by Carrie Jones
Tom clears his throat. I lean my head back against the rough wood of the dugout and watch him. He’s so beautiful, dark and strong. He itches behind his ear and clears his throat again before he says, “Belle. I wanted to tell you this after … you know … after you told me or after we did it because I didn’t want you to think that I was only telling you because I wanted to Andrew you, you know, because I just wanted to use you.”
“I don’t think you want to use me,” I say, and I lose my toughness and I look down at the ants marching, their determined line. They know where they’re going, even if someone drops a rock in their path, those ants will just find their way around it and keep on marching towards their destination. Why can’t people be more like that? Why can’t I? It would be nice to know where it is I’m going, and how to get there, to find that straight line.
Tom’s voice makes me look up again. “I would never use you, Belle.”
I swallow. It’s as hard as swallowing an oyster. “Swear?”
“Swear. It’s just, I mean, I love my mom, but I don’t want you to end up like my mom. I mean, if something happens … ”
Like it has to Em, I finish for him, but he doesn’t know that. He only knows about his mom looking lonely, staring out the window. But it doesn’t have to be that way, does it? She made choices. She keeps making choices. Then I think about something.
“Are you more worried about me becoming your mom or you becoming your dad?”
He rocks back on his heels. “Both, I guess. But my dad, he got his dreams sort of, you know?”
“I know.”
“But I don’t want you to think the reason we haven’t done it has to do with me liking someone else, or you having seizures or anything like that.”
“Or that I’m not sexy enough?”
He laughs. “You are definitely sexy enough.”
Then his eyes soften into something sweet and good and my heart hiccups and my hands shake more because his mouth opens and he says it, he just says it. “I love you, Commie. I really really love you.”
In books and movies the big music would swell up and loftily hit a crescendo. In books and movies I would immediately throw myself into his arms because he, Tom Tanner, love interest of the protagonist, has finally said he loves me. And it wasn’t under duress.
Cue: protagonist looks in awe.
Cue: two white birds flying over head. Okay, yeah, they are seagulls, but whatever.
Cue: tears come to our heroine’s eyes.
If it were a thriller then the bad guy terrorists with the German accents would start spreading sniper fire at the couple, causing them to dive behind the dugout before returning fire.
If it were a romance the heroine (me!) would fall into her man’s arms, swooning and covering him with desperate kisses.
If it were a surrealist adventure a dead zombie pig decked out as a police officer/clown would walk across their picnic basket, snorting.
If it were a romantic comedy the female love interest would hit the male love interest and say, “What the hell took you so long?”
She would say this sweetly, yet with passion and good humor.
But it is none of these things.
I do none of these things.
And the zombie cop/clown pig does not show up.
Instead, I do something dumb and typical of me. I say, “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
I am unbelievably happy. Tom loves me. Tom loves me.
Whatever I said before, about that not mattering, about it just being words was total crap.
Tom loves me.
Em would say I already knew this, but I don’t care. Hearing it, out loud, is the best thing in the world. Hearing it, out loud, makes it real.
It’s not just words.
I am unbelievably worried. Em’s pregnant. I am incredibly happy. Tom actually spoke the word love out loud and in connection to me, Belle Philbrick.
These two feelings bash against each other as I walk to biology class. My lips are red and puffy from Tom’s kisses. My stomach flip-flops with cucumber sandwich and fear. What do I say to Em? What would a good best friend do right now? Probably not make out behind the baseball dugout. That is definitely not good best friend behavior.
I pause outside the door and cover my face with my hands. Then I stop. This isn’t about me. This is about her, Em. What can I do for her? I don’t know. I don’t know at all.
I’m afraid to look in my advanced bio class, but there she is, sitting at our lab table, smiling.
I sit down next to her and smile back.
She points at my mouth and wiggles her eyebrows. “Puffy lips. Looks like you guys had fun.”
“Yeah.” I plop my books on the black top of the lab table.
The bell rings. People still saunter in. Andrew gives us a little jaunty wave. I do not like Andrew anymore. I still wave back and even smile. What is wrong with me? I’m a wave slut. I will wave to everyone.
Em rips a piece of paper out of her notebook. “Did Tom finally say it?”
I nod, but I’m afraid to smile. I’m afraid of being too happy.
“Good,” she says and she smiles a smile big enough for both of us. “Good.”
We spend most of biology class with our secret building itself between us, but instead of linking us together it makes me feel further and further apart from Emmie.
I glance at her sideways while Mr. Zeki struts around. She is taking perfect notes in neat lines. Normally, Em is a messy note taker, big loopy letters all over the place. I am the neat one, with my lists and outline forms. She sighs and puffs air out her mouth so that the hair that fell on her face would get out of the way.
“Am I boring you, Emily?” Mr. Zeki approaches our desk. Everyone turns to stare.
Emily’s face doesn’t change, not even when the infamous Zeki chino crotch is right smack dab in front of her. Once again, like every day, the material stretches out as far as it can go. Once again, like every day, I have to look away and wonder, Does he really roll up a wool sock and shove it down there? Would any man be crazy enough to do that? Andrew. Andrew would. Maybe even Crash, but Crash would do it as a joke because Crash is cool that way.
“You’re not boring me,” Em says in a sweet, I’m-bored-shitless voice.
“Really?”
“Really.”
Mr. Zeki arches an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Really,” Em says again and holds up her notebook. “Want to see my notes?”
Mr. Zeki snatches her notebook, brings it to the front, perusing it. “These are actually good.”
Em smiles and says in a tone that Mr. Zeki completely doesn’t understand is absolutely bitchy and sarcastic, “Really?”
I give up and write her a note. Why? Because I am a wimp. That’s why.
Em,
I think you should tell Shawn, or at least your mom, because I don’t think this is something you should have to face alone. Not that you’re alone, because I’m here and I’ll always be here for you, but I mean it’s got to be killing you not telling anybody else and I don’t want to see you taking perfect notes and forgetting to take pictures and blowing hair out of your face, because that’s not who you are, Emily. This doesn’t change who you are, Em. It’ll change your life, obviously, but your essential Emily-ness, that’s not going to change, and I just think you should tell somebody.
She writes back one word.
Really?
I write back.
Don’t be a bitch. Although with all those hormones you probably are going to be bitchy now. So that’s okay. Sorry. Forget I told you not to be a bitch. But you are going to have to tell someone. Please. I love you.
She writes back.
Okay.
I write back.
R
eally?
Really.
Em’s Song, Take #2
She dances swirling on the staff notes
Beyond the treble clef
Where I’m left watching,
Emmie,
Emmie in a spinning skirt,
Emmie with the notes
All in front of her playing,
playing,
playing
Until the coda,
until it all ends,
until she falls
Off the sheet music,
waiting for someone to catch her.
We rush over to the game after our Amnesty International meeting.
Dylan has spent the meeting riffing about these monks who live in Southern Vietnam mostly and who are being arrested and defrocked and murdered because they are Khmer Krom not the other kind of monks. Not one western nation has ever talked to the Vietnamese government about them, even though there’s over one million Khmer Krom living there. It’s like they don’t exist.
“Dylan’s really into the monk thing,” Em says, flopping onto the grass in an entirely uncareful, unpregnant way.
“It’s horrible,” I say. “People do horrible things.”
“I know,” she says stretching her arms over her head. Her shirt rides up. Her belly is still so flat.
I wish I could shut off my brain instead of thinking about Emily’s belly, Eddie’s dad, or Tom at my house tonight. The sound of a bat whizzing through the air and not hitting anything makes me nervous, almost as nervous as the thought of Tom and me alone in my house, which is in just about two more hours.
Two more hours!
Everything is changing.
I sit on the grass next to Em. She gives me a half smile. She smells like ice cream.
“Strike!” the ump, Mr. Duffy, yells.
“That was high,” someone yells back. It sounds like Mr. Haslam. His son is on our team.
“No, it wasn’t,” I mutter and then clamp my mouth closed because they are talking about the strike zone, not my vocal pitch.
I keep my eyes shut, but I rub my hands together to try to get rid of the tingling feeling. Em punches me in the arm and I lose my balance, flop over sideways onto the grass.
“You’re not watching the game,” she says.
“I’m tired of watching games,” I grump back and hoist myself back into a sitting position. “I’m worried about everything.”
“I know. Me too.”
She points behind the big chain fence thing that separates us and home base. Ha. How perfect. Home base, like a home run, like all the way. I groan.
“Your boyfriend’s on deck.” She chews a piece of her hair like she’s five or something. She has supermodel hair, all wild and dark and wavy. She thinks it’s a pain. She’s so dumb sometimes and simultaneously smart that it kills me.
“On deck?” I ask and pull her hair out of her mouth for her. Pretty soon a baby will be spitting up in that hair, tugging on it.
“Yeah, he’s going next.” She places her camera on her chest-high knees, peers through the viewfinder. “Want me to take a picture?”
“I can’t believe you know baseball terms,” I say and grab the camera from her.
“You couldn’t survive without me.”
“You’re the salsa to my guacamole, baby.”
She sticks out her tongue.
“What? At least you aren’t green and lumpy.”
“You made me red and spicy.”
“That’s good,” I say and focus the camera on Tom, zoom in close to his face as he takes practice swings in the batting circle thing. He has a piece of duct tape around the dark skin of his right hand for luck. God, I hope he doesn’t have another Shakespeare death quote on there.
I zoom in on the letters: BELLE. He wrote my name. I smile and my insides get tingly just like my hands, only it’s a good tingly. I zoom back out. His mouth is a taut, determined line. A muscle in his cheek twitches like it always does when he’s mad or has something important to do. I snap the picture, check it out on the screen, and hand the camera back to Emily, pregnant Emily.
“When you’re in love you try to learn everything about your significant other,” she says, training the camera on Tom. “And you don’t even know what ‘on deck’ means. I bet Tom knows what a G-string is.”
“Funny,” I say and laugh against my will, because it’s funny that a G-string is both a naughty underwear style and a guitar string. I reach over to my gig bag and unzip it, taking Gabriel out. We are pretending everything is normal. Everything is not normal.
Just when I start to strum, Em presses my hand flat against the strings. “Now is not guitar time.”
“It’s always guitar time.”
“No, it’s not.” A black fly lands on Em’s cheek. She moves her hand to swat it off. “Now is Tom time.”
I fake sigh and roll my eyes. “Yes, Mom.”
I swallow hard. What did I just say?
She doesn’t seem to notice, just pulls a Cosmo out of her bag and points at it. “Did you know now is a time of great romantic upheaval and confusion?”
“Really.”
“Don’t be sarcastic. The stars are aligned.”
“My stars are always aligned for romantic confusion and upheaval.”
“True.” She starts sucking on her hair again. “But this is for everyone and for a week. A whole week. Starting yesterday.”
“Great.”
Andrew strikes out and heads back to the dugout, swearing under his breath.
“That’s okay, Andrew,” I yell, clapping, and watch Tom amble up to the plate. He looks good in his uniform. You can’t have skinny legs in a baseball uniform. Tom doesn’t.
“I hope he gets a hit,” I say to Em in a much quieter voice.
“That’s just so you can watch his butt when he runs,” Em says.
“Is not.”
“Is too. I’ll take a picture of it for you,” she laughs.
I perk up. “Really?”
Then I add, “He just gets so sad when he doesn’t get a hit. He wants to be perfect.”
“Who doesn’t?”
Tom shifts his weight, waits out the pitch. It’s high and outside.
“Good eye, Tommy boy. Good eye!” Mrs. Darrow, my next-door neighbor yells, clapping.
“Make it come to you!” shouts Coach Chase, smacking his hand against his ample thigh, turning around and spitting out sunflower seeds.
My heart pauses for a second. Baseball is a tense sport. Tom hits the plate with his bat twice and gets back into his baseball stance.
“He is really cute,” I say.
“Stop looking at his ass.”
“I can’t help it. It’s sticking out.”
“That’s how batters stand, Belle.” Em sighs and takes another picture.
I tug on the grass and stare at Tom’s bottom. Andrew’s little sister starts doing cartwheels on the grass in front of us, one after another. She flops on her belly and giggles.
“Good job,” I tell her. She smiles big, an ice cream smile. Em takes a picture.
Another pitch flies at Tom. His muscles move. I start sighing. He swings, connects and the ball flies out into left field. Deep into left field, I should say. I jump up and scream. He runs towards first and Em clicks a picture. He runs to second, slides into third.
“That’s a triple!” I tell Em.
“Oh, good baseball term,” she teases and snaps a picture of me.
“Your boy done good,” says Dolly who works at Rite Aid. The sun glints on her blue hair. She takes a deep drag off her cigarette. Andrew’s little sister starts with her cartwheels again.
“Thanks.” I smile at her and sit back on Tom’s jacket.
Em leans over and shows me the picture she shot of Tom at bat. “It’s a good butt.”
“One of the very best.”
“That’s for sure,” Dolly adds, grabbing the camera. Then she flashes us a Polydent denture smile. She sees the expression on my face and cracks up. “I’m not that old, sugar.”
Em bites her lip and Shawn trots up to the plate. He winks at her and then gets into position. It’s like her whole body sighs when she sees him. She tucks some hair behind her ear and brings her camera back up to her face. “Did you ever think we’d be sitting here on a beautiful Tuesday afternoon watching baseball?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “Did you know Tom is part Penobscot?”
She shrugs. “No.”
“That’s cool isn’t it?”
“I guess, but why is it any cooler than being part anything, you know?”
I don’t. I don’t know.
“It feels weird that I didn’t know that.”
“Did you know that I’m one thirty-second Moravian and Jewish?”
“You are?”
“See. It’s not like it makes me any different. You don’t have to know everything about someone to love them, especially not their ethnic makeup.”
“True.”
Shawn rockets a ground ball but it’s just foul of the first base line. I pick at Gabriel’s G-string, plucking it lightly with my finger. One tiny note breezes out into the air.
“Never,” I add. “I never thought I’d be watching baseball. I never thought a lot of stuff that’s happening would ever happen.”
Em doesn’t hear me because she’s too busy jumping up and down and screaming for Shawn. “Way to go, Baby!!! Way to go!”
Yep. Em gets excited over anything Shawn does, even foul balls, even now.
Andrew’s little sister pulls on my sleeve and looks at me with giant blue eyes. “Will you help me with my walk-overs?”
“Okay, honey.” I want to watch the game, but it’s hard to resist such cuteness. I put away Gabriel, nice and safe in her little gig bag home, then I get on my knees near Andrew’s little sister.
“Go into your bridge,” I tell her. Shawn fouls off another pitch, this one crashing into the backstop. Em claps her hands and does this tense little bounce that makes her seem all goofy-mom.