Athletes in small towns know each other—or at least, we know of each other. Even though Luther goes to Baylor Springs—a much nicer school than mine—and plays basketball—not my sport—I could still tell you his highest scoring game, just like I’m pretty sure he probably knows my batting average.
“Mickey Catalan, what the hell?” Luther says, fist raised for a bump.
“You know each other?” Josie raises an eyebrow.
“All-County athletes three years in a row,” Luther says, fist still out. I bump it, both stricken and flattered. “Heard you got tore up pretty bad.”
“Car accident,” I say. “You ripped your ACL, right?”
“Last year. In half,” Luther says, with a perverse sort of pride in his injury.
“My leg popped out of its socket,” I say, aware that we’re competing.
“My muscle rolled up like a window shade,” he comes back.
“I’ve got three screws in my hip.”
“I screw with my third leg.”
I laugh, loud and easy, a sound that doesn’t usually come out anywhere other than the dugout or at home.
“Um, who’s this for?” Luther’s friend, Derrick, holds up a jug of prune juice.
“Mickey,” Josie says. “She can’t shit.”
“Nice, thanks,” I tell her.
“You got the Oxy-can’ts?” Derrick asks.
“Go a few days without,” Luther says to me, pulling his jacket off. “Then go for a run. You’ll be fine.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, weirdly comforted even though we’re still talking about poop, and mine specifically.
Luther is a true athlete, someone whose movements are suffused with grace at all times. Everyday things, like him taking off his jacket, or moving a pillow on the couch, become fascinating to watch, large muscles flowing in small gestures.
Josie elbows me. “You’re staring.”
“What’s up, Edith?” Derrick asks. “That reunion happen yet?”
“Reunion?” I ask, hoping Luther didn’t catch Josie giving me a hard time. “What’s that about?”
“Fiftieth class reunion, down in West Virginia,” she says, turning off the TV. “I don’t know what I’m going to wear.”
“I’ll take you shopping,” Josie volunteers, but Derrick cuts her off.
“What’s going on over here?” he asks, spotting the line Josie had made.
“Josie wants us to show her how to snort,” Luther says. “Check your texts.”
“It’s easy,” Derrick says, leaning over the table. “You just—”
It’s gone in a second and Josie smacks him between the shoulder blades. “Asshole! That was mine.”
“There’s more where that came from. No fighting,” Edith says. “And I’ve got a closet full of clothes, Josie. I don’t need to go shopping.”
“I’ll help you pick something out then,” Josie says, still sulking about her lost line, and cradling the hand she hit Derrick with. He’s swaying on his feet now, and she tips him over onto the couch, where Luther slides over, effortlessly, making room as Derrick falls.
“Fashion show,” Derrick says, clapping his hands together. “Fashion show. Fashion show.”
I don’t know Derrick. He must not be in any sports, or if he is he doesn’t get a lot of playing time. The first impression I have of him is of a little kid, clapping his hands and bouncing on a couch, incredibly small next to Luther. I like him. I like him enough to start clapping too, and yelling for a fashion show, even though I don’t think I’ve ever said that phrase in my life, and I really don’t care at all what we do for the rest of the night.
I don’t care, and that’s the glory of it.
So when Josie pulls a wad of cash from her pocket and Edith goes back to her bedroom for the safe, I don’t question it. I don’t say anything when Derrick crushes up an Oxy for Luther, then holds Josie’s hair while she snorts another. She does the same for me, her fingers cool on the back of my impossibly hot earlobes.
I’m afraid it’ll hurt. Burn the inside of my nose, like the time I choked on Pepsi and lost it out of everywhere. But it’s not like that at all. It’s like silk reaching up into my face, sliding past my eyes to cradle my brain and rock it, slowly, gently, into a drifting peace.
I’m not worried about saying something stupid or looking dumb, even when Josie starts raiding Edith’s closet and we end up wearing her clothes. In the bathroom, I allow Josie to streak a shaky slash of lipstick across my mouth, and zip up her dress for her, something that Edith wore to the prom in 1973.
She looks gorgeous, and I’m high enough to be happy for her, knowing that we’ll walk out to the living room and the boys will only look at her. I don’t look beautiful, exactly, but as I study myself in the mirror I can admit that I don’t look like Mickey Catalan, either. Josie had put some shadow around my eyes that makes them stand out, and my constricted pupils make them bluer than usual.
“Let’s go make some boys happy,” Josie says, swinging the door open dramatically. But whatever effect she was hoping for is immediately lost when she starts braying laughter, the feathery layers of her dress rippling around her. “Oh my God.”
She grabs me, pulling me out into the living room, where we find Edith putting final primps on both Derrick and Luther, who are wearing matching powder-blue leisure suits.
“Bob loved this suit so much he bought two,” Edith says, brushing off Luther’s shoulder, which she can barely reach. Derrick’s is too big on him, loose and floppy, but Luther looks amazing, even if his neck bulges out a little over the light-blue collar.
“Fashion show! Fashion show!” Derrick says, spinning, whiskey spilling out of the glass he took from Josie.
“Hey!” She lurches toward him, awkward in heels that are too tight for her. “That’s mine. Stop taking my shit, Derrick!”
“You look nice,” I’m saying to Luther, somehow having crossed the distance between us. Usually I’m crafting the words, weighing each one to see if it’s right or wrong, the topic at hand having changed by the time I’m ready to contribute. But right now I’m saying what I think, as I think it.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Catalan,” Luther says.
I hug him, suddenly and forcefully. It’s rare to be around guys who are bigger than me, but Luther definitely is, and that’s part of the reason why I go for it. He’s warm, and my face rests nicely against his chest, the impossibly slow beat of his heart next to my ear. I feel small, safe, and feminine, tucked in next to him. I’m not turned on, or thinking about anything other than safety, warmth, and the incredible feeling of arms stronger than my own around me.
I don’t care that Derrick and Josie are pointing at us, or that Edith makes us all line up to take a picture as if we were actually going to prom. I don’t care that the zipper on this dress is only halfway up because my shoulders are way broader than Edith’s were in the 1970s, or that my hand comes away with makeup on it when I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I can’t remember the last time I wore a dress, or if I’ve ever had makeup on in my life. I’m doing things I usually wouldn’t, saying things I normally couldn’t.
Right now, I’m not me.
And I’m so damn happy.
Chapter Twenty-Four
withdrawal: a collection of psychological symptoms as well as physically painful symptoms following the discontinued use of a drug
Being so damn happy on a Saturday when you’re high and with friends is one thing; going through withdrawal two days later while trying to perform on the diamond is another.
“¿Estás bien?” Carolina calls from the mound.
“Fine,” I yell back. My brain is slippery, and I don’t trust my tongue.
Up until now Mattix wouldn’t let me get down in a crouch. She’s had me sitting on a bucket, the plastic edges biting into my ass. It threw Carolina off, her speed still there, but her control had slipped. One curveball came so close to Bella Left that she had to throw herself out of the box, kicking dirt into
my face.
Now, two weeks out from our first game, Coach finally gave me the go-ahead to get down behind the plate. I know Carolina is worried about my leg, and it’s not unfounded. Without the Oxy I feel an ache, but it’s not the explosion I remember. It’s deeper, more sinister, like a wound that healed on the surface but is hiding a rot that’s going to break through sooner rather than later.
I signal Carolina for a changeup and she gives me a perfect one, slinging her arm around like she’s about to take somebody’s head off, then floating it in, nice and slow like we’re playing in a church league. I’ve seen batters take a swing before the ball is even halfway to the mound, their swing timed for her amazing speed right when she takes the heat off.
Coach trusts me to spot the batters who will fall for it, and I usually know the type. The girls who make a show of hitting their cleats with the bat before they step into the box, like a little bit of dirt on their spikes might slow them down. They always dig in then, heel turning into the soft grit of the box, keeping one hand up for a time-out so that Carolina is prevented from going into her windup until they’re ready.
I love making a fool of them.
So does Carolina, and we’ve worked out exactly who we want to burn with the changeup this year, a carefully curated list that includes the pitcher from Peckinah who threw at me twice last season and the shortstop from Palma Falls who cleated our first baseman, and if a wild pitch were to hit the dad from Left Bank who screams at his daughter no matter how good she does . . . well, I can’t be expected to stop everything.
“Nice,” I yell at Carolina when she puts a fastball right in my glove. I swear I don’t have to move it a centimeter. I know how to frame a pitch so that it looks like a strike, even if it’s a little to the inside or out. But right now there’s no ump behind me, and that thing hit dead center, regardless. I toss it back, still crouched, every muscle in my body flickering to keep my balance and make the throw, a thoughtless act that I’ve always taken for granted.
I can still do this. I can still be Mickey Catalan. And my friend is still Carolina Galarza, a taut line of energy between us that the ball travels over, back and forth, then again, an easy journey each time with zero interruptions.
“Take a break?” Carolina calls, and I’m about to tell her that I’m okay when I see that she’s holding her arm oddly, at an angle. I flip my mask up, cool spring air evaporating the sweat on my face quickly.
“Yep,” I say, coming to my feet.
It happens easily enough, although I know my weight is planted more firmly on my left leg than my right. At my very last physical therapy appointment both Kyleigh and Jolene had given me shit about it, told me that it might get me through the day now but eventually I’ll be a crippled old lady if I don’t distribute my weight evenly. They didn’t understand that getting through the day is what matters to me right now. The day, the week, the season.
I walk out to the mound, tossing the ball from one hand to the other, face mask pushed on top of my head, shin guards creaking as I go. Coach has me wear all my gear when I’m catching for Carolina, game or no game. I never complain, knowing full well that if one of her fastballs were to hit me in the chest it could stop my heart.
“You’re walking funny,” Carolina says when I toss her the ball.
“You look funny,” I tell her. She rolls her eyes but lets it go, swiping the ball from the air.
“Well?” she asks, and I don’t need clarification.
“Changeup is spot on,” I tell her. “Inside corner looks good. Lots of batters will swing at it.”
We both know any bat that gets around on her inside pitch will go foul, and usually fly, the majority of them picked off by our third baseman. Carolina got good at this last year, and her no-hitter record owes a lot to that pitch.
“And?” she asks, thumbnail picking at a loose stitch in the ball.
“And you’re slowing down after the first five or so fastballs,” I tell her. “It’s still got a zip, but you’re not getting three up three down anytime soon.”
It’s harsh but it’s true, and me telling Carolina we don’t even need infielders would be a lie. Last year there were a few games where just me and her could’ve taken the field and been fine. But now . . .
“You shouldn’t gun for the top of the lineup,” I tell her. “They’ll get hits off you.”
I know she doesn’t want to hear it, just like I didn’t want Coach telling me to walk that first week of conditioning. Carolina’s chin sticks out and her fingernail digs into the stitch she’s working at, like tearing it out is the goal.
“Hey.” I reach out, taking the ball back and resting my gloved hand on her shoulder. “You’re fine.”
“Dammit, I’m not,” she says, ducking out from under my touch. “I hurt, Mickey.”
Carolina looks me straight in the eyes for a moment and I realize how long it’s been since she has. There’s something different in her gaze now, the pupils still the same dark brown, yet shadowed more deeply, with a surprising glimmer of tears.
“Whoa, hey,” I say, unsure of myself. I’m suddenly stupid and awkward, one hand trapped in a glove, my bulk added to by straps and plastic, metal and grips. I’m with my best friend, standing in my favorite place in the whole world. I shouldn’t feel this way. Not here, not now, not with this person.
Maybe it’s the fact that she’s about to cry, and Carolina Galarza does not cry on the pitcher’s mound. Maybe it’s because I’ve got exactly what it would take to fix it out in my car in a Doritos bag, but I’m afraid if I offer it to her she’ll echo her mom, tell me it’s poison, and that I’m weak.
Plus it would be one less Oxy for me, and Ronald’s pills won’t last forever.
“I hurt, too,” I tell her. And while it’s not the sharp pain I knew from before, the snap of a body tearing apart at the seams, it is spreading. Not from my hip, like I’m used to, but my spine, radiating out to my skin, where sweat starts to pop even though I feel a chill.
“Yeah? You hide it good,” Carolina says, pulling up the neck of her practice shirt to wipe a tear away before anyone sees.
In the outfield Coach yells, “Dammit, Becker! Where did your depth perception go?” We turn together to watch Mattix toss a ball and hit it as far as possible in the opposite direction, out toward the cow pasture, where more than a few heifers have accidentally been involved in a game or two.
“Go get it,” Coach yells at Bella Center, who lopes after it good-naturedly, more than familiar with the punishment.
“I’m getting good at hiding things,” I admit quietly.
“Like what?” Carolina asks.
Like pain. Like fear. Like dead people’s OxyContin prescriptions.
“Dick pics from your boyfriend,” I say.
“Whatever, chica,” Carolina laughs, the odd sheen on her eyes evaporating. “Your screen is too small.”
“So are your boobs,” I tell her. “Curveball?”
“Yeah.” She nods, taking the ball from me. “I can do that.”
“Cool,” I say, flipping my mask back down.
I get behind the plate and crouch into position, giving her the signal for the curve. I ignore the pull in my hip. I ignore the tremor that’s started in my bare hand. I ignore the nausea welling in my gut. I ignore everything I don’t want to see.
I pull over on the way home to puke.
I’m so close to keeping it all together that I don’t realize I’m about to lose it until it’s almost too late. I’ve got to slam on the brakes, tires screaming and gravel flying. For a moment all I’ve got is panic, nothing else. Then fear gets a good grip and I’m thinking I fucked everything up again and am about to take my car right off the road, ruin my leg and any chance I’ve got at a scholarship.
Then I’m stopped, half on, half off the road. I’m clenching my teeth shut against vomit when I throw the door open, leaning out just enough that I don’t splatter on the running board. I manage it, mostly. Then the incline I stopped o
n works against me and the car door swings back, with me nowhere near done puking. I stick my leg out, getting a good pinch for my effort, then unhook my belt and throw myself out the door. I land on my hands and knees, lunch coming back up all over the shoulder of the road.
Somebody honks at me, a good-natured toot-toot like maybe I just provided the day’s entertainment. I managed to get my car mostly off the road, but not all the way, something I can’t acknowledge or apologize for because I’m still emptying my gut. The next driver leans on the horn, but I hear brakes on the third, followed by the familiar tick-tock of hazard lights blinking, then a voice I know.
“Mickey?”
It’s Lydia, her words edged with a mix of disbelief and concern, but mostly the former. I doubt she expected to turn the corner to find me on all fours, staring down at a steaming puddle. I can’t do more than nod that, yes, it is in fact me. Lydia gets her hands in my armpits and hauls me to my feet, carefully sidestepping the mess I made. It’s so mortifying, so against who I am and what I project to my teammates, that I don’t know what to say to her.
“You’re a wreck, girl,” Lydia says, standing back to take me all in, the exhibit of what Mickey Catalan has become in the small stretch of time between the end of practice and now. “Stomach flu get you?”
I nod. It’s believable. Our government teacher went home halfway through the day today, and I saw a line of kids in the office waiting to call their parents to come get them, green around the gills.
“Can you drive?”
I nod again, searching for the words required to get me away from the mess I’ve made at our feet, the scraped bare earth where my tires screeched to a halt, the embarrassingly black dirt where I went into the ditch.
“I’m fine,” I assure Lydia. “Thanks for . . . stopping.”
“No problem.” She shrugs and gets into her own car. Her hazards go off, but she’s not going anywhere until I do. I thank her again, in my head. Lydia’s not going to freak out or make a big deal about it, won’t make me feel helpless. But she’s not leaving until she knows I’m really okay.
Heroine Page 11
