by Kris Hui Lee
He just stares at me, his shoulders relaxed, arms still crossed.
So I’m stuck between first and second as the ball is on its way back to first, where I’m going to get out if I don’t get there first.
Silently cursing Ray, I change directions back to first, pumping my legs, taking the longest strides I can to beat the ball to the base—almost like Cody in the last play of the regionals game. But it’s too late. The ball is already in Wes’s hand. I’m out.
Chizz comes onto the infield. “What the hell was that?”
“Sorry,” I mumble, even though it wasn’t really my fault. “I thought—”
“Why didn’t you run to third?” he asks. He’s addressing Ray.
No one was talking before, but the field gets very quiet.
Ray, still standing on second base, acts bored, like he’s waiting for a pot of water to boil, and shrugs. “There was no time.”
“There was plenty of time,” Chizz says, his voice stern.
“She’s too slow,” Ray says. “She would’ve gotten out anyway.” He glances at his teammates, waiting for them to back up his statement. I sneak a glance at Joey. If we were at the sandlot, he’d launch the blame at me, because that’s what Joey likes to do. But on this field, he doesn’t say anything.
“No, she wouldn’t have,” Carrot says, from his place on third. He gives me a slight nod. I get the feeling Jiro slipped in a word about how I’ve felt isolated.
A tense silence fills the air as Ray and Chizz stare each other down. It’s like an icy wind has swept through, even though it’s the end of May and the sun is beating down on us. I don’t know what to do. Should I defend myself? I’m sure if I open my mouth, Ray will stuff me in a garbage can later.
“Marnie,” Chizz says without looking at me. “Go pitch with Davis.”
Davis and I exchange apprehensive looks but don’t question Chizz.
Silently, I follow Davis to the bullpen as Chizz calls everyone else into a huddle—one that I don’t need to be in but am probably the subject of.
“You know,” Davis says. “If our team was a democracy, we’d have voted Ray off the island eons ago.”
I do something I don’t think I’ve done at practice yet—I smile. “Thanks.”
“I’m glad you decided to try that sidearm trick,” Davis says as we set up to practice my pitching. “It’s pretty ingenious. I mean, throwing a girl into the equation and then adding your sidearm? That’ll confuse the hell out of the other team.”
At first, I’m suspicious of his kindness. Jiro didn’t have that much time to tell the guys how I was feeling. But they must be starting to understand, from watching me practice, that I’m not here for shits and giggles. I’m here to help them win. And dammit, we are going to win.
12
When we were kids, Cody and I used to have races around our subdivision. Back then, I actually had a chance of beating him, what with both of us being short and scrawny. Now, as I wait for Cody on his driveway in my running shorts and my old softball T-shirt, I wonder how fast he’d lose me if we raced today. He’d probably have my pace doubled within the first two blocks. Even with his cast.
The front door opens, and Cody comes out in basketball shorts and his infamous black running tank. It’s a faded black shirt with the sleeves cut off, but the armholes are so big I can see through to his chest and abs.
God damn.
I like to tell myself this view is not the reason I like running with Cody more than Sara. And it’s also not the reason I’d rather run with him than by myself. I run with Cody because he’s a better runner than me, better than Sara, and running with him challenges me to improve my pace. Or so I like to tell myself.
I bend down and pretend to tighten my shoelaces so he can’t see my wandering eyes.
“Sure you can run with that?” I ask, standing and gesturing at his cast.
He nods.
“What did your doctor say about running with a cast?”
He shrugs.
“Cody Kinski, if you trip and face-plant and break the rest of the bones in your arm, I will not be held accountable.”
“Noted,” he says. He stretches his one good arm over his head, and the hem of his shirt lifts, revealing a sliver of skin.
I force myself to face down the street. “Let’s go.”
As always, I pick our route. Cody, who usually runs a few steps ahead of me, stays a few steps behind. Is he being deliberately slow to make me feel better about myself or is his wrist hurting him? I try asking him about it, but he says he’s fine.
This is what we do sometimes—night runs, when the sidewalks are lit by the glow of streetlamps and the lights are on inside the houses we pass. Every once in a while, the whir of a car driving down a nearby street will reach us, but for the most part, it’s quiet save for our footsteps on the pavement.
I suppose I also run with Cody because it’s less lonely. And I feel safer, even though it’s a quiet neighborhood, aside from the occasional aggressive dog.
We hardly ever talk when we run. It’s a waste of oxygen. But it’s enough to feel him nearby, hear his steady breathing. Normally I try to match my steps with his, match my breathing with his, but tonight, he’s following my pace. His energy seems low, less driven than it usually is on our runs.
When I decide we’ve run long enough—a mile and a half, maybe two?—I start turning back toward our street.
Cody grabs my elbow and pulls me in the other direction. “Detour,” he says.
“Whoa,” I say, letting my momentum swing me around. “Detour where?”
He lets go of my arm and points. At first I think he’s talking about the maple trees lining the other side of the street, but then he gestures at the lights a little farther down at Corrington Terrace, the outdoor mall a few blocks away.
“We’re running there?” I ask. “Wasn’t this long enough?”
“We were going slow,” he says, a teasing jab at my pace. “And anyway, you’ve got to be in shape for the game.”
“I am in shape,” I say, following him as he jogs toward Corrington Terrace.
“Get in more shape,” he says with a laugh.
Any other day, I’d tell him to go eat himself, then run back to my house as fast as I could before he could catch up, but maybe this is a chance to tell him that my uncle is going to marry Santino’s mom. And that I’ve befriended Santino.
And maybe it’s a chance to figure out what’s bugging him.
So I run, and he lets me take the lead again. We run all the way to Corrington Terrace, where it’s so lit up with florescent lights and storefront displays that it’s like we’ve arrived in another dimension. People mill about, hanging out by the center fountain and having late dinners on the patios at the restaurants. It smells like baked pretzels, popcorn, and Chinese food. Our neighborhood a few blocks away is settling in for the night, but here, the nightlife is waking up.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to make me run stairs,” I say, glancing at Samson’s, which is a three-story department store that has the steepest flights of stairs known to humankind. Sara and I went there for a workout a few times. We got in a lot of exercise before we got kicked out.
“I actually had that in mind,” he says, pointing to Walker’s.
“Ice cream? Seriously? I thought I’m supposed to be getting in shape.”
“You’re already in shape,” he says, mimicking me from earlier.
And since I’m not one to say no to ice cream, I follow him inside.
Walker’s looks like an old-fashioned ice-cream parlor, with black-and-white-tiled floors, round white tables with white chairs, and a scene of a dairy farm wallpapered on the back wall. Old Mickey Walker with his white hair stands behind the freezer display with his forty-two different flavors of ice cream. There’s a family with four kids, all reaching over to t
ry one another’s flavors. At another table in the corner, two guys hold hands, sharing a giant sundae.
Seeing them makes me wonder if this might be considered a date. Me and a very attractive guy who I may or may not like like, getting ice cream late at night. If anyone else had told me they were in such a situation, I’d say, yeah, that’s a date.
But this isn’t a date.
Because it’s just Cody.
And we’ve done this before. So many times.
“How can I help you two?” Mickey asks us, scooper in hand.
Cody and I step up to the freezers and scan the options. I never feel more indecisive than when I’m at Walker’s.
Cody has his order ready. He always gets the same thing: two scoops of black cherry and one scoop of cookie dough.
Me, on the other hand, I always feel like I need to try something new.
“You pick for me,” I tell Cody.
“Just get your favorite,” he says.
“I don’t know what my favorite is.”
“I know what your favorite is,” he says.
“Of course you do.”
He turns to Mickey, and I’m not sure what’s going to come out of his mouth.
“Regular vanilla with dark chocolate fudge and sprinkles. The round ones, not the long ones.”
I nod. Yeah, that is my favorite.
Mickey hands us our bowls, and Cody gives him a ten-dollar bill to cover both our orders. He doesn’t usually have anything in his pockets when we run, which means he planned this.
As we head back outside and take a table under the red-and-white awning, I say, “You’re going to let me pay you back for this, right?”
He shakes his head. “On me.”
Is he trying to trick me into a date? Does he think it’s a date? It can’t be a date. We’re in running clothes, both sweaty and probably smelly. And it’s us. Joey and Sara have already proven that you don’t fuck with your friendships, exhibited once again by their weird eye contact earlier today.
“So what’s this all about?” I ask, hoping he will tell me if we’re on a date right now.
He digs his spoon into his ice cream. “Carrot told me what happened at practice today. About Ray. And that apparently you can pitch sidearm?”
I nod.
“He said Chizz delivered a really angry speech too.”
“About me?”
“About how the guys should treat you like you’re one of them. And that Chizz said if any of them are mean to you again, he’ll take them off the roster for sectionals.”
“That seems harsh.”
“Yeah, no one believed him,” Cody says.
“Of course not. Chizz is a softy at heart. We all know it.”
“Until Ray said…what did Carrot say? Right, that you were, quote, ‘Whoring around with everyone to pitch.’”
My eyes bulge. “He said what?” My hands curl into fists.
Cody notices. “You don’t have to declare war. Chizz followed through on his threat.”
“He kicked Ray off the team?”
Cody nods.
“But Ray is one of our power hitters.”
“Doesn’t matter if he’s an asshole.”
I’m stunned into silence, in awe of Chizz’s belief in me. Not just his belief, but his sense of justice. Giving up one of his best—albeit douchiest—players in favor of me? To preserve my dignity? Or maybe for the whole team’s dignity. It might be the right thing to do, but it’s still a gargantuan risk.
“Why’s Ray so bitter anyway?” I ask. “He’s a giant sack of anger management issues.”
“When Nick graduated, Ray thought he was going to take his place. And he’s a senior now, so it’s his last chance to prove himself.”
“But then you came along.”
“Yeah. And then you, and his ego can’t take being bested by a girl.”
“Well, to be fair, sometimes neither can yours,” I tease, pointing my spoon at him.
“Funny, I don’t recall ever having been bested by a girl.”
In retaliation, I lean over the table and swipe a spoonful of his ice cream.
“Spoons to yourself, woman!” he cries, pulling his bowl away from me.
He laughs, and for a moment, it’s like he doesn’t have a cast on his arm, like he’s not crushed he won’t be able to play in sectionals, like it’s any other day, and the two of us can just be us. No confusion, no secrets.
“So where’d you learn to throw sidearm anyway?” Cody asks.
My heart lurches in my chest. He’s literally asked the exact question that will lead me to tell him everything. All I have to do is answer truthfully.
Sounds so simple, and yet the next words that pop out of my mouth are, “I watched some YouTube videos.” I look down at my ice cream. “Talked to Nick. Read up on it.”
“Cool. I heard you were totally badass. That was smart.” I still can’t look at him. He lightly kicks my foot under the table. “Guess you’re not as dumb as you look.”
I. Am. Scum.
Scum squared.
Next to his bowl of ice cream, Cody’s phone vibrates on the table with a text message. He slides it open, reads it, and like a flame flickering out, his teasing grin fades from his face. There it is, that sullen look that he thinks he hides so well.
He doesn’t answer the text.
“What’s that?” I ask, nodding at his phone. “Ad for a hooker?”
“Ha ha,” he says.
His phone vibrates again, and this time he shuts it off without looking at it.
“Seriously, though,” I say, glancing at his phone. “What’s going on?”
He pokes at his ice cream, before sighing. “My dad said another scout emailed about my visiting their team.”
“Another?” I say. “I didn’t know you had that many already. That’s amazing.”
Only he’s not smiling.
“That is amazing, right?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
“What? Having too many offers is stressing you out?” I can’t imagine any other reason he would be upset.
He bites on his spoon and looks me right in my eyes, like he’s trying to decide if he should tell me the truth. He seems to give it a lot of thought, which is more than I can say for myself.
“I’m going to hell if I say it out loud,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows. “Did you kill someone?”
“No, but I’m sure you and everyone else I know will consider it on the same caliber.” When I don’t respond to his very ominous statement, he sighs and says, “I don’t know if I want to play baseball in college.”
There’s a beat of silence as I take this in. “You mean you want to go straight to the pros? What’s so sinful about that?”
“No, I mean I don’t know if I want to play at all after high school.”
Oh.
Oh.
“But…” I have so many objections. So many questions. “But…”
Anyone who knows Cody knows that he’s going to the major leagues. He’s going to the frigging Hall of Fame. He’s going down in history as one of the greatest pitchers in the entire existence of the sport. To think of him as anything but a legend of baseball is nearly impossible.
Which is why I can’t wrap my head around what he’s telling me.
“Why?” is all I can say.
He sighs and drops his spoon into his empty ice-cream bowl. “This injury has made me think a lot about playing ball,” he says, glancing at the cast. “I’ve been so depressed and pissed about not being able to play, and I keep thinking about how one day I’m not going to be able to play. And not because of an injury, but because of age. I don’t want to hit my peak and spend the rest of my life wallowing in self-pity and nostalgia. Or worse, be one of those athletes wh
o keeps trying to come back and utterly fails. I guess I don’t want my whole life to be about baseball, and so far it has been.” He lets out a frustrated groan. “But then, I feel bad about even thinking about turning down these colleges that want me to play. I mean, how many people would kill to not only go to college, but to go to college on a full-ride scholarship for doing something they love?”
I don’t know what to say. I never expected this to come from Cody, who has, until now, had a one-track mind about baseball.
“Maybe it’s stupid,” he continues. He’s still talking to me, but it’s also like he’s talking to himself. “But I’ve spent the last couple days trying to figure out what I like to do besides baseball. What if there’s something else I like more than baseball? How would I know? What if I might be, like, a prodigal marine biologist or something?”
“But you love baseball.”
“I can love more than one thing.” He fiddles with his ice-cream spoon. “Don’t you want to know if there’s something else out there that you enjoy as much as pitching, maybe even more?”
I think about it, and slowly, I shake my head. “It’s always been enough for me.”
“Then maybe you should play professionally.”
“Have you told anyone? Chizz? Your parents? Joey?”
Cody shakes his head, and part of me is like, Awww, I’m his go-to confidante, but the other part of me is like, Well, shit. That means he trusts me to give him useful advice, of which I have none.
“I think I’m having a mild identity crisis,” he says, getting up to throw away his bowl. “I have to keep it on the down low.”
I get up and ditch my empty bowl too. As we cross the terrace back toward home, I ask, “Is there something you were hoping I’d say to make you feel better?”
“Maybe that I’m not completely crazy.”
“You forget who you’re talking to.”
He stops walking for a moment. He looks at me and smiles. Really smiles. Even though nothing has changed for him—he’s still stuck in the same situation he was when we started the run—it’s as if his way of dealing with it has changed. Not that I did much except listen to him, but maybe that’s all he needed.