Out of Left Field

by Kris Hui Lee

What I stumble upon is an argument.

  I lurk outside the kennel where dogs yip over Sara and her mom’s bickering.

  “I don’t want to leave them,” Sara says with frustration. “They’re my best friends. This is what I want to do. This is where I want to be.” I’ve hardly ever heard Sara get frustrated, which is saying something, seeing as I’ve known her since I was six years old.

  “You need to go to college, Sara,” Camilla says. “I’m not going to let your future go to the dogs. Literally.”

  “But who will help run the rescue when I’m at college? You’re always busy with all the design work for Mr. Dickwad—”

  “Mr. Dickson,” Camilla corrects her. “And there are the other volunteers who will be around.”

  “But I love the dogs. I want to help them find homes.”

  “There will be other people to help them find homes. We’ve already got the majority of our dogs in foster homes. Soon we won’t even need this kennel.”

  “But we do need the kennel, for all the dogs that don’t get fostered. And I like it here.”

  “Yes, but, Sara, this is not a full-time gig. You need to go to college so you can get a job and make money, and then you can spend all the time you want here.”

  Wait, what? Sara doesn’t want to go to college? Like, at all? I mean, I don’t want to go to college now, but I know I will eventually. I’m so preoccupied trying to process all this that by the time I hear footsteps coming out the door, it’s too late.

  Sara emerges from the kennel and runs straight into me before I can even pretend that I just arrived. Moose is at her heels.

  “What are you doing?” Sara demands.

  “Sorry…I was…” There is no way to get around the fact that I was eavesdropping. “I was looking for you.”

  “Sara, we’re not done—” Camilla shuts up as soon as she sees me. “Oh, hey, Marnie, how’s it going?” Normally, she’s the type of person who actually wants to know how it’s going and will pull you into conversation for half an hour. But I can tell from her tone that she’s out of sorts and doesn’t care how I’m doing.

  “Hi.” I point to the door. “If it’s a bad time…”

  “Nope, you’re just in time,” Sara says. “Otherwise we’ll be late for school.”

  We won’t be anywhere near late, but I don’t say anything. Sara slings her backpack over her shoulder and heads toward the door. “Don’t forget that family is coming to check Maple out later today,” she says to her mom curtly, meaning she’s done arguing. For now.

  I keep my mouth shut on the drive to school even though I’m bursting with a million questions. But she deserves the chance to yell at me for being a snoop before I get to ask any questions.

  When we’re halfway to school, she starts talking.

  “What’s wrong with wanting to take care of dogs?” she asks. “I like dogs. Dogs like me. Seems like an ideal situation, right?”

  “I didn’t know you didn’t want to go to college,” I say, now that I know the topic is open for conversation.

  “I’ve only recently started thinking about it.”

  Me too, I want to say, but this isn’t about me. “Well, your mom’s right,” I say instead. “You do need a way to make money.”

  “I know.” She sighs. “But there are other ways to do that than going to college—dude. Dude! Yellow light.”

  I slow to a stop. I don’t know what to say to her. Considering I’ve given college about zero thoughts, it’s not like I have a lot of advice. I mean, lots of kids in our class seem ready to move on, but I like my home. I’m not itching to change how things are—and figuring out what I want a year from now? Two years? The rest of my life? That shit is too far for me to see, and I’ve got nearly 20/20 vision.

  “And I don’t know,” Sara continues, “I love it here. I could spend the rest of my life in this town and be perfectly happy. I mean, yeah, my mom and I disagree on certain things, but we’re all each other has. And our house is close to everything. It’s clean. Low crime rate. It’s perfect. And I can’t stand the thought of being away from the dogs for four years while I’m at college.”

  “You can always go to a college in state so you can come home on the weekends,” I offer.

  She sighs. “It’s not the same.”

  The light turns green. “I guess I don’t really understand since I’ve never had a pet,” I say.

  “You have no idea,” she says. “You’ve never had a pet, and you’ve got a whole family.”

  I don’t immediately see how these points are related. Sara’s dad died of a heart attack when she was three, so she doesn’t really remember him. Hence, she doesn’t really miss him. At least, I didn’t think she did. Every time he gets brought up, she seems completely indifferent.

  “What do you mean?” I ask her.

  “Well, you’ve got a mom, a dad, and a brother. And you’ve got a big extended family—which will get bigger when your uncle gets married. But me? It’s always been me and my mom. She’s an only child, all my grandparents are dead, and I hardly ever see relatives from my dad’s side of the family. I’ve never minded that it’s only the two of us, though. I mean, I’ve got you and Cody and Joey. And I’ve got my dogs.”

  My heart swells almost to the point of physical pain. I always knew that Sara had a small network of friends and family, but I never knew how small until she says it out loud.

  I wish I had something deep to say. But “It’ll all work out” or “You’ll find a way” seem useless. I stay silent.

  “It’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s hard.”

  “Yeah” is all I say.

  I pull into the school parking lot. Some aggressive ass hats snag two prime parking spots before I grab one in the farthest part of the lot.

  “Hey,” Sara finally says as we get out of the car. “How was practice? I meant to text you about it.”

  “I would say pretty good. I’m sure you’ll hear differently depending on who you ask.” As we walk toward the entrance, I tell her about Ray. She offers to drop-kick him across the baseball field.

  “Oh yeah,” she says on our way to the library atrium, “and did you ever get that dress your mom was hounding on you to get?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you tell Cody about Santino?”

  “Nope.”

  “You are winning at life right now.”

  I laugh, even though I know she’s changing the subject to deflect from her problems. I guess that’s part of the job description—be a distraction when your friend needs one.

  “Are you planning on telling him anytime soon?” she asks.

  I adjust my backpack on my shoulders. “Yeah. Soon.” Maybe.

  “He’s going to find out eventually.”

  “I know.”

  “If this blows up in your face, I’m going to have to take Cody’s side. You’re sort of being a weasel about it.”

  Guilt stabs me as I think about yesterday. How I hung out with Santino and his girlfriend. How I actually started to befriend the asshole who injured Cody.

  I need to air out my sins to someone, so I open my mouth to tell Sara everything, but then we see Joey near the front of the library, and he’s too close for me to mention my pitching lesson with Santino.

  I expect him to come over and give me shit after yesterday’s practice, but he gives us a strange look and hurries away. Or, rather, he gives Sara a strange look and scurries into the sea of students ahead of us.

  I glance at Sara. “What was that?”

  She avoids eye contact.

  “Sara…”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “And what, exactly, is it?”

  “Nothing,” she mumbles and then heads to our atrium table.

  Of course, this makes me worry about it or at
least wonder about it. But I don’t press her. Because there are some things you don’t press Sara about, and one of those things is what the hell happened between her and Joey. Anyway, she’s already had a tough morning with her mom. I don’t want to put her on defense again.

  I guess we’re all entitled to have secrets, no matter how long we’ve known one another. God knows I’ve got a big one.

  11

  Yesterday night, when I confessed that I went to Santino for pitching help, Nick applauded me for thinking outside the box. “Show them what you learned,” he said when I expressed worry about what my teammates would say. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “Uh, they hate me even more than they already do?”

  “Look, you don’t have to be Nolan Ryan to have earned a spot on the team. Save for a couple of the guys, even though it’s varsity, baseball is probably not their priority. When I was on the team, it was either you were really into baseball—like Joey and Cody and the other guys you play with at the sandlot—or you liked the sport and thought it would look good on your college applications. High school ball isn’t everything.”

  His advice made sense, but I had to adjust for bias. It was coming from him, who (1) played ball not really because he loved it but because he was too good not to play, and (2) has since graduated and can see all this stuff in hindsight.

  So Nick hadn’t quite eased my mind about going to practice. In fact, he made me realize how all of the guys on the team are really into baseball, because come to think of it, none of them seem like résumé-filler players. Like, they would all rather die than lose sectionals. Not to mention that, before Cody’s injury, losing sectionals was never even a possibility. It was the semifinals they had to fret about. So, correction, they’d rather have me die than lose sectionals.

  As murdering me would land them in prison for life, their next best option is to ignore me. But when you’re playing on a team, and the performance of said team depends largely on how well its members communicate…well, neglect does more damage than good.

  So, before practice starts, I go to someone who I know will offer me support.

  “Chizz,” I say.

  He looks up from his clipboard of notes. “Marnie.”

  “What if I told you I could pitch sidearm?”

  He raises an eyebrow, so I gesture at the bullpen. He follows me over, and I demonstrate what Santino taught me. How the ball approaches the plate from an odd angle. How even though I may not be able to pitch as fast or with as much break with a sidearm pitch, the delivery in itself is tricky enough to deceive a batter who isn’t used to it. Most high school players aren’t, which is why Santino seems to be so successful. Or so Santino says.

  Davis approaches, catcher gear in his arms. “What’s going on?”

  “Sidearm pitching is what’s going on,” Chizz says.

  I inspect his face, trying to figure out what he’s thinking. He stands with his hands on his hips and sucks on a tooth, which means he’s thinking real hard. He hasn’t said no, so I tell Davis my plan (my plan, I frame it), and then I show him what I mean.

  Davis doesn’t scoff like I expected him to. Instead, he gives what I think is a satisfied nod and goes, “Hm. Interesting. Two styles of pitching. Now that’s something Nick Locke didn’t do. Or Cody, for that matter.”

  I can’t help but grin. Stepping out of Nick’s and Cody’s shadows is enough to replenish my well of confidence.

  “You know,” Chizz says after a really long silence, “I think it could work.” My heartbeat skyrockets. “At least for a couple innings. Sure, batters might catch on, but the first time will throw them for a loop.”

  Davis nods in agreement as Chizz pats me on the back, congratulating me for bringing my brains to the game.

  “I’m impressed,” Davis says as we follow in Chizz’s wake. The compliment gives my pride a boost.

  Back on the field, Chizz shares the plan with the rest of the guys. His pep talk boosts my field cred, because when Chizz has me pitch to the guys, testing out my sidearm, none of them throw me any dirty looks. In fact, I’d almost go as far as to say they are intrigued, which is the first sign of interest (good interest) they’ve shown in me since I joined their team.

  “Your sidearm plot. That’s clever, Marnie,” Jiro tells me after Chizz lets me take a breather. He doesn’t want me to throw my arm out.

  “Oh, now you’re talking to me,” I say, remembering how he left me hanging in the parking lot after last practice.

  “What?” He offers me a drink from his water bottle, and I shake my head. “What do you mean?” he asks.

  I sit down on the dugout bench next to him. “I hate to accuse you of being a bad friend, but you’ve kind of been a bad friend.”

  He throws his hand over his heart like I’ve shot him. “Explain yourself!”

  “After Chizz put me in Cody’s place, it’s felt like you and Carrot and Joey have, I don’t know…removed yourselves from me. I mean, I know Joey’s pissed at me, but you and Carrot? I thought you’d guys at least spread the word that I’m not a complete waste of space.”

  Jiro bites his lip. “Well, we did. But…sometimes you can come off as a little…harsh.”

  “Harsh?”

  “You’ve got a reputation for being, well, you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Feisty. Selective in who you like and dislike. And sometimes you look kind of intimidating.” He shrugs when my eyes bug out of their sockets. “I think you might have scared off some of the guys.”

  “Me?”

  He laughs a little. “That, and also Ray has been trying to convince the guys you bribed Chizz into letting you on the team. With money, or…other things.”

  “Ew.” I shudder.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “And—”

  “There’s more?”

  He nods. “Half the guys are afraid Cody will go ballistic if any of them get within five feet of you.”

  “Why?”

  He gives me a knowing look. It takes me a moment.

  Does every person on the planet think Cody is completely smitten with me? I don’t see it. Maybe he’s got a crush, but crushes are tiny. They go away.

  “Cody isn’t the jealous type,” I say, not really knowing if this is the truth or not. It’s not like I’ve ever went out with anyone to know how he would react. Or even had other guy friends besides him and Joey. Sure, there are Jiro and Carrot, but…

  Have either of them ever wanted to ask me out but were too afraid that Cody would get pissed at them?

  No.

  This is dumb.

  If Cody wanted to ask me out, he would’ve.

  Right?

  He’s not a coward.

  But then again, if he thinks about me even half as much as I think about him and does as much as I do about it (which is to say, nothing), maybe he is a coward.

  Just like me.

  Hell.

  I don’t have time to think about this.

  “Cody thinks of you guys as his brothers,” I say. “Except Ray maybe. He would never get mad at you guys for talking to me.”

  Jiro grins as he stands and stretches his arms. “That’s exactly it. We’re like his brothers. It’s code to stay away from the girl he’s—”

  “Whatever,” I interrupt, not wanting to hear what comes after that. The girl he’s got a crush on. The girl he’s liked for the past who knows how many years. The girl he’s in love with.

  Except he’s not in love with me.

  I don’t want to know how he feels about me. Because then I’d have to sort out how I really feel about him. And I’m not ready for that.

  I’ve got to focus on this game. I have to focus so I can win. To show Joey and Ray and the rest of the team that winning is possible, even with me on the team.
>
  I also have to win this for Cody. This win belongs to him. He’s worked hard all season, and I can’t be the one to take that away from him.

  “Chizz is calling us over,” Jiro says, nodding back at the field. He holds out a bat. “I know you won’t be batting at the game, but you should practice with us anyway.”

  I take the bat from him. I’m going to be here for the rest of practice, anyway, so I might as well join in on their batting drills. And I don’t totally suck at batting, so it’s another way to show them I know what I’m doing.

  As I follow Jiro back to the field, I mull over everything he’s told me—about how the guys are afraid of me and about how Ray is defaming me. And I think about Cody. Cody in his cast who is upset about more than not being able to play at sectionals game but won’t tell me what.

  In a way, they’re one and the same—this game, Cody. I can’t have one without the other.

  As if he might materialize from my thoughts, I look toward the bleachers where I imagine he’s slipped in while I wasn’t paying attention. To watch us. Watch me.

  Maybe he’s at home, wishing he was here, playing. Or maybe he’s at the doctor’s. Or plotting Santino’s demise.

  As I wait for my turn to bat, I try to focus on what’s happening in front of me, but my mind keeps wandering, trying to plan what exactly I could say to Cody to tell him the news of Santino becoming my cousin without completely shattering his world, what I could say to explain how Santino might not be such a bad person without completely shattering our friendship.

  “Marnie, you’re up,” Chizz says.

  I push Cody out of my mind and step up to the plate, swinging the bat over my shoulder. Jiro, one of the team’s relief pitchers, is standing on the mound. He winds up. I smack the ball between left and center field—an easy double.

  I run to first as Ray jogs to second. There’s time to take another base, so I keep on running after my foot hits the plate. On second base, Ray has his arms crossed lazily, his weight resting on one side of his body. Why isn’t he going to third?

  Normally, I would avoid shouting at Ray for fear of being buried alive, but out of instinct, as I’m running to second, I shout, “Go!”