“Me too!” Jessica announces. “I’ve wanted a Banana Fad dress ever since Hannah rocked the Spring Fashion Show.
“Count me in. You know how I love original style. And so does Xavier,” Eva adds, her eyes glimmering with satisfaction at the mention of her DJ boyfriend.
Seven pairs of eyes descend on me.
For a moment, I just look pleadingly at Missy. Doesn’t she remember how much prom means to me? And what a sore subject it is? Sure, we haven’t talked about how my mom was prom princess in a while. But how could she forget that I always wanted to go mother-daughter shopping? And how could she possibly overlook that my mom is three thousand miles away?
Missy’s eyes are wide. She’s waiting for my answer just like the rest of them. So I give them a classic Kylie: “Prom’s too important to leave to an amateur. . . . No offense.” I look at Hannah, then Missy.
They all sigh in disgust.
But I can’t bring myself to tell them the truth—that prom shopping may be the only way I’ll get my mom to come home for a weekend. Besides, if Missy, who I thought was my best friend, can’t see past her fashion design “business” and her perfect Stepford family to understand what I’m going through, then none of them can. I’m all alone.
two
“Welcome, Wildcats,” Coach Kate announces, greeting us each individually as we enter the Beachwood Academy Field House the next day.
“Hey, Coach!” I say, beaming. I’ve adored Coach Kate ever since she spotted me on the Beachwood Middle School mound five years ago.
“Hello, Kylie,” Coach says, glancing at me. “How’s it going with Coach Malone?”
“Amazing.You should see my rise ball!” I say. And then I kick myself for saying it. My rise ball isn’t exactly stellar at the moment.
Coach, decked out in her signature Beachwood attire, smiles. “Great.” She turns back to greeting girls I don’t recognize.
A briny scent of salt from the nearby shore fills the field house air as I scan the familiar and not so familiar faces. The freshmen glance sideways at me as we inconspicuously try to size each other up. They avert their gaze the second they see me notice them. If Zachary so much as sank his claws into another freshman girl, I’m going to . . .
“Kylie!” my ASA teammate Chloe, a freshman who’s expected to make varsity this year, jogs over to me, interrupting my ill-advised thoughts of vengeance. Her curly blonde ponytail swings back and forth as she bounces in her way-too-tiny cotton shorts and tee. “Can you believe we’re back already?”
Great. The first girl I have to see is Chloe.
“Yeah,” I say, scanning the team room in an attempt to keep myself from looking at Chloe. Word is, Chloe made out with Zachary while I was away skiing at Telluride over Christmas break last year. Although the two of them vehemently denied the hookup, I figure ignoring Chloe can’t hurt.
“Hey, Zoe,” I call out. I push my way toward my quasiroommate, giving Chloe the brush-off. When I reach her, I give her skinny elbow a quick squeeze. She drops the catcher’s mitt she was busy playing with to her side and looks up at me with deep brown eyes. Her mouth breaks into a grin, showing off two dimples.
And that’s when the resemblance to Zachary hits me. I quickly pull my hand back. Even though Zoe and I practically grew up together, it’s hard to look at her without thinking of her brother. Even if we did just finish our first basketball season together.
“Hey, Ky.” Zoe moves toward me, giving me a hug. As much as I love Zoe, it’s all I can do to stop myself from running in the opposite direction when the Zachary memories strike.
“There you are!” Jessica squeezes in next to Zoe. She grabs my hands and starts to jump up and down. “It’s time for softball season!” She beams.
“The best season.” I wink.
“Ky!” Phoenix, our third baseman, jogs from the back of the pack to join us. “How’s it going?” She eyes me up and down like she’s scoping out another piece of jewelry to add to her enormous collection.
“Amazing,” I say, feeling the wave of excitement in the room.
“Nice highlights.” She touches a honey-blonde wave.
“Thanks, I try,” I reply.
Phoenix waves to Nyla, our returning shortstop and future Florida Gator. “Nyla!” she shouts.
Nyla’s face lights up. She waves back. “Phoenix! Ky!” Then she maneuvers through the team room to join us. “What’s up, girls?” she exclaims, pushing up the sleeves of her Gators Softball hoodie.
“Uh, our upcoming season,” I answer, too busy picturing myself walking into the UCLA team room to bother being my usual sarcastic self.
When I look around, I notice that we’re surrounded by girls in ASA tees and summer club hoodies eavesdropping on our conversation.
I ignore them and lean in closer to my friends, whispering, “Have you guys noticed that we’ve been ambushed by freshmen?”
“Yeah, guess they think that if they hang out with us, they might just make the team.” Phoenix giggles.
“Like it’s that easy,” Nyla replies.
Zoe just shakes her head. After being friends with me for me so long, she knows to take all this anti-frosh talk in stride.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar blur of brunette hair. A hand waves to us frantically in the distance. “Uh-oh, guys. I think one of us is trapped,” I say. I reach my hand out, through the throng of nervous girls, and pull my friend Emily in.
By the time Emily is standing next to us, she’s shaking her head. “Seriously. Who do these girls think they are? I don’t remember being like this my first year,” she announces as soon as she’s checked to make sure that she didn’t lose anything in all the commotion.
“That’s what Kylie was thinking.” Zoe giggles.
Emily turns to Zoe. “And you are?” she asks.
I step in before Zoe can answer. “She’s your counterpart—hoping to be JV catcher. She’s also Zachary’s little sister.”
Emily makes an O with her mouth. Before she can figure out how to respond to that bombshell, Coach Kate calls the assembly to order.
“Okay, everyone,” Coach Kate shouts. “It’s time to get started.”
I take my seat on the first bench, along with the rest of the returning varsity team. Zoe squeezes in next to me, motioning for “Abs” to join us.
Flanked by her assistant coaches, Coach Kate scans the hopefuls. She pulls an Expo marker off the shelf of the huge whiteboard behind her. “The coaches and I are very excited about this upcoming season,” she says, twirling the marker. “Looking out at the room, I see a lot of great talent. In fact, the other coaches and I are convinced this is our year—the year that will go down in Beachwood Softball history.”
A few girls nervously clap and glance around.
“And that is why . . .” Coach pauses, and for one second I wonder if she forgot the rest of her speech.
Phoenix takes this opportunity to lean over and whisper, “Nice necklace.”
I look down and realize that I’ve been mindlessly playing with my heart pendant ever since I sat down. “Thanks,” I reply. I’m considering whether to tell her that it was a present from Zachary when I notice the room’s gone quiet. I look back up.
Coach Kate is glancing uncomfortably at the assistant coaches. It must dawn on her that she’s freaking us all out because she finally turns back to us. “As many of you know, I was brought on three years ago to revive this program to the powerhouse it once was.” Coach adjusts her royal-blue BW visor. “In fact, Beachwood hasn’t had a winning season in ten years. Last year, we went ten and twelve, coming close. But we lost our concentration at the end of the season.” She raises her eyebrows as she looks at me.
Clearly, she didn’t forget how I blew our final game of the season because I was so exhausted from staying up all night, spying on Zachary. (I was worried something was going on between him and Susie Tabler. There wasn’t.)
I force myself to move past this memory and try to focus on what
Coach Kate is saying.
“This is a must-win year for us,” Coach continues, clicking the marker cap, “since enrollment at Beachwood is dependent on our successful sports programs and top-notch academics . . . .” She takes a deep breath, steadying herself. Then, in a rush, she blurts out the big news. “I was given three years to turn this program around. This year is my third year. If we don’t do something to show the Board of Trustees that we’re back from our slump, the Beachwood Academy Softball program will be demoted to intramural status.”
What? Did I hear Coach correctly? An intramural schedule? Why?
A few girls look like they’re going to faint.
“Normally I wouldn’t disclose this kind of administrative information. But I think it’s imperative for everyone on the team to know their positions aren’t safe.” She pauses and then adds insult to injury. “I don’t care whether you’ve played for me before or this is your first tryout. This season is a clean slate. Everyone has an equal shot of making the team.”
“What?” A couple of girls gasp.
“That’s not fair!” Emily squeals.
“Yes, you’re right. It’s not fair. But I’m not in control of these types of executive decisions, and I have to do what I can to make sure that we play at the highest level possible. Beachwood Academy Softball’s future is on the line.”
“This is crazy!” I shout.
“They can’t do this,” Phoenix spouts.
“Unfortunately, yes, they can. As some of you know, the lacrosse team was demoted to intramural status just two years ago. And they still haven’t been reinstated to the interscholastic league. And of course, you all remember when the International Olympic Committee dropped softball from the Olympics. Let’s not let that happen to our softball team here.” Coach Kate tenses her mouth.
I gulp.
Coach soldiers on. “This isn’t the time to give up. Beachwood Academy Softball players are fighters. We’re tough. And we’re starting now. Today. We’re not waiting around for a championship banner. We’re going to meet the Board of Trustees’ expectations way before the end of the season. We’re not going to allow this to be Beachwood Softball’s last year. We’re going to bring home a Desert Invitational tournament banner in April!”
A couple of girls clap. Most of us just nervously look around the room. Yesterday’s conversation at Sprinkles registers somewhere in the deep dark recesses of my brain (as does the fact that Santo Bay has won the last two Desert Invitationals).
“Now, moving on to today’s practice. This afternoon we’ll just be getting to know each other. The assistant coaches and I won’t begin formally evaluating you until tomorrow.”
I take a deep breath and try to tell myself that none of this applies to me. Formal evaluation or not: that spot on the mound is mine. Sure, I slacked off after my parents’ split, but I’m the returning two-year starting pitcher and I’ve been batting second in the lineup since the middle of my freshman year. Plus, I constantly practice with my ASA team—both as a pitcher and at second base—and I’ve been working hard this summer with Coach Malone, my pitching instructor, to master the one ingredient missing from my pitching arsenal: the rise ball.
Coach continues, “After we’re done with the evaluation, we’ll post the ten varsity starters, a backup pitcher, and four substitutes. Below that, we’ll post the twelve of you who made junior varsity. The roster should be up on Wednesday after school.”
Coach takes a moment for us to let this all sink in. She’s certainly going for the I-am-the-boss mantra this year. If I was a newbie, I’d definitely be nervous.
Once she senses we’ve all had a chance to digest this information, she exclaims, “Let’s get started!” Then she tosses the marker back on the whiteboard shelf and charges toward the door.
Zoe looks up at me. “I guess varsity is a long shot this year.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, shrugging.
“Do you think we’ll all be replaced?” Phoenix pulls out her batting glove and slides it onto her hand.
“Doubtful,” I say, adjusting my ponytail. Then I grab Zoe’s arm. Even if she is Zachary’s sister, it’s my job to take care of her. I pull her behind me and out the door.
I don’t care what Coach Kate says. Nothing is going to get in my way this year. UCLA, here I come.
three
“Can you believe that?” Zoe asks as I pull her out of the field house. “I thought stuff like that didn’t happen at B-Dub. Zach said—”
“Don’t worry. It won’t.” I cut her off at the mention of her brother. “At least not if I have anything to do with it.” I put my hand on Zoe’s shoulder. “I promise I’ll—”
“Kylie!” Before I can finish promising anything, Coach Kate calls me over to the pitching cage. “Hey, Kylie, I forgot to ask you—I’m attending a coach’s clinic this summer, and we’re allowed to bring two players from the team. Would you like to go?”
“Sure,” I say, leaving out the implicit who wouldn’t? Instead, I opt for the seasoned pro approach. “Will it be just like last year’s?”
“Not quite. This year the focus is more on mental conditioning, rather than on skill-based drills.”
“Oh . . . ” I pause.“Perfect.”
“I was hoping you’d be up for it.” She smiles. “And, before I forget, I’d like to introduce you to someone.”
I look around for my freaked-out freshman partner. Coach is known for pairing up veterans with rookies. Gotta love the first day of practice.
A tiny girl, clad in an Orange County Crush ASA tee and tie-dyed socks, steps next to Coach. Her auburn hair is held back tight in a ponytail and a Jennie-Finch-inspired sparkly headband sits across the crown of her head.
I stare at the girl. I would know those freckles anywhere. What is she doing here? She doesn’t go to Beachwood.
“Hey, I’m Amber,” she says, holding out her hand. “Amber McDonald.”
“I know who you are. I remember you from ASA,” I say. An image of me standing inside the batter’s box while three of the most powerful pitches I’ve ever seen hurtle past flashes before my eyes.
“Really?” she asks.
“Yeah, you struck m—uh, my teammate out three times.”
“Oh, I hope I didn’t embarrass her,” Amber replies.
I look at her face for any hint of sarcasm. There isn’t a sign to be found.
Coach takes this as a sign that we’re a match made in heaven. “I’m so glad you girls are already acquainted! Kylie, I’d like you to show Amber the ropes,” she says, distracted by her clipboard. “You’ll be working together during the tryouts.”
Great.
Coach walks away to join her assistants.
Okay. Breathe. So what if Amber’s one of the best pitchers in Southern California? So what if she’s a junior like me? So what if she’s gotten tons of press and won countless honors? I’m going to go D-I at UCLA and no transfer student is going to steal my spot.
I take a deep breath, feeling my lungs coil up. “Since I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself last summer—I’m Kylie. Kylie Collins.”
“It’s great to meet you.” She smiles and points to my pink-and-white Under Armour softball bag. “Love your bag.”
“Thanks,” I reply, not bothering to acknowledge that the bag is a year-old birthday gift from my mom. I force myself to give her an equally sweet response. “It’s great to meet you in person too.” I smile. I can do this. I can be nice to her for one measly practice. And then I’ll crush her . . .
Amber follows me to the fenced-in pitching cage. My first instinct is to let the gate swing in her face, but I hold it open for her, pushing away the memories of me and Zachary practicing in this very spot.
“Thanks,” Amber says, smiling widely enough to show off her shiny, white teeth.
I walk out toward the far side of the cage and grab a yellow softball from the bucket resting next to the pitching rubber. She can’t be that amazing. She probably just got luc
ky against us last year.
I grip the ball, feeling for the familiar seams. My hand automatically assumes the C-grip. It’s as if my hand has decided that I’m going to throw a fastball before my brain’s had time to process.
At first, Amber and I throw in silence. I seriously can’t think of anything to say to her. All that comes to mind is her stats, and it’s not like I want to admit that I’ve combed through them obsessively ever since our last game together.
“So . . . ” Amber looks around and tosses the ball back to me overhand. She’s smiling, of course. “What pitching coach do you work with?”
“Coach Malone,” I say, tossing the ball back to her. I shove my glove between my knees and stretch out my right arm.
“I used to work with Malone years ago.” She catches my toss.
I wince. If she were anyone else, I’d assume she means that Coach Malone wasn’t good enough to stick with.
“So, how long have you . . . ” She begins to toss the ball back, but stops herself when she realizes I’m stretching and not ready to catch her ball. But not before the ball tumbles out of her hand toward me. “Oh my God . . . ” Her face flushes and she jogs toward the ball. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, really it’s okay.” I shake out my hand. The ball rolls a few feet ahead of me. “I’ll get it.”
“No, I’ll . . .”
She’s about to jog toward the ball when I cut her off, sprinting after it.
Seeing that I have the situation under control, Amber stops mid-stride and returns to the pitching cage. “I should have been paying better attention.”
“Here,” I say, placing the ball into her glove. She should be paying better attention.
She takes one look at the ball and hands it back to me. Then she walks toward her bag and pulls out two water bottles. “I brought an extra one. Here you go.” She holds out an unopened bottle.
Ugh, she really is genuinely nice. Gag me with a bat.
“I’m okay,” I say, snapping the ball into my glove with my wrist.
“If you’re sure . . . ” Amber takes a sip and sets up on the mound.
Stealing Bases Page 2