followed Alexis to a table and saw Dallas and me in the process.

  It looked like Alexis and Amelia had thought of everything.

  Keith had ditched work to watch the rest of the game. Under other circumstances, I might’ve appreciated the support, but he didn’t do a lot of cheering. Mostly he sat in the stands and stared at Dallas, like a sniper waiting for the “go” signal. My distraction did wonders for TH’s batters. Dallas and Gina spent the top of the eighth and top of the ninth chasing down runaway fly balls (Mom was of no use with her lazy lope).

  By the time Luc Franklin took the plate in the ninth inning, I was drained. I could no longer bring the heat, and my curve-ball had all the swerve of a training bra. Three pitches in quick succession were way out of the strike zone, and I was in danger of loading the bases. That’s when Alexis—my manager—emerged from the dugout and made her way to the mound. The infield brought it in.

  “I think we’ve come to the end of the road,” said Alexis un-apologetically.

  “Now, hold on a second,” said Francesca. “Mallory held them scoreless for eight innings.”

  “But her mind has mysteriously gone elsewhere, taking her pitching arm with it. She can’t close it out,” said Alexis, “and we need a win.”

  “What for? There’s no World Series of Soap Softball,” I said.

  “Exactly,” said Tamika. “We’re playing for the kids.”

  Richard was getting impatient. “But the kids have already won. They’re getting their cancer cure. We’re playing for bragging rights. Do any of you want to lose to these jokers? A bunch of over-tan, over-hyped, over-emoters? Do any of you want to send Luc Franklin and his posse of brahs on their way with a trophy they can lord over us on the red carpet in a few weeks’ time? Or do you want to walk out of here winners?”

  “Thank you, Coach,” I said. “Look, I don’t want to lose any more than you do, but it doesn’t look like Alexis planned for this contingency. Or do you have an all-star in your back pocket?”

  Javier actually looked at Richard’s back pocket.

  “Just let me finish this,” I continued. “I promise we’ll go out with a bang.”

  Richard opened his mouth to protest.

  “And we’ll get a ton of press out of it.”

  He shut his mouth.

  “Just do me one thing: Be ready.”

  Tamika didn’t like the tone of my voice. “For what?”

  “You’ll know.”

  They headed back to their positions. Scooter hung back. “Do you really have a couple of strikes left in you, Ace?”

  “Probably not. I refuse to lose this game, Scooter. But I don’t think I’m going to be able to win it, either. At least not the old-fashioned way.”

  “I don’t think there are ties in softball, Mallory.”

  “No. But there are forfeits. You have health insurance, right?”

  I told him my plan, and he returned to the backstop, crouching down behind Luc, who took a few practice swings and stepped up to the plate. Scooter looked at me and signaled between his legs. Two fingers. I nodded and began my windup, just as Scooter said something under his breath to Luc. Before I released the ball, I saw Luc flinch and dart a glance at Scooter.

  “STRIKE ONE!”

  Scooter tossed the ball back to me. Luc replied to Scooter, forcefully enough to send a few flecks of saliva twirling from his lips. Whatever he said, it was blue enough to shock the ump, who did a double take. Scooter, unperturbed, got back into position and signaled: three fingers. I took my sweet time getting ready for the next pitch, allowing Scooter an eternity to up the ante. He mouthed off to Luc once more, and the strain on Luc was clear even from my perch on the mound. Despite the slothlike speed of my pitch, Luc caught nothing but air.

  “STRIKE TWO!”

  Luc now turned and faced Scooter full on. Scooter showed his hands, as if to say, I’m unarmed. The ump got between them. People in the stands sat up and took notice. The TH dugout bristled, and I made sure to make eye contact with all the people on my team, sending them my telepathic message: This is it. I hope.

  The ump succeeded in separating Scooter and Luc, which was not the easiest thing to do, given the height and weight and muscular advantage Luc had. Luc prepped himself in the batter’s box, trying to shake off Scooter’s mysterious insults. I looked to Scooter for his signal: five fingers. He was about to go all out. I made a promise to myself, and to God: If this works, I will write into Likely Story one plot of Scooter’s choosing, even if it involves trapping Ryan in a genie’s bottle.

  I gripped the ball, reached back, threw—and caught Luc looking.

  “STRIKE THREE!”

  “No w
ay!” screamed Luc. Now I could hear what he was saying. “This is bull!” He slammed his bat to the ground and got in the ump’s face. First came the obscenities. Then came the gesturing. Then came the dirt kicking. Then came the ump, throwing Luc out of the game. Then came Scooter with the coup de grâce: one last barb, the only words of which I caught were momma and wuss.

  And then came Luc, charging poor Scooter. Then came me, Tamika, Richard, Javier, and Francesca charging Luc. Then came the emptying of the TH dugout onto the field and into the fray. Then came Gina, Dallas, Keith, and even Mom, pulling and pushing and, yes, even hitting (or in some cases, slapping). Then came the fans. Then came the cops. Then came the black eyes and fat lips. Then came the reporters. And then came the lawyers. Then came the publicity.

  And then, finally, came Richard’s smile.

  The comments Scooter made to inflame Luc were the subject of much speculation, from Cloverdale’s gym locker room (where Scooter gained new celebrity status) to the studio’s makeup room. Luc wasn’t talking, and the ump didn’t squeal, either. (Richard maintained that Luc bought his silence.) Scooter was keeping mum, too, but for dramatic purposes. “Make ’em laugh, make ’em cry, make ’em wait “was what he said whenever I begged him to dish the dirt. Word of Scooter’s philosophy got back to Trip, who briefly considered hiring him as a consultant, until Richard applied the brakes, saying that he already had enough teenagers to deal with.

  Spirits were high at the studio in the wake of the softball brawl. The network even sent another gift basket: dried fruit. It was unclear whether this was a step up or a step down. The lumps we took on the field were war wounds, proudly displayed. “See this?” asked Javier, rolling up a sleeve for a trio of burly electricians. “Teeth marks. Tropical Hospital’s third baseman and resident amnesiac bit me!” They were duly impressed. “And when it was all over, he asked me out! I hope he doesn’t forget my number!”

  There was no way I was messing with this success, not even to clarify my situation with Dallas. Nothing happened, I was back to reminding myself, and the farther away from him I stayed, the surer I could be that it would remain that way.

  I even began to seriously consider the unthinkable: dropping my vendetta against my mother. The end of the Emmy voting period was fast approaching, and the ceremony was right after it. I still had in my possession the silver bullet that could cripple her dream, but if I was going to take aim and fire, I had little time left to do it.

  Maybe I won’t have to, I thought. Maybe I blew this all out of proportion.

  But my mother couldn’t leave well enough alone.

  Keith needed a tux for the Emmys, and I needed to be there when he picked it out. I’d offered to hook him up, but he adamantly refused my charity, especially when he already had something (his words) “totally right” for the occasion: a powder-blue number, a family heirloom that he once wore ironically to a future-themed sophomore dance. I didn’t “hate” the idea, but ran it by Gina as she gave Richard a trim and Alexis waited for her daily flatironing. Gina was totally in favor of anything “different.” But Richard nixed it and Alexis backed him up. “Do you want the people from E! to make a fool out of your boyfriend on national TV?” she squealed. She had a point. I’d already made a fool out of him on the Internet and in print. One more strike and I’d be out.

  “Here’s what you do,” said Gina. “I know a guy who runs a tux shop at the Beverly Center; we used to send a lot of business his way whenever Good As Gold shot a wedding, which for a three-year period in the late eighties was once every six weeks. Take Keith there this afternoon and drop my name. That way you’re not paying for it and neither is he. Keith will be rolling in comped Armani by sundown.”

  Later, Keith rolled up to the studio in his Mustang and we headed for the mall. He clung to my hand between shifts.

  “Sure you can handle this baby and me at the same time?” I asked. “Wouldn’t want you to dent a fender.”

  “What’s a little chrome between lovers?” He dropped that last word like he was test-driving it. He was definitely interested, but not yet ready to make a down payment.

  I got caught looking.

  “What? Is my hair messed up?” he said.

  “Lovers?” I teased.

  “Is that weird?” he asked.

  “Not if we’re disillusioned Cold War spies, faking our deaths to run off together to Fiji.”

  “All you had to do was say it’s weird,” he grumbled. He glanced in his rearview mirror and waved at the driver tailgating us. “Go around if you don’t like my driving….”

  “It’s cute,” I insisted. But cute won me no points. I should’ve known. Few guys are enlightened enough to take it as a compliment. “But whatever happened to girlfriend/ boyfriend?”

  “That’s what I said,” Keith busted out. “But your friend the reporter was all, ‘That sounds so high school.’ So I said, ‘Uh, sweethearts?’ No, too old folks home. ‘Steady?’ Too preppy. ‘Boy toy/ladylove?’ Too sarcastic. It went on like that until I told her that I only had twenty minutes left before Universal Themes class, so she’d better move the interview along.”

  Alarms were going off in my head. “Okay, hold on,” I said. “Reporter friend? Interview?”

  “And that’s another thing! When exactly were you going to tell me about that?” Keith griped. “I could’ve used a heads-up. Especially when she started asking about you and Dallas.”

  That sudden gnawing in the pit of my stomach was the feeling of my soul trying to dig itself a place to hide from Keith’s sidelong stare.

  “What did she want to know?” I asked slowly.

  Keith was darting glances to and from his rearview mirror.

  “Just pass me already!” he complained.

  “Why would she ask you about me and Dallas?” Like I didn’t already know the answer. I just wanted to see if Keith did, too.

  “I dunno, maybe somebody besides me and Amelia and all those bloodhounds on the Internet finally figured out that you and Dallas look a little more like you and me than you and me do. All I know is, I spent my whole study hall trying to convince this woman that you and Dallas are just friends and that you and I are still together. And now all I can think of are what kinds of verbs and adjectives she’s going to use to describe me in People freakin’ magazine. Struggling? Lackluster? Clueless?”

  “You’re none of those things,” I promised him. “And I’m sorry you got blindsided. I was hoping I could stop it from getting this far.”

  “Stop what?” he asked, coming dangerously close to anger. “The article? Or the reason it’s being written?”

  Both, actually. But I didn’t know how to tell him that. I didn’t know how to tell him that my mother thought he was holding me back. That she thought we should break up. That she was actually trying to make that happen. That from her cracked point of view, she was doing for me what I couldn’t do for myself. And that she might be right. That the more distance I kept between Dallas and me, the closer we got. That I’d asked Keith to give me time to smother my feelings for Dallas, but I’d wound up fanning the flames instead. That despite the desperate guarantees I’d made myself that nothing happened, something most definitely would have if not for Alexis’s timely arrival. And that something kept trying to happen.

  The bottom line was, I didn’t know how to hurt him.

  But looking at him now was almost like looking at a stranger. His fingernails were chewed to the pink. His once serene surfer’s face was now always carved with one worry line or another.

  I’d thought I didn’t know how to hurt him … but the truth was, I’d become an expert at it a while ago.

  I took a deep breath. Keep it simple, I told myself.

  “My mother set up the People interview behind my back. She’s trying to break us up.”

  Keith flung a look at me. “Seriously?”

  “Keith, watch out!” I shrieked.

  Keith slammed the brakes, and we came to a flying halt one foot short of the
Benz in front of us. “Are—are you okay?” he stammered.

  But just as I caught my breath, it was knocked out of me again as the car jolted forward, bumped from behind. We froze for a moment, his hand on mine as we both awaited the aftershock of a chain reaction crash, but none came. I guess the other drivers knew better than to drop bombs while cruising the highway.

  “I’m fine.” I was trembling when Keith checked in again. “Are you okay?”

  Keith nodded, but the sickly color of his face told otherwise. “I’m afraid to look at the car,” he said.

  “Do you want me to?”

  Keith shook his head forlornly, like I’d offered to identify the body of a presumed-dead loved one. “No. I should be the one.” He unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door, right into the bright pop of a flashbulb.

  “What the hell?”

  The paparazzo who’d rear-ended us snapped away. “Why’d you stop short, Keith? Are you drunk? Are you high?”

  “Did you follow us out of the studio lot?!” I yelled.

  Keith shoved past the paparazzo and crept to the back of the Mustang, terrified at what he might find. I craned my neck and looked out the back windshield. The blood returned to Keith’s face … with the force of a tidal wave. The paparazzo was oblivious to the transformation Keith was undergoing, from mild-mannered SoCal high school student to 150-pound Hulk in All Stars and J. Crew.

  “Were you and Mallory in a fight? Is it about Dallas? Has he finally come between you?”

  Keith dived at the paparazzo, and the two fell to the pavement, wrestling for control of the camera as I heard the faint siren of an approaching police cruiser.

  By the time it was all said and done, news copters buzzed overhead, Keith was handcuffed, the camera was broken, and so was the paparazzo’s pinkie. We’d made the local news and then some.

 

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