Stealing Bases

by Mikulski, Keri

  “What door?” I smirk. “You mean the one at the guesthouse that doesn’t even belong to us?”

  “I assume you still have a door,” she replies.

  I stare blankly back.

  “You know. That thing you enter. It swings back and forth. There’s usually a knob.”

  A hint of a smile creeps its way onto my face.

  Missy takes this to mean that all is better. “Whose guesthouse are you staying at, anyway?” she asks, totally unaware that the guesthouse in question belongs to the family of a certain ex-boyfriend of mine.

  I quickly run through my mental files to remember which lie I told her. “Remember? My dad’s friend—our neighbor’s.”

  She pulls in front of the FOR SALE sign at my former beach house, peering into the adjacent yards. She then drives five blocks in the wrong direction, eventually arriving at someone else’s guesthouse. The one I’ve been lying about living in. “I hate to say this because I know you’re going to take it the wrong way . . . ” she says.

  I look at her like, Are you kidding me? You lead with that?

  Missy ignores my response. “But I still don’t get it. Why would your dad move before the house sold?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “No clue.” I leave out the fact that my dad isn’t exactly interested in having his living arrangements funded by my mom.

  “So once your house sells, where are you going?”

  “I don’t know . . . . ” I grab my bag, hoping that my neighbors don’t notice I’ve been spending an exorbitant amount of time parked in front of their house.

  “Wait, Ky!” she calls out. (A little too loudly if you ask me, considering that I haven’t even exited the car yet.) “When are you going to take your driver’s test?”

  “Huh?”

  “You know the test we all took last year?”

  “Oh yeah . . . that.” The divorce had me so shaken over the summer that I skipped out on the lessons my mom scheduled for me, which meant that the test was then kind of out of the question.

  “Maybe picking out brand-new wheels will make you feel better.”

  “Doubtful . . . ”

  “Well, maybe this will help pep you up. I still haven’t told you about my revenge plan! For the boys.” She raises one eyebrow.

  As much as I don’t have room for this in my life right now, I can’t help but be intrigued. “What kind of plan?” I ask.

  “Just a little list of our own.”

  “Sounds fascinating,” I reply, egging her on. “Count me in.” I shut the car door behind me.

  Missy rolls down the window. “Oh, I will.” She winks.

  I begin walking up the stone driveway of our neighbor’s house praying for Missy to leave, when I hear her call out, “Wait just one sec, Ky.”

  I turn around.

  “You dodged me on the guesthouse question. Tell me, is the Collins family impoverished? It’s okay. Even Donald Trump filed for bankruptcy.”

  “Keep studying those SAT words,” I say. “Don’t worry about the Collins family. We’re just fine. Thanks for the ride.”

  Missy grins, looking satisfied. Then she waves and pulls away.

  I hate lying to Missy. But I can’t risk telling her the truth. It’s embarrassing enough to live in someone’s guesthouse. But it’s way more embarrassing when that guesthouse belongs to Zachary’s parents.

  When Missy’s taillights disappear around the corner, I scale down my neighbor’s driveway, saying a silent prayer of thanks that no one’s come out to arrest me for trespassing. Then I trek the five blocks inland toward the Murphys’ miniestate.

  Once I reach the Murphys’ main house, a six-bedroom yellow stucco behemoth, I walk up the steep stone driveway, passing my dad’s navy Prius along the way. Then I push through the white fence into the backyard. I glance at their half-size basketball court and traipse along the path through their immaculate garden, resisting the urge to step on their flowers and plants. Taking a not-entirely-necessary jaunt across their white-lit gazebo, I finally arrive at what I like to call our cottage—a two-bedroom stucco guesthouse. Currently, it plays home to two of three Collinses. Previously, it served as casa de Zachary and Zoe’s nanny. Either way, it’s kind of a poor excuse for a primary residence.

  I dig into my bag for the equally tiny key. And then, giving up on any pretense of sanity, I peek behind me. Zachary’s second-story window glows brightly. Like a homing beacon tempting me 24/7.

  He’s home. Great.

  I force myself to look away and resume opening the front door of the guesthouse. Immediately my senses are assaulted by the potent smell of honeysuckle soy aromatherapy candles. A wave of heat hits my face.

  “Shut the door.” My dad speed-walks toward me, holding a glass of thick green liquid. His bare feet and choice of clothes—charcoal biker shorts—tell me what I’m in store for. “Don’t let the heat out,” he says.

  Our furniture—tiny beige matching tuxedo chairs and an abaca ottoman—is pushed up against the sidewall to make room for at least a dozen multicolored yoga mats. Scantily clad ladies bend over in painful-looking triangle poses, the sweat beads on their bodies threatening to spill over onto our living room floor.

  “Please slip in quickly on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays,” my dad whispers as he hurries past me. He wipes away beads of sweat of his own from his freshly shaved head.

  That was something he adopted after his mini–heart attack a year ago—shaving his head to cover his balding. The other was a midlife-crisis-style career change.

  Exactly one year ago this May, my dad quit his real job and jetted off to India to study yoga. Two months later, when he returned, he slowly began his transformation toward his new career goal—to become Southern California’s premier yoga instructor. A month after that, my type A mom couldn’t take his babble anymore. (As she eventually told me, she worked really hard, and he was doing what?) So, she filed for divorce, and left.

  And honestly, I don’t blame her. For years, my parents would fight in private when they thought I couldn’t hear them. And all of their fights were about the same thing—how my mom actually wanted practical things and my dad didn’t.

  I glance back at my dad and think about what other families must be doing right now—finishing dinner, watching television. And here we are at yoga night. So, yeah, I guess I do blame my mom for one thing: leaving me with him.

  Wanting to escape my dad as quickly as possible, I take a quick right down the narrow hallway to my bedroom. I sigh in disgust when it takes me all of ten seconds to arrive at my door—I still can’t believe my dad voluntarily downgraded from fifteen rooms to five just so he didn’t have to depend on my mom to pay the mortgage. On the plus side, my Lab Kibbles is waiting there to greet me. She stands up on her hind legs in front of my door and slobbers all over me with warm, sloppy kisses. I giggle and squat down to pet her long golden fur.

  “Hey, girl. Who’s a cutie? Who do I love?” I scratch underneath her chin and she wags her tail excitedly. Then I stand up and push open the door to my room, spinning the doorknob just as I do my screwball.

  From there, things take a turn for the worst. Kibbles follows me into my room, and I’m so caught up in playing with her that I don’t notice the softball glove I left on the ground. Naturally, I trip over it and collapse onto my bed. In a way, I guess it’s good because my bed—the only piece of furniture I was allowed to keep during the move—is there to cushion my fall. But all it does is manage to remind me of how small my room is. There’s literally a whopping two feet between my door and the foot of my bed.

  For a moment, I just lie there, thinking about how once upon a time things were good—how my mom and I picked out the bed together; how Missy and I used to have sleepovers where we’d lie on this very bed and imagine what prom would be like; how Zachary and I used to lie there in each other’s arms, telling each other that we’d always be there.

  A single tear trickles down my face. I roll over to my side, placing my hand on th
e bamboo cotton duvet. The duvet feels stiff to the touch. I stifle a scream. Just another thing to make it impossible to forget that every friggin’ thing in this house is biodegradable. Even what are supposedly my linens.

  I pull myself off my bed and close my blinds, just in case Zachary decides to indulge in his habit of knocking on my window at all hours. Then I grab my pink iPod off my bamboo night table and lie back on my bed. Shoving the white earbuds into my ears, I blast my “Chill Out” mix. “Need You Now” courses from the headphones, bringing me back to the first time I heard the song: Zachary and I were hanging out after his parent’s annual Fourth of July bash. Tucked away in “our spot”—the corner of the beach where the cliffs form two perfect chairs—Zachary and I cuddled together as he jokingly serenaded me. If there was ever a perfect moment . . .

  I glance out the window that overlooks the back of Zachary’s house. He’s right there. Only yards away. It would be so much easier if I could just talk to him tonight. Right now. He would be able to make sense of this Amber mess.

  Instantly, everything hits me like one of Amber’s fastballs. The tears flow. Within seconds, my face looks like a car skidded across my cheeks.

  Dad is nuts. Mom left. Zachary is gone. And I don’t even have the guts to tell Missy where I live.

  Softball is all I have left. If I lose softball, I’ll lose Kylie.

  eight

  It’s Wednesday. D-day. The day Coach Kate posts the team roster. The day I find out if Amber’s transfer has destroyed my life. And I’m stuck in ninth period pre-calc like someone in prison waiting for parole.

  With my notebook spread out in front of me, I watch Mrs. Cunningham frantically grade papers. Then I stare at the clock over the door, tapping my pink pencil eraser to the beat of the skinny second hand as it slowly makes its way toward twelve. Then to three, to six, to nine, and back to twelve again. Ten whole minutes until the end of the school day. Ten whole minutes until I find out if I’m the starting pitcher.

  “Psst . . .” Phoenix hands me a folded-up piece of lined notebook paper.

  I grab it and smooth it open, laying it flat on my notebook.

  Good luck! xoxo Phoenix

  Good luck? Why should I need good luck? Great. Even Phoenix has lost faith in me.

  “Thanks,” I whisper in reply, breathing in and out to remind myself that she only has my best intentions at heart. Then I look over at Missy’s empty seat. Of all days for Missy to be out with a cold, today is the absolute worst. As much as I’ve been trying to tell myself that everything is going to be okay, the fact is that after three days of tryouts, Amber and I are neck and neck. Or at least what I’d like to think of as neck and neck—her pitches averaged around sixty-two miles per hour, topping out at sixty-six. Mine were around fifty-eight, topping out at sixty. And then there’s her rise ball. . .

  But, as I keep reminding myself, regardless of how hard she throws, I’m the one with the Beachwood experience. I’m the one Coach Kate should go with.

  My thoughts are interrupted by the sounds of Hannah ripping up a magazine to my left. (Yes, she’s a freshman in pre-calculus. In addition to being a design prodigy, she’s a math superstar.) In front of me, Missy’s ex, Andrew Mason, leans back in his chair, audibly bragging to his friends, Brett Davidson and Nick Solerno, about last season’s basketball record.

  “It’s hard being this good,” Andrew announces, folding his hands behind his head.

  “I know what you mean. Second in the state is hard to top,” Nick adds, checking his cell.

  Brett smirks, and I can’t help but butt in. “Really, Nick? Getting a lot of important messages? Don’t want to miss one from Mommy.”

  “Ha ha . . . ” The other guys each start to laugh, but then, with one quick look from Nick, realize whose side they should be on.

  Quickly, he attempts to regain control of the conversation. “So, Kylie, how’s the ‘softy ball’ team shaping up this year?” He turns around to face me, snickering. “Word is the program might get cut if you guys don’t shape up . . . . ”

  Andrew and Brett chuckle behind him.

  “Shut up, Nick,” Phoenix pipes up, eager to come to my aid.

  I hold up my hand, telling her to stop. There’s no way I’m letting that one slide. “Whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Is that all you’ve got?”

  Nick elbows Brett, urging him to do his part. But Brett doesn’t budge. Instead, he shifts in his chair, looking visibly uncomfortable.

  Nick takes this as an opportunity to continue. “Not even close, Ky. How hard is it to hit a giant yellow ball?” he jabs.

  I meet him insult for insult. “Well, clearly, it’s too hard for you. Don’t you remember PE last year?” I ask, letting out a sigh. Then I look down at my paper and pretend to work on the assignment.

  Nick is silent.

  I look back up. “Oh, do you need to go to the nurse because you’re having trouble remembering things? Let me remind you: I struck you out.”

  “She’s got you there,” Andrew says, now glancing at his phone out of the corner of his eye. (I’d bet anything that Missy texted him despite all that revenge garbage.)

  “Yeah, Nick, I saw her sit you down with three pitches,” Brett adds, jabbing Nick in the arm.

  Nick turns to Brett. “Now you decide to talk!” Then he shrugs. “I was having an off day.”

  “Then every day must be an off day,” I say, pretending to yawn.

  Suddenly, the bell rings. I jump out of my seat, grabbing my belongings. “Catch ya later, boys!” I call out, preparing to run out the door. Then, turning around, I decide to leave Nick with one final thought. “Good luck with that hand-eye coordination. If you need any help, I know of a great Little League team you can sign up for. Not sure if they’re looking for people who can’t hit the ball, though . . . ”

  Before any of them can respond, I turn around and tear out of pre-calc, smiling as I hear Andrew and Brett laughing uncontrollably behind me. Then I sprint toward the locker room. A crowd surrounds the bulletin board, but I don’t let that stop me. I push through to the front and scan the list.

  I drag my finger down the names, searching for mine, and there it is in black and white at the bottom.

  Amber McDonald—starting pitcher

  Kylie Collins—alternate

  My life is officially over.

  nine

  I stand openmouthed for a few seconds, attempting to get over the initial shock. Tears begin to trickle down my cheeks despite my attempts to keep them at bay.

  “Ky?” I hear someone say behind me.

  “Is she okay?” someone else whispers.

  “I don’t think she’s starting this year . . .” another person guesses.

  The murmurs only add insult to injury. I quickly wipe away the tears to avoid any further embarrassment. Ignoring the other girls, I charge down the hall and right into Coach’s office.

  The door slams behind me. “Coach, how could you do this to me? You’ve known me since I was in eighth grade. I’ve been your starting varsity pitcher for the last two years,” I plead, the desperation reaching my face as I cross my arms in front of my chest.

  Coach Kate looks up from her desk and motions for the assistant coaches, who are currently seated on the other side of her desk, to leave. They take one look at me and scurry away, like ants. Coach reaches for her mug. “I know I’m all about keeping the doors of communication open, Kylie, but next time you slam my door, you’ll cause the team laps.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  She takes a slurping sip of her Starbucks.

  “Look, you know how much this season means to me.” I fall into one of the now unused fabric chairs in front of her desk. “No D-I scout will ever look at a benchwarmer.”

  Coach glances at the clock above the door. “I knew you would have this type of reaction, Kylie. But, I also want to remind you that this year is very important to Beachwood Softball.”

  “I know, you told us: tournaments, championsh
ips, banners.” I pause.“And your job.” I stare at her.

  Coach raises her eyebrows. “I know this is hard. And I appreciate all that you have done for B-Dub Softball, but it’s time the program moves in another direction.”

  I watch Coach’s lips continue to move, but I’m so shocked, I can’t even make out what’s spewing from her mouth. I must be dreaming. No one suffers this much bad luck in six short months.

  I shake my head, focusing my attention just in time to hear Coach Kate say, “Amber has what it takes to take our program to new heights. She’s what we need to ensure that Beachwood Softball has a real future.”

  This can’t be happening. This has to be some sort of joke. Like that reality show that punks people. I look around for someone hiding behind the corner plant with a video camera.

  “But . . . ” I begin.

  “No buts, Kylie. I had no choice but to go with Amber. I realize this is difficult for you, and I’m truly sorry to pull the rug out from under you like this. But you’ve seen Amber’s velocity. And you know as well as I do that her rise ball is unbeatable. It’s terrible that you got caught in the crosshairs, but if you think about the team, you’ll agree that she has what it takes to lead us to the Desert Invitational and quite possibly to a championship.” Coach clears her throat.

  My breath is shallow. My hands are shaking. I grasp at straws. “But . . . I can win us a banner with my screwball and my leadership and my knowledge of Beachwood Softball and . . . ”

  Coach Kate lets out a deep breath and says the only thing that could make this worse. “I’m sorry, Kylie, but I really don’t think you can.”

  ten

  I rush out of Coach Kate’s office—there’s no way I’m crying in front of the coaching staff still lingering in the hallway. It’s bad enough they think I’m not good enough to start. I’m not going to let them see my pain too.