by Jenn Bishop
“There are lots of reasons,” she said. “I mean, he’s artistic and he’s smart. He really thinks about things, you know? He doesn’t just do what everyone else is doing because that’s what you’re supposed to do.” She got that one right. Zack was the only person I knew with a lip ring who wasn’t in some band on TV. “I thought you’d like him.” She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel.
Is she waiting for me to say that I do? That I like Zack, too? Am I supposed to lie?
“Oh,” I said. “Is Zack…is he your boyfriend?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she said. “But maybe soon.”
—
“Let’s go, Panthers, let’s go!” Katie and I sat next to each other on the bench, slapping our laps and clapping our hands as we did our cheer. “Let’s go, Panthers, let’s go!” Clap, clap. One of the best hitters on our team, Joe, was batting, and Casey was on third, ready to score if Joe could get a hit.
“Come on, Joe!” Katie yelled.
If Casey scored, we’d have the lead again. We kept going back and forth with the Orioles, but we were running out of innings. We needed to score the go-ahead run and then shut them down. A win’s a win, Coach always said. No arguing with that.
Joe swung and missed. Strike three. Two outs.
“Go get ’em, QD,” Katie whisper-yelled. I grabbed my bat and made my way to the on-deck circle while Tommy Sullivan stepped up to the plate. I took a few practice swings and looked out to where Haley and Zack were sitting.
They weren’t there.
Haley’s rainbow chair was there, and Zack’s Chicago Bears fold-up chair was there, but both were empty. Maybe they went to the bathroom, I told myself. They’ll be back by the time I get up to bat. If I get to bat…
“Let’s go, Tommy, let’s go!” Katie and the others cheered from the bench. I took another practice swing. I was ready.
“Come on, Tommy,” I said. “You’ve got this.” The Orioles pitcher was one pitch away from walking him. It’d be awesome for Tommy to get a hit right now and give us the lead, but a tiny part of me wanted it to be me who got the big hit.
Tommy stood there as the pitch came in. The Orioles catcher jumped up to catch it. Way too high. Ball four.
Tommy took first base. Casey stayed at third.
“Let’s go, QD!” Katie yelled. She let out a huge whistle as I stepped into the batter’s box.
You’ve got this, I told myself. You’ve got this.
“There’s two girls on your team?” the Orioles catcher asked through his mask.
“Yeah,” I answered, digging my heels into the dirt, holding my bat back behind my head. “Wait—you just figured that out now?”
The pitcher wound up and threw.
I didn’t budge an inch. Way outside.
“Ball one!” the umpire called.
“Come on, Quinnen. Crush it.” That was Coach Napoli. I didn’t have to look to know he was twiddling his beard. He always did that during close games.
I choked up on my bat as the pitcher wound up again. I didn’t swing at that one, either; it was high and outside. “Ball two!” the umpire said.
I stepped out of the batter’s box to adjust my gloves and glanced over at where Haley and Zack should be. How long could Haley be in the bathroom? It was a porta-potty! She always cheered for me when I was batting, even when we were creaming the other team. And I always heard her loudest of anyone when it was close, when my at-bats really mattered.
I checked the on-deck circle. Kyle Monaghan was there. I liked Kyle all right, but he was one of the worst batters on our team. I needed more than a walk. I needed a hit. I stepped back into the batter’s box and gripped the bat tight. Be ready to swing away, QD.
The pitcher stepped forward and hurled the next pitch. It probably wasn’t a strike, but that didn’t matter. I reached out for it and hit it hard with the barrel of the bat. The ball found the gap between the first baseman and the second baseman and kept going. I was running. Rounding first base, going for second. I could hear the team cheering as Casey scored and then as Tommy beat the throw to the plate. I stopped at third, panting. We did it! I did it! We have the lead again! Panthers rule!
I took off my batting gloves and tucked them in my pocket. And then I looked over to where Haley was supposed to be. Her rainbow-striped chair was still empty.
She’d missed it.
—
“Great game, everybody. I wish I could take you all out for ice cream today, but you just keep winning, and I’m going broke. See you at practice on Tuesday.” Coach fake-saluted, and then all of us players started talking at the same time.
“Want to come over to my house?” Katie asked me. “We can do flips on the trampoline.”
“I wish I could,” I said. “Tonight’s family dinner, though. Mom’s idea.”
Katie sighed loudly. “Moms.”
“Tell me about it. Have your neighbor make a video and send it to me if you can do ten in a row.”
“Of course!” She waved good-bye, and I walked over to where we hung up the bats. I wanted to bring mine home so I could practice hitting with Dad over the weekend.
“Nice game.” I looked up and saw Zack. He was holding hands with Haley.
“Thanks,” I mumbled. I pretended I couldn’t tell which bat was mine and took an extra-long time to find it.
When I finally grabbed it, Zack and Haley weren’t holding hands anymore. Haley’s hand was touching something on her neck. There was a splotch there, a purple-red spot. There’s no way that was there before. I would have seen it in the car.
“What happened to your neck?” I reached out my finger to point at the spot.
“It’s nothing,” she said.
I shook my head. “Come on. What is it?”
“You wouldn’t understand. I’ll explain later.”
I hated when she said that. If she knew, she should tell me. We didn’t used to keep secrets from each other. But now I didn’t know how many secrets she was keeping from me, how many things I would have to wait to find out. I had lost track.
She went to grab my bag, but I shooed her off. “I’ve got it,” I said.
“We’re giving Zack a ride home. Come on. I don’t want to be late.”
We? Right, Haley.
Zack carried both their chairs as we walked back to the car.
“I don’t know what’s up with you,” Haley said as I put my stuff in the trunk. “Your team won. Why are you in such a bad mood?”
I shrugged.
She was right. We’d won. My team had won, and I’d come through with the most important hit of the whole game. The winning hit.
But she’d missed it because she was off doing something with Zack, and she wouldn’t even tell me about it.
It’s the day of Hector’s first scheduled start at Abbott Memorial Stadium, and Casey and I are walking over to the concession stands like we always do before the game. Suddenly I freeze. My legs feel like they’re made of cement, and the hunger I felt on the car ride to the stadium vanishes. I don’t want to eat anything. Not from the concession stands, at least.
“Quinnen, come on!” Casey yells.
“I’m going to go sit down,” I say, but it comes out a near whisper. “I don’t feel so great.”
“But the game’s starting soon. We gotta get food now or—” He remembers. “Can I buy something for you?”
“As long as you don’t eat it first.”
Casey glares at me but then breaks into a smile.
“A hot dog and fries.” I hand him the crumpled ten from my pocket.
“I’m not gonna do this for you forever. You know, you can’t keep avoiding him.”
“Yeah, I can.” I walk to our seats, my heart calming down with each step I take away from the smells I love and the person I hate.
Banjo stops by and gets me to rub his furry raccoon belly while I wait for Casey. Ten minutes later, Casey arrives with a huge soda, a hot dog, and fries for me and corn on the cob, a tuna sandw
ich, and bottled water for him.
“They sell tuna sandwiches here? I don’t remember ever seeing them for sale. They aren’t even fried.”
“There’s a new booth this year,” he says. “With healthy food where they take out the wu-tang and don’t put any sugar in.”
“Take out the wu-tang?”
“Isn’t that what they call it? It makes you go crazy, and it makes some people sick.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. My mom thinks I shouldn’t have so much wu-tang anymore.”
“I think it’s called gluten. You sure you don’t want some fries?” I dangle one in front of his face. It has so much salt on it that it sparkles.
“Stop it. Of course I want one.”
“Then why can’t you have one?”
Casey doesn’t say anything at first. He takes the wrapper off his sandwich. “Mom doesn’t want me to end up looking like Pablo Sandoval.”
“But he’s such a good hitter.”
“I know. It’s okay, though. I’d rather look like Hector or Brandon. I bet they eat real healthy and work out all the time.”
I don’t tell him that Brandon eats more than anyone I’ve ever met.
The loudspeaker squeaks. “Attention. Would Quinnen Donnelly please come to the information booth?”
I bolt out of my seat. “Hold this.” I practically throw my hot dog onto Casey’s lap before running over to the information booth, my heart beating so loud in my chest it might as well be broadcast over the speakers. My legs are shaking when I get there.
“Quinnen! Just the young lady we were looking for,” says the woman wearing a nice Bandits polo shirt. She’s smiling and waving at me.
“What’s wrong? Did my mom call?”
“ ‘What’s wrong?’ ” She looks confused. “Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry. I probably gave you a heart attack. Our volunteer to read the starting lineup is tied up in traffic and he’s not going to make it in time. We thought perhaps you’d like to help us out today.”
Her words are like someone strapping an oxygen mask over my face. I can breathe again. Even though I’ve been singled out a million times before and it’s never been a big deal, after last summer I can only think of one reason for someone to call out my name on the loudspeaker: something bad happening to someone I love.
I take a deep breath. “Sure.” I smile back at her so she knows I’m fine. You’re going to read the starting lineup, I tell myself. It’s okay.
I follow her up the stairs to the announcer’s booth, behind home plate. The announcer is staring out a big window with the most perfect view of the diamond. There’s a lady next to him with stacks of papers she keeps shuffling and handing to him. She talks really fast, like she’s had one too many Red Bulls. In the back of the room, there are shelves with more Bandits stuffed animals, pennants, and doodads than I would know what to do with. Well, if somebody offered, they’d probably fit in my room.
“You’ve done this before, right?” the announcer asks, handing me a sheet of paper.
“Yeah,” I say, looking over the list of names. “I’ve got it.”
“You’re on in five,” the too-much-Red-Bull lady says, pointing at us.
I read the names softly to myself. But when I get to the bottom of the page, I realize they left one off: Hector’s.
“Excuse me,” I say to the announcer. “Do I get to say the pitcher’s name?”
“Normally I like to add my own special intro for the pitcher.”
“Please?”
“Oh, okay. Sure. Why not, kiddo? Just keep it under twenty seconds. They’ve got a starting time to make.”
Before I know it, we’re getting the three-two-one countdown, and the announcer is saying, “And here it is, your starting lineup for the Tri-City Bandits, read by our very own…Quinnen Donnelly!”
He points to me, and I read the whole lineup without any mistakes—I hope. Then I put on my very best announcer voice for the finale. “And tonight’s starting pitcher, number fifteen, making his first start for the Bandits…Hector Padilla!”
Cheers fill the stadium. I know they’re not for me reading the lineup, but still—there’s something magical about baseball time. Everything just feels right.
“Great job,” the announcer says to me. “You’re a natural. You even knew how to pronounce Hector’s last name. Pa-dee-uh. You want to watch the top of the inning from up here? Best seat in the house.”
I think about Casey down in our seats and my hot dog. It’s probably in Casey’s stomach by now, whether it has any gluten in it or not. “Okay.” I sit back down in the bouncy swivel chair.
The first batter for the Cardinals takes a few swings outside the batter’s box. He looks strong and mean, but I bet he’s no match for Hector.
Hector winds up and throws one that catches the inside corner. The batter can’t get his bat around fast enough. “Striiiike one.”
“Come on, Hector. You’ve got ’em,” I whisper.
He winds up and throws. The pitch looks low but maybe on the edge of the strike zone. I have to wait for the umpire to know for sure. “Striiiiike two,” the announcer says.
I turn to give him a thumbs-up. “I know him. I know Hector. He’s my friend.” The announcer smiles at me like I’m a little kid. Like, Oh sure. Hector’s her friend, and I’m best buddies with the president.
Hector shakes off the catcher and winds up. He throws, and the batter swings. All I hear is the sound of the ball hitting the bat. The next thing I see is Hector, crumpled over, down on the ground.
The announcer puts his hand over the red mute button and swears.
“Where did it hit him?” I ask.
The announcer shakes his head. It all happened so fast.
Someone’s rushing out onto the field—I think it’s the manager—and someone’s following with a stretcher.
Hector’s not moving.
He’s not moving.
He’s not moving.
But I am. I run out of the booth and down the stairs, not even looking where my feet land. I am flying.
“Hector!” I yell.
When I get to the fence around the field, I remember to breathe.
“Sorry, miss, but we can’t allow you on the field right now,” the security guard tells me.
“But—”
“Are you family?”
“No. Nobody is. Hector’s family doesn’t live here.”
Hector is still lying down, and there’s an EMT pressing something onto his face.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Line drive smacked him right in the head. That’s the downside of having an arm like his. Fast pitches come back at you even faster.” The security guard shakes his head. “Poor guy.”
I never considered a pitch coming back to hit me in the face when I was pitching. Just the thought of it makes me touch my face, to make sure everything’s still where it belongs.
Someone from the Bandits dugout runs toward Hector. I squint to read the number on the back of his jersey. Number thirty-four. Brandon.
“Is Hector going to be okay?” I ask the security guard because there’s nobody else to ask, and he’s the kind of grown-up who’s supposed to tell the truth.
“Probably just a broken nose. These things—they happen more often than you’d think. I’d be more concerned about the psychological repercussions….”
Hector’s going to be okay. That’s what he’s saying. Probably. Sort of. Just a broken nose, maybe.
Hector sits up, carefully. He raises his hand to the sky. Is there something up there in the clouds? Not that I can see. He touches his hand lightly to his chest and waves to the sky again. The EMT helps put him on the stretcher and takes him over to an ambulance that’s pulled up along the side of the field. The crowd cheers for him.
I cheer, too, but I can’t help biting my lip and thinking about what the security guard said. “Psychological repercussions.” What the heck are those?
—
After the game, it’s Dad w
ho picks up me and Casey in his truck.
“Can we stop by the hospital?” I ask him once we get buckled in.
“The hospital?” Dad turns down the radio.
“Hector was pitching, and he got hit in the face—”
Casey talks right over me. “The ambulance came to take him away and everything. He was still conscious, but, man, that must have hurt like…I don’t even know what.”
“I’m not sure if they’ll let you in to see him, kiddo.” Dad taps his fingers on the wheel, waiting for the car in front of us to move.
“But the whole team’s going. I asked Brandon and everything. He said we could go,” Casey says.
“Come on, Dad. Please? Can we at least try to see him?” Dad from last summer would take us. He always caved when it was me doing the asking.
“Please, Mr. D,” Casey pipes in.
“All right, all right.” Dad puts on the blinker and heads toward the hospital.
—
Hector’s room isn’t hard to find. A bunch of Bandits beat us here. They’re standing in the hallway outside his room, laughing about something. I glare at them, but I’m not sure they notice. You don’t laugh in the hospital.
Casey runs over to say hi to Brandon and introduce himself to some of the players. He’s asking them a zillion questions, like it’s no big deal that Hector’s in there, in pain, and far away from his family.
I stand quietly against the wall and close my eyes, trying to make the bright lights and the pale green walls disappear. But closing my eyes doesn’t make that stuffy chemical smell go away.
Dad stands next to me, but it’s almost like he’s not even here. Dad from last summer would come up with some silly game to help pass the time, something to distract me from the fact that we’re in a hospital, which is a sad and scary place most of the time. But Dad from this summer is so quiet that even I don’t know what to say to him. I wonder if he’s scared, too.
“Hey, Quinnen, you coming?” Casey is over by Hector’s door with Brandon, about to go in. I snap out of it and follow them.
“Dad?” I say over my shoulder.
“It’s okay, Quinnen. I’ll keep holding up the wall out here.” He laughs at himself, but it seems fake.