by Kris Hui Lee
“I’m sure Chizz will find a loophole once he sees how badass you are.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
I put the rejected mitts back in the bag. “Okay, what is with you?”
“What?”
We leave the equipment room. “I mean this whole thing with you pretending it doesn’t bother you that you got injured, then trying to be happy, but then also fighting with Joey when you think Sara and I aren’t looking and”—I gesture at his cast—“scrawling emo spirals of doom in black Sharpie.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, and pushes open the door to the fields, inviting fresh air into the hallway. When I don’t follow him out, he steps back inside.
“Cody Alexander Kinski, how long have I known you?”
He grins a little at the sound of me whipping out his full name.
“Right. Eleven years,” I answer for him. “There is nothing you can hide from me.”
“I think you should focus on tryouts. And you should get there early so that Chizz has time to process you being there.”
“For example,” I continue, ignoring him. “I know that you hate apple juice. That you always tie your left shoe first. And you still have that Build-A-Bear with the Cubs jersey that Sara and I gave you for your fourteenth birthday, and he has his own little bed, which you and Joey made him out of a shoe box, in your closet. I also know that you’re afraid of being buried alive, and that you always sleep with an arm under your pillow, so you probably haven’t been sleeping very well these past few days. And I know that sometimes—and by sometimes, I mean all the time—you don’t want people to feel bad for you or to worry about you or even notice when you’re having a hard time. But I know when something is wrong, because, to be honest, you’re not very good at hiding it.”
He doesn’t seem surprised that I know all this. Surely he knows as much about me, if not more.
“If you know me so well, then you should know what’s wrong.” He pushes the door open again and gestures for me to go outside. “But like I said, I think you’ve got other stuff to worry about right now.”
Just then, a door connected to the boys’ locker room bursts open and a bunch of guys from the team spill outside, all rowdy and excited. They don’t notice me and Cody, but it’s impossible not to notice them. The sight of them—all the muscles and tans and jockness—makes my stomach turn. Suddenly, comforting Cody falls right off my list of priorities. Going home starts sounding like a great idea.
A rough but gentle hand slips itself into mine. “Don’t be intimidated by them. Our team is a bunch of softies.” He drops his hand and adds, “For the most part.”
I would definitely not categorize Joey as a softie. Even Carrot and Jiro are a stretch.
“Why do you want me to do this so badly?” I ask him.
“Because I want our team to win.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Okay, and because it would be a real nice ‘F you’ to Santino. He probably thinks he can take down our team by taking me down, but for us to come back with you in my place? I mean, no offense, but you’re not the most intimidating person, as much as you like to think you are.”
At the mention of Santino, my heart lurches in my chest. I’ve still gotta tell him about that.
“Why does it matter what Santino thinks anyway?” I ask, hoping to ease Cody into my confession. “He’s already out of the play-offs because you knocked his team out of the running with your macho slide over home plate with a broken wrist. I think that’s a pretty big ‘F you’ already.”
“Nah, I gotta get him back better than that.”
“And you’re going to use me to do that.”
“If you don’t mind,” he says with a charming smile, which will vanish when he learns Santino is becoming my cousin. It’s such a swoon-worthy, forget-everything-else smile. I haven’t seen it much in the last few days since…well, since Santino wrecked his wrist. And whatever else he seems to have on his mind that he won’t tell me about.
“Come on,” Cody says, turning toward the field. “No more procrastinating.”
I trudge behind him. My mind flops back and forth between the impending tryouts and the impending wedding that will forever bond me to my best friend’s nemesis. And then I realize Cody somehow weaseled out of telling me what’s been bugging him. But, as he pointed out, I do have other things to deal with first.
I’d like to consider myself a dignified human being, but as we approach the field, I cower behind Cody’s height. The team adores him. Maybe that adoration will transfer to me too.
“Cody,” Chizz says when he sees us, “how many times do we have to go over this? You cannot try out.”
“Yeah, man,” Jiro says, patting his mitt. “We know you could own us, even with a fractured wrist, but give someone else a chance, for God’s sake.”
“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I’m doing,” Cody says. He steps aside, making it impossible for me to hide.
“Marnie,” Chizz says, a note of surprise in his voice.
All eyes are on me. Then on the mitt on my hand.
“Hell. No,” Joey says. He backhands Cody’s arm. “The hell did you bring her here for?”
I intend to tell Joey to eat shit, but two menacing black demon eyes are trained on me like a wildcat’s readying for the kill. They belong to a tanned, muscular, six-foot-three body that goes by the name of Ray Torres. He’s not glaring per se, but his frown looks like it’s been drawn on with permanent marker, and his furrowed eyebrows scare the snark right off my tongue. Did I mention the menacing black demon eyes?
I’ve seen Ray from afar—in the hallway and at the one game he pitched when Cody had allergies so bad he couldn’t stop sneezing. But up close, Ray looks like the Hulk, only less green and about a thousand times more angry.
“I came to watch,” I squeak, and can hardly believe that I, a girl who prides herself in being confident and putting her money where her mouth is, have squeaked the most pathetic excuse ever.
Cody pushes me forward. “She came to try out.”
I will punch him. I really will.
“I don’t know if you know this,” Ray says, “but you’re a girl.”
I can’t find the badass in me to throw shade at him, but I manage to glare.
“Marnie, this true?” Chizz asks me.
“That I’m a girl?” I say. “Yes.”
He frowns.
“Yes,” I say, quieter. “I’m here to try out.”
He studies me like he’s performing a lie detector test. I expect him to laugh me off as a joke or tell me there’s no way in hell I can try out. Instead he shrugs and goes, “Okay.”
“What?!” Joey and Ray shout.
“Jiro, you’re up first,” Chizz says, ignoring them.
So that’s it? He’s not even going to question me about my decision? Have he and Cody been plotting this? Have I walked into their trap?
But you want this, Voice One in my head says.
At what cost? Voice Two in my head responds. My dignity? My humility? Go home.
And yet, my feet agree with Voice One. They walk me to the bullpen to warm up. My hands are getting clammy, and my nerves are tingling, sensations I haven’t felt in a long time. These are pre-tryout jitters, pre-game jitters.
You’ve been through tryouts before. You’ve made it through before, Voice One says.
Voice Two: That was softball. This is baseball. It’s one thing to pitch with the guys at the sandlot, but you don’t know all of these guys. Guys like Ray.
Don’t be a ninny, snaps Voice One.
Easier said than done. The team will watch my every move—they already are. And even if I’m not good enough to make the team, I’ve got to be good enough to prove that I have a reason to be here.
Or else you might as well walk in
to school naked tomorrow.
I step onto the practice mound, preparing for a pitch. But then someone steps between me and the pitching net on the other side of the bullpen, casting me in their looming shadow. Ray Torres.
“I was going to practice here,” he says.
“Well…” I say slowly, subtly trying to locate the nearest bat. “I got here first.”
He snarls. “Sorry, but my practice takes priority over you goofing around.”
What a dick. “I’m here to try out too,” I point out, even though he already knows this.
He scoffs. “That’s funny. April Fools’ Day was last month.” He gestures toward the parking lot. “Go shopping. Get a makeover. The jock look doesn’t suit you.”
I stop looking for a bat and scowl at him. “Well, the asshole look doesn’t quite suit you either, but hey, what are we gonna do? Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to warm up.”
His arms fall to his side as he pulls his shoulders back and juts out his chin. “You think we don’t know that Cody’s encouraging you so he can get in your pants?”
“You think I don’t know that you’re jealous that Cody’s a better pitcher than you and that he vouched for me instead of you?” Chills of terror and satisfaction flood me as fury flashes behind his eyes.
He lets out a menacing laugh, as if trying to prove my words mean nothing. “Whatever. Just try not to cry when you embarrass yourself, okay?”
He marches out of the bullpen, throwing an extra swagger in his step.
Controlling my rage, I watch as Ray passes Joey. Ray says something. Joey says something back. Then, as Ray walks away, Joey flips off the back of his head.
Looks like I’m not the only one who thinks Ray is an ass.
I focus on warming up. I throw a few easy pitches, not wanting to give away any of my special moves when I know the guys are watching.
And then, after what seems like two milliseconds, Chizz calls me over.
My heart starts pounding bass-drum thumps. Jiro, Ray, and the three other guys trying out watch me take the mound. Of them, only Jiro has a smile on his face. As much as I appreciate it, that is not enough to coax out my positive attitude.
“All right, Marnie,” Chizz says, tossing a baseball to me. I’m so nervous, I’m surprised I don’t drop it. “I’ll tell you what I’ve told the others: I’m looking at your control, your speeds, your variation. Then I’ll set up some defense plays to see you work in context, okay?”
I try swallowing, but my mouth is dry. I nod.
Chizz gives me a reassuring grin, and then he says quietly so only I can hear, “I’m rooting for you.”
“You are?”
“I remember you used to watch Nick practice.” He points to the dugout. “You sat right there and were always asking questions about pitching and strategy and technique. I used to think you were more invested in baseball than he was. And I’ve heard some interesting stories from your sandlot cohorts. I thought they were exaggerating, but if you’ve got the nerve to show up here, I can’t help but think perhaps they weren’t.”
My first thought is to call bullshit. But if he wasn’t rooting for me, why would he even let me waste his time?
“You’ve got the vote of the injured man himself,” he reminds me.
Chizz is a coach. Part of his job is to give pep talks. But it’s also to be honest. If you’re doing something wrong, he’s supposed to tell you and help you improve. So when Chizz tells me that he’s rooting for me, there’s a pretty high chance that he’s got a reason to.
He moves back behind Davis, the catcher, this really cool black guy who is so protective of home plate that last year for his birthday, Joey made fake adoption papers for Home Plate Keating, adopted son of Davis Keating. I take my place on the pitcher’s mound. Standing next to Chizz, the assistant coach, Frankie, holds a radar gun to capture my speed.
I take a deep breath and position the ball in my hand for a curve ball. I dig the toe of my shoe into the sand and stand up straight. Shoulders back. No slouching. Elbow alignment. All things I learned in my previous softball life, reintroduced to me in Cody’s Pitching 101 course.
I keep my eyes trained straight ahead. Cody is directly in my line of sight. He’s watching me with all of Ray’s intensity but none of his hatred. Cody subtly flashes me a sign: he makes a one with his right index finger.
Our sandlot code for a four-seam fastball.
Was I seeing things? Does he think this is my best pitch?
He gives me a slight nod.
I thought I’d start out with my curve ball, but when Cody flashes me the sign again, I change the position of my fingers on the ball. If he trusts me to take his spot, then I should trust him.
Heart pounding in my chest, I pivot my foot, bring my knee and arms up, take my stride, and—
The ball smacks into Davis’s glove.
“Damn!” Frankie shouts as he reads at the screen of the radar gun.
I hold my breath.
“Eighty-four!” Frankie cries, which elicits a few more damns from the sidelines.
Chizz grins like he’s won the state title.
I knew I could throw fast, but never knew how fast. I mean, eighty-four. That’s fast for a girl. And faster than average for a high school guy.
Damn.
I’m pretty good.
• • •
I don’t consider myself a psychic, but when the phone rings at eight o’clock that night, I know it’s Chizz.
Dad is the one who answers. “Hey, Jack. Long time no talk.” And while they spend the next half hour catching up, I sit on the sofa, staring at—but not watching—the TV. My mind runs in circles: He wants me to pitch. He doesn’t want me to pitch. He wants me to pitch. He doesn’t want me to pitch.
Why would Chizz call at 8:00 p.m. to tell me that I didn’t make the cut? Maybe he feels bad?
But deep in my gut, I know I made it.
I know because when I left the tryouts, I had that feeling.
I’ve spent the last three hours trying to figure out how I crushed the tryouts. Maybe it was my determination to spite Joey and Ray and the other doubters. Or maybe it was because once I threw that eighty-four-mile-per-hour pitch, my confidence came out of hiding. Whatever it was, I frigging owned.
What made the rest of tryouts easy was that during the mock defense plays, Chizz had Joey, Carrot, and Jiro all in the infield, so it was like playing at the sandlot. In fact, part of me thinks Chizz did that on purpose because he knows I play best with them.
He must really see something in me.
Either that or he’s out of his frigging mind.
I’m trying to figure out which it is when Dad comes into the living room holding out the phone to me. “It’s Coach Chizz.”
I hesitate for a few seconds before taking it and putting it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Good news or bad news?” Chizz asks.
“Um. Bad news.”
“Bad news is that we’ve got a few indignant players on the team,” he says.
“Okay. And the good news?”
“Good news,” he says, and I can hear the grin in his voice, “is it’s because you’re our new pitcher.”
My mind goes blank. Is this actually good news, or have I voluntarily thrown myself into a shit storm?
Part of me wants to be proud of myself. The other part is already scared of stepping out on the field at the sectionals game. What comes out though is, “So it’s legal that I can play on the guys’ team?”
“Cleared it with the school board half an hour ago.”
Shit. This is happening. I’m pitching for the guys’ baseball team in the play-offs.
“Practice is at three forty-five tomorrow. Bring your mitt and cleats,” Chizz says. “Oh, and congratulations.”
8
I don�
�t know whether to celebrate or panic, but my dad is all for the former. As soon as he hears the news, the wine comes out. He’s all like, “Can you imagine what it would be like if you won state? I mean, Nick going down in Corrington history is one thing, but both of you?” Then he starts imagining a local news story about us, and soon enough, the wine isn’t enough. He whips out the frying pan and starts making dessert crêpes. This is the ultimate form of praise. Dad will cook you breakfast, lunch, or dinner, but if he’s making you dessert, it means you’re either graduating, getting promoted, getting married, or—the greatest achievement of all—pitching for the boys’ baseball team.
Nick slaps me on the back with a quick “Congrats, Mini Me,” and then reaps the benefits of my accomplishments with underage sips of wine and a plateful of ice cream and crêpes covered in powdered sugar.
Mom offers me a smile, pours herself a small glass of wine, and then returns to her office to finish some work.
I eat my dessert, but the whole time I’m thinking, What the hell have I done?
• • •
No such celebration takes place at school, just whispers and rumors. It takes only one period for me to hear via Sara that Ray has been trash-talking me to anyone who will listen.
Which, apparently, is a lot of people.
I hear it first in the lunch line.
“My older brother, who knows a guy on the team, says the only reason she’s on the team is ’cause her brother was some pitching god like three years ago, and the coach is pulling a Hail Mary hoping she’s just as good.”
“Samantha told me she screwed half the guys on the team to get picked.”
“Maybe she had to screw the coach.”
First of all, ew.
Second of all, ew.
“I’m standing right here, morons,” I say. Their mouths snap shut, and suddenly the floor becomes really interesting. It’s as if they think I might bash their heads in with my tray. Part of me feels bad for scaring them, but then I remember what they said and add, “And just to set the story straight, I actually had to sacrifice the souls of all the guys on the team and drink their blood.”