by Kris Hui Lee
I’m so preoccupied worrying about the potential shit fest that I don’t concentrate as well I should: my pitch lands straight on the sweet spot of the bat.
Number fifteen smacks the ball out between left and center, and as Joey scrambles to scoop up, the batter makes his way to second base.
The next batter gets a hit too, so now there’s a guy on first and a guy on third. If they score, it will give the North Enders a reason to start throwing insults at me again. They’ve probably been hoarding them for when I screw up. Their time is approaching fast.
The next batter is the North Enders pitcher. He’s got one hell of an arm, but according to both Chizz and Davis, he’s a shoddy batter. As Davis instructed me before the start of the inning, I throw three wild pitches outside his strike zone, and he swings haphazardly at them all.
One down, two to go.
Unfortunately, the next batter is number twenty-eight, a.k.a. Harold Mathers, whose batting average has attracted those college scouts. Mathers is about seven feet tall, as wide as a refrigerator, and if he hits the ball, there will be no bucket large enough to catch my tears and those of my teammates. Because if he hits the ball, it’s going over the fence. And if the ball sails over the fence, all three North Enders on the field will dance across home plate.
I would be buried alive for letting up a three-run homer.
I consider calling a time-out to tell Chizz that Jiro should pitch the rest of this inning—hell, the rest of this game—but no. I’m going to do this. I tried out. I got the part. I went to practice. All that effort won’t be for nothing. Even if I screw up.
I throw a 12–6 curve—my pitch—and it takes all my self-control not to cringe as the ball sails toward Mathers.
There’s an echoing clink!
Shit.
The ball shoots down the first baseline, and I pray it’s going to be a foul, but it hits the line. Still in play.
Brayden, out in right field, scoops up the ball and throws it to first, stopping Mathers from going any farther. It’s not as bad as a three-homer, but even so, they’ve scored a run. The North Enders team and their supporters are loud in celebrating their point.
Suddenly I’m right back at softball regionals two years ago, reliving the last inning of that game. We’re winning by one, and all I have to do is get the last batter out and keep the girls on second and third from scoring. I want to pull a Nick. I want to be the pitcher who keeps her cool even when the pressure is cranked to the max.
Instead, I do the opposite. I let up not one run, but two, all in one pitch. The game is over, and so are my days playing softball.
I shake myself out of it.
This is not that game.
I remind myself of what my old softball coach told me after that devastating loss: “It takes a team to win or lose a game. Not just the pitcher.”
So I allow myself to take only partial responsibility for the North Enders scoring, and I do what you have to do in sports: forgive, forget, and move on, because the moment you start dwelling on the past is the moment you stop playing your best.
On the next pitch, we double play them, keeping the damage of this inning to one run.
The game slows to a golflike state, neither team scoring, neither team getting even close to scoring. Which, of course, means I’m doing my job well, but it also means the other team’s pitcher is doing his job well too.
At the start of the fifth inning, Chizz asks if I want to let Jiro pitch. I’ve played more than half of the seven innings, but I tell him no because (1) I’m not that tired yet, and (2) I haven’t brought out my submarine pitch.
So here we are.
Fifth inning.
Score: zero to one. We’re losing. I’m pitching.
Time to try out my sidearm strategy.
Three batters. One of whom is Harold Mathers.
“You’re slaying it,” Chizz says. At least my success doesn’t go completely unnoticed.
But I’m not the only one slaying it. In the next inning, the game finally propels forward when Joey smacks a ball over the fence, bringing in both himself and Carrot.
Score: two to one.
All I’ve got to do is keep the North Enders from scoring in the seventh and final inning.
It’s the softball sectionals all over again. I’m sure everyone who knows me and what happened at that game is thinking it too.
“Should I go sidearm again?” I ask Chizz before going out to the field. “Or the usual?”
“I trust you and Davis to decide correctly.”
“What kind of coach are you?” I scoff.
He laughs. “You know, sometimes what makes a pitcher great isn’t their velocity or strength, but their instinct. Trust yourself.”
So I go out on the field with nothing but trust.
Against the first batter, I throw two strikes with sidearm pitches. He hits the last pitch—a pop-up into left field. Joey catches it with ease. Out number one.
Second batter. First a foul. Then a swing and a miss. And then a fly ball right into Jiro’s mitt at second base. Out number two.
Third batter. He hits the ball. Gets to second.
My heart drops to my stomach.
Fourth batter. The pitcher with the wild swings. I remember how easy it was to strike him out last time. He’s probably expecting underhand pitches. So I decide to switch it up.
I throw overhand.
First pitch: right down the strike zone.
Second pitch: ball.
Third pitch: swing and a miss.
Fourth pitch: a hit—a foul.
Two strikes.
Davis gives me a sign with four fingers. A runner is taking a big lead off the plate.
The guy on second must be planning a Hail Mary steal to third. So I check him over my shoulder, and he takes a few steps back to second.
I turn back to face the batter. Davis flashes a four at me again.
I stand like I’m preparing to pitch, and then I whip around and throw the ball to Jiro at second base. The runner dives back, still safe, and Jiro throws the ball back to me.
Or rather, he feigns it.
Jiro watches as the runner stands and brushes off his hands. The runner’s mistake? He steps off the base to do it.
Jiro moves his arm six inches to tag the oblivious North Enders player on the shoulder.
“HELL YEAH!” Jiro shouts with a triumphant jump, tossing the ball aside.
And that’s how we win. With a frigging pick-off.
Because Jiro faked out a runner with a play that Little Leaguers use.
It takes a moment for everyone else to realize what’s happened because no one but Jiro and I are celebrating.
Then, slowly, understanding sweeps the field, and all the guys run to dog pile on Jiro for his sneaky brilliance.
On the bleachers, my dad and Nick are screaming, but no one is louder than Sara.
Behind me, a chorus of “We Are the Champions” breaks out.
It’s all so surreal to me—like I’m watching the game on TV and not actually a part of it. Chizz comes onto the field, smiling so wide that I wonder if this win has made him happier than seeing his daughter be born.
It happened so fast. First we were playing, and now the game is over. I look at the scoreboard to make sure it’s real.
Two to one to Corrington.
Which means we’re going to the semifinals. We’re going to the semifinals.
In this fuzzy dream state, I look at the North Enders bleachers. Santino and Neha are on their feet. Neha catches my eye and gives me a thumbs-up. Santino delivers his congratulations with a slight nod, and then they disappear before anyone can catch on to them.
The next thing I know, I’m being lifted off the ground and spun in circles. The arm around my waist is strong but gentle, and when my
feet find the earth again, I stumble back against Cody, whose good arm is still wrapped around me. I turn to face him, and he doesn’t need to say anything to me—his smile says it all. A rush of adrenaline surges through me. We won. I pitched the entire game, and we won. We’re going to the frigging semifinals! Cody is so close to me that I can feel him breathing against my body.
My nerves, drunk on victory, urge me to close the space between us. To give him the kiss that we both know we want. And I almost do.
But he makes the first move. Cody pulls me into another hug with his arm, lifting me off the ground.
“Fuck, Marnie,” he says into my ear. “I’m so proud of you.”
I pull away enough to look him straight on. “Thanks for giving me a push.”
I think he’s going to do it, going to kiss me, to really, actually kiss me, but then Joey and Jiro and a bunch of other guys stampede us with hugs and shouts and slaps on the back.
Chizz lines us up to do the good sportsmanship high-five routine with the North Enders team. I mumble my “good game” the way I was taught to back in Little League, but all I can think about is (a) we won, and we’re going to the semifinals, (b) my mom wasn’t here to root for me, but friggin’ Santino Acardi was, and (c) I am so, so, so in over my head with Cody.
“Good game,” I repeat, “good game.”
14
As is tradition, victory means dinner at Cecil’s Grill House. The tradition may not be a big deal to the team—they eat here all the time. All the waiters and the manager know everyone by name. But for me, it’s like getting back on a bike when you haven’t ridden for years. I haven’t hung out with a team since softball freshman year. There are hardly ever more than four of us when I go out: me, Sara, Joey, and Cody. Sometimes we’re six when Jiro and Carrot come too. But now, I’m part of this pack, walking across Corrington Terrace with pride. Everyone’s talking over each other, being loud and obnoxious—exactly as you’d expect from a bunch of high school jocks who have just advanced in the postseason. They give no shits about interrupting the couples on romantic dates who are sitting at tables around the center fountain. Our team’s excitement permeates every inch of the place.
As we approach the blue awning of Cecil’s, I slowly regain memory of what it’s like to be part of a team. I endured the athletic part of it, but the real test will be if I can last more than half an hour with the guys off the field, where there are no rules to follow or umps to referee or games to be won.
“Whoa, look at the crowd in there,” Davis says, peeking through the front window of the restaurant. “Who wants to go in and get our name on the list?”
“Nose goes!” Carrot shouts, and immediately fingers fly to faces.
“Too slow,” Joey says, jabbing Cody in the arm. “Go get our buzzer.”
Clearly this is some sort of routine, because Cody doesn’t argue. He pulls open the door and disappears into the crowd of waiting people. The rest of us wait outside where it’s cooler.
“You’re welcome to go with him,” Carrot says, nudging my side. He gives me a knowing smirk.
The guys all look at me like they’re in on the joke, waiting for me to cave into my pulsing heart. It’s like they’ve all got stakes in some bet that I don’t know about.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, even though I know exactly what he’s talking about. I won’t give them the satisfaction, and just to prove it, I take a seat next to Jiro on a nearby bench.
“So,” Davis says, “truth or dare. Marnie.”
“Seriously?” I say.
“Team tradition. When we have to wait, we play Truth or Dare.”
“Are you twelve?”
“Truth or dare, rookie, take your pick.”
Wow. I changed my mind. I don’t want to be part of their group if it means I have to regress to junior high behavior.
“Dare,” I say.
“Go in there and make out with Cody,” Davis says, smirking like a bitch.
I give him the finger.
“Fine, chicken. Then I dare you to make out with that guy over there,” he says, pointing to a college-aged guy standing by the fountain.
As I contemplate if these are the kind of dares the guys always give, and how weird it would be for me to actually do it, the door to Cecil’s opens, and Cody comes out with the buzzer in hand.
“I guess he’s sorta hot,” I say.
“Do it!” Davis and Carrot shout.
“Do what?” Cody asks. “Who’s hot?”
“We dared Marnie to make out with that guy over there,” Jiro informs him.
Cody looks at the guy then at me. Part of me wants to kiss the guy to see Cody’s reaction. But then a girl comes out of a clothing store, walks up to the guy, wraps her arm around his waist, and kisses him on the mouth. Lovely.
“You were this close to getting me slapped in the face,” I tell Davis.
He cackles in delight. “You lose this round, Locke. And here I thought you’d have some guts.”
This goes on for some time. Brayden winds up throwing nearly three dollars worth of coins into the fountain. Joey asks a little girl if he can hug her stuffed penguin. Jiro confesses that he had a really inappropriate dream about the student teacher in his stats class. (“She’s hot,” Carrot tells us. “It’s understandable.”) Cody asks a passing couple if they’ve seen his pet llama strolling the area. (This is after he rejects the dare to have sex with me in the middle of the terrace. Thank God it’s dark enough to hide the color in my face.)
We’re still waiting for our buzzer to alert us that our table is ready when I get a text from an unknown number:
Yoooo its santino, got your number from abram. Neha wants to take you out for a victory celebration (so do I, as another attempt to be a good cousin)
Trying not to look too skittish, I check to make sure that none of the guys are reading over my shoulder. I text back: im already celebrating with the team
Gotcha. That’s what I thought but neha insisted I ask anyway. I’ve gotta run a few errands for my mom while I’m in corrington, so text me when you’re done. If I’m still here I can meet you back at your place
I check again to make sure no one’s watching me too closely.
K, I send back.
I slide my phone in my pocket as Cody sits onto the bench next to me.
“Hey,” he says. “I have to pick your brains about something.”
“Go for it.”
“Sara and Joey.”
“What about Sara and Joey?” I ask, but I think I know where he’s headed.
“Something happened between yesterday and today, and I’m not sure what,” he says. “But Joey is acting weird. I mean, weirder than he normally is.”
“Hell if I know.”
We both look over at Joey, who is sharing a video on his phone with the guys.
“Sara didn’t say anything?” he asks.
“Nope. I’ve given up trying to pry details from her about Joey.”
“I’m worried.”
“About what? Sometimes they get like this. You know that. They’ll go back to normal in a couple days, if not tomorrow.”
The restaurant buzzer starts vibrating in his hands. Our table is ready. He stands and looks like he’s got more to say, but he doesn’t.
As we herd ourselves like hungry cows into the restaurant, Cody squeezes between me and Jiro. “You wouldn’t actually have done it, right?” he asks, loud enough for only me to hear.
“Do what?”
“Make out with that guy.”
I gain some satisfaction in knowing that he’s still thinking about that, even though it happened like twenty minutes ago. I give him a sly grin. “You don’t know me at all.”
As we follow the host to the back of the restaurant, he says, “I know you would never make out with a rand
om dude, but I also know you don’t turn down dares so easily.”
“Well, he was quite attractive.”
He knows I’m teasing him, but still I feel jealousy radiating off him in the way he stiffens beside me.
“Don’t worry. He’s not as attractive as you,” I say in an unmistakably joking manner as I patronizingly pat his stomach. I do this to disarm him because sometimes I can’t help but flirt with him, especially when he makes it so easy. But when his firm abs flex in reaction to my touch, I mentally smack my forehead.
Touché, Cody. Touché.
We get to a giant circular booth in the corner, and I slide onto an edge seat next to Cody. We’re sitting by a window that looks toward the fountain and across to the other side of the shopping center. The storefront displays are all lit up in a warm glow, including one for a dress shop. Which reminds me that I still have to get a dress for Abram and Geanna’s wedding.
Mom hasn’t gone helicopter parent on me in a few days, because I’ve hardly been home with school and baseball, but she’ll be hovering over me soon enough. I suppose I could stop in to look at dresses after dinner. Maybe surprise her when I get home. Maybe that would make her resent me playing baseball a little less.
“Chizz said he’d pick up the tab,” Joey announces after the waiter has left our table, which is cue for all of us to order the most expensive entrées on the menu.
Once we order (lamb chops for me—go big or go home, right?), Carrot decides to resume our game of Truth or Dare, much to my dismay.
“Joey, truth or dare?” Carrot says.
“Dare.”
“Hit on the blond waitress when she walks over here.”
“Veto,” I say. “I refuse to take part in pigheaded activities.”
“Fine,” Carrot says. “Joey, I dare you to hit on Marnie.”
Joey, who’s sitting on the other side of Cody, rubs his hands together like he’s plotting world domination, and then he leans over. Cody gives him the space, the bastard, and Joey takes my hand. “Do you have eleven protons?” he asks in an over-the-top smarmy voice. “’Cause you’re sodium fine.”