Another person might be able to come up with a quick rebuttal, a comeback to end the conversation. Me, I just sit, painfully aware of the rising tension in the room and the fact that he still has that stupid drip of spaghetti sauce on his chin.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say, and push out from the table, my chair knocking to the floor behind me. I head for the hallway, where Devra is popping out of a side room, her finger raised to her lips in a warning as she pulls the door shut behind her.
“Bathroom,” I say, and she waves me down the hall. I find it, and am about to pull the door shut on everything and everyone when I hear Devra complaining to Dad about us not waiting for her to start eating.
Fuck. This. Place.
I should’ve stuffed an Oxy in my pocket, or just said to Mom that I was in some pain and taken one right in front her, making it natural. No, instead I tried to keep her happy by not popping a pill, and keep Dad happy by showing up here, somewhere I don’t belong. I am so tired of keeping other people happy. Of making sure I say just the right thing to Carolina about Aaron. Of not letting Coach know how shitty it feels that she’s got Nikki on the bench waiting for me to fail.
I don’t feel this way at Edith’s, and no one there expects anything out of me. I don’t have to make anybody happy because we are happy.
I’m going through drawers before I can question myself, shoving aside Devra’s makeup and nail files, hoping an ex-junkie keeps a little something back for the hard nights. I don’t find anything, but I turn on the water to cover the noise as I try another drawer, and another. I run my hands through the folds of the towels to see if she’s tucked something there, empty the toothbrush holder and turn it upside down, but nothing falls out. I turn off the water, thinking hard. I can hear an argument starting in the dining room, in low tones the way adults do, but an argument nonetheless.
Right now Devra looks like more of a junkie than I do. Or Josie. Or Luther. Or Derrick. There’s got to be something here. I cross the hall, catching the phrase “least have the decency to—” and duck into the master bedroom. There’s a bathroom here too, and I start in her tampon supply—somewhere Dad would never venture. I’m cross-legged on the floor, tampons strewn around me, peering up into an empty box when Devra walks in.
“Oh, Mickey—” She’s startled, not expecting to find me here. She swipes tears from her face, like just having them gone means she wasn’t crying.
“Do you . . .” Devra looks at the mess I’ve made. “Do you need something?”
“Yeah,” I say fast, jumping at the convenient excuse she just made for me. It doesn’t explain why I threw everything on the floor first, but whatever, I’ll take it. I grab one tampon and throw the rest in the box, shoving it back in the drawer awkwardly, the corner bending when I try to jam it shut.
“It’s okay, just leave it,” Devra says, flipping the seat of the toilet down so she can sit, head in her hands, ready to be rid of me.
“I . . .” I struggle, wanting to say something to make it all better, to erase the horrible awkwardness of this night. A disappearing father. A frightened baby. A broken dish. A woman trying too hard.
“Are you okay?” I settle on a stupid question to ask someone who is crying on the toilet. Devra turns, one bright, red-rimmed eye staring at me through her fingers.
“Are you?” she asks.
I don’t answer her. I leave. I go home. I take an Oxy.
I feel better.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
accusation: the act of charging with an offense
I could almost be okay the next night.
Carolina comes over for dinner, and she even silences her phone before she puts it in her hoodie pocket. Mom gets takeout, and we’re falling back into a familiar pattern—dissecting the game just past, analyzing who did and did not do certain things, and talking about the next team we’ll face on Thursday. It’s almost the same, but not quite.
Dad isn’t here to listen intently to Carolina like he was last season, chin resting in his hand while she explains the best way to hit another pitcher’s curveball. And even though she did put it on vibrate, I can still hear texts coming in on her phone—probably from Aaron—as we talk. Carolina ignores it, which I appreciate, but every time I hear a buzz coming from her direction it sets my teeth a little more on edge.
We’ve almost put away the entire order of wonton soup, the egg rolls are gone, and Carolina is diving back into the General Tso’s chicken when Mom’s phone goes off. She’s on call again, so silencing is not an option. Mom pops a fortune cookie into her mouth and puts it on speaker when she sees that it’s Dad.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Um . . . there’s no good way to say this,” Dad says, his voice uncharacteristically cautious. “So I’m just going to spit it out. Devra thinks Mickey is on something.”
Mom’s hand slaps down onto the phone, taking it off speaker before he can say any more. I stop chewing, the last bits of Chinese food that I’ve managed to force down turning tasteless in my mouth. Carolina drops her eyes, suddenly interested in arranging her chicken a certain way on her plate.
“What the hell, Geoff?” Mom is up and leaving the table in an effort to make this a private conversation, but there’s too much emotion in her voice to bring the volume level down. I clear my throat, looking for words to use, anything to say that can drown out Mom.
“You get enough to eat?” I ask Carolina.
It’s a stupid thing to say, something a mom or a grandma would ask. Not a best friend. Or any friend. But it’s all I can come up with, a question that doesn’t require a vocal answer, so Carolina only nods her head as more of Mom’s responses drift to the table.
“Because she needed a tampon? Geoff, do I really have to explain menstruation to you again?”
“The soup was good,” I say.
“Right, right . . . of course,” Mom goes on, voice rising again. “Of course everything is falling apart here, without you. That’s right. The second you leave your daughter becomes an addict. I couldn’t possibly be a good doctor and a good mother—”
“Mickey . . . ,” Carolina says, turning her spoon upside down so that rice cascades off it.
“Oh, fuck you, Geoff. FUCK. YOU.”
“I think I should probably go,” Carolina says, pulling her phone out so she doesn’t have to look at me. I glance at it too, seeing texts from Aaron, as expected. But there’s also a group text with Lydia and the Bellas, one I’m not in on.
What are they talking about?
“Carolina, wait,” I say, getting up to follow her to the door.
“Thanks for dinner,” she says, pulling her jacket on. “It was nice to . . . hang out.”
It was nice, but it wasn’t like it used to be. And I can tell by the tone of her voice that she can’t quite figure out why either, and doesn’t know how to fix it.
“See you later,” she says, leaving without waiting for me to respond. I close the door behind her just as Mom finds me, white-knuckling her phone.
“Mickey, you never, ever have to go over there again if you don’t want to, okay?” She swipes angry tears from her face, flicking them away so that they splatter on a framed picture of us from last Christmas, Dad included.
“If you can’t even get a tampon without being accused of something . . .”
Except, I didn’t just get a tampon. I also rifled all the drawers in both bathrooms, and bolted from the dinner table.
“. . . just because he started a new, happy family, it doesn’t mean that this one is falling apart!”
“Yeah,” I agree, too shaken to even find the energy to be angry alongside her.
Because Mom just went somewhere I hadn’t expected. She got mad, sure, but she wasn’t just pissed that Devra thinks I’m an addict. She’s pissed that Dad thinks it happened on her watch, that she can’t hold down the fort here without him. She’s barreling down the hallway now, toward my room, and I hurry to catch up with her.
“You
’ve still got pills,” Mom is yelling when I get into my room, holding up my prescription bottle and shaking what’s left inside. “If you were an addict, would you still have pills from a prescription filled that long ago?”
It’s not a question I’m supposed to answer. These are all the things she wanted to say to Dad, the words bubbling up now, after she’s hung up. I know how this feels so I let her go, let her talk about all the things that illustrate how I’m not an addict, most of them carefully orchestrated by me so that she wouldn’t know.
This tells me two things:
Mom can never, ever find out the truth.
And I’m getting really good at lying.
Chapter Thirty
heroine: a woman of heroic spirit; the principal female person who figures in a remarkable action
Game day.
Those two words mean so much to me, the equivalent of I love you for so many other people. I wear my jersey with jeans, and Nikki braids my hair in study hall. Varsity is away today and she’s coming with us, something that would have bothered me if I hadn’t made it through the entire game last week. But I did, so when Nikki asks if I want her to do my hair so someone else doesn’t have to on the bus—resulting in bumps galore—I say okay.
Not that it matters. The first time my catching gear goes over my head it’ll tear out the perfection that Nikki is concocting, a web of fishtail braids that is somewhat painful as she does it, but has other girls coming in close to comment over. I’m not used to being complimented on my hair, and it feels good. That, mixed with the warmth in my bloodstream as I grind an Oxy between my molars on the way to the bus, has me feeling like a million dollars when my feet hit the ground in Palma Falls.
I’m even able to ignore the awkwardness between me and Carolina, stiff at first, as we make our way out to the grass to warm up, then fading as we follow the routine, reestablished now that the first and third basemen have adopted Nikki into their throwing triangle. We know each other. We know these movements. We might not talk as the ball goes back and forth between us, but it’s a conversation nonetheless. She slaps my ass as we jog to the dugout and I stick it out farther, like I’m asking for another.
“Whatever, Catalan. Lydia says you’re just a tease,” Carolina says, tipping back her water bottle.
“Not that I’ve given up,” Lydia calls from the corner, where she’s tightening her spikes.
Coach leans against the edge of the cinder-block building, eyeing her lineup. “Catalan, you good for cleanup?”
“Yep,” I say, trying not to let pride sneak into the single syllable.
Last week she didn’t let me bat fourth, too worried that the strain on my hip from catching might make it difficult for me to rotate all the way around in the box. Behind the plate is my place, but I’ve got no problem standing next to it, either. I can place a shot where I spot a hole, and drop a fly in front of outfielders who expected me to power it over their heads.
“You got this,” Carolina agrees, holding out a fist for me to bump.
The bleachers are starting to fill, our side with faces that I know. Lydia’s parents—and grandparents, both sets—show up with their air horns, something Coach Mattix has asked them not to use. Last time she tried to make her case, Lydia’s grandpa kept setting it off every time she spoke. We just sat in the dugout, faces buried in our hands, red with suppressed laughter that we knew could not get out.
The three Bellas’ moms come together, carting a cooler that I know has postgame snacks even though we outgrew those forever ago. Guy Who Always Brings His Wiener Dog shows, yappy friend following on his heels. Woman with Victoria’s Secret Umbrella makes an appearance, carrying it along to shade her face from the sun. Even the Elderly Couple in Matching Scooters comes rolling in a few minutes before game time, which says a lot about fan loyalty. Palma Falls is a half-hour drive, and I’m sure it takes most of their combined energy to get out here, and back home.
The Galarzas show up in matching sweatshirts that say Pitchin’ Mom & Dad, and Big Ed rolls in right when the umpires do. I spot Mom as we’re gearing up, the top three in the lineup—Carolina, Lydia, and Bella Center—pulling on batting helmets, while I wait in the wings. Mom waves, but I spot a tightness in her smile that makes it not quite honest. As vehement as she was following Devra’s accusation, I’m sure whispers of doubt have started to surface, ones that contradict all her yelling.
Dad doesn’t show. I try not to care.
Carolina drops a sweet bunt and runs out the throw easily, bringing up Lydia, who scores an easy single. Bella Center gets a full count before fouling out when the third baseman snags her line drive that’s just on the wrong side of the baseline. That brings me to the plate, and everyone cheers.
My blood swells, pushing the Oxy through me faster and heating my veins. The sun bakes into my jersey so that I can feel every thread, am aware of each voice saying my name.
I don’t fuck around in the box, never have. Coach likes us to take at least one strike to put the pressure on the pitcher to make her throw, but if I think I can get the bat on it, I swing. Coach has given me an earful once or twice, but since this is the one thing I don’t defer to her on, she’s let it go. My batting average is solid, so she’s got no leg to stand on.
I do the same thing now. The pitcher is already rattled; with two on and staring down Mickey Catalan, she’s aware things are not going her way. Beside me, the catcher shifts, throwing a signal that I don’t need to see to know what it is. They’re going to try to get a fastball past me.
So stupid, when you’re pitching to someone who catches for Carolina Galarza.
I can judge a fastball better than anyone, and there’s the perfect moment when I’m dissecting the trajectory, the speed, the shift of my hips, the angle of my bat, the dip of my shoulder. My muscles take over and a million calculations are made in a nanosecond, right before I loosen my grip on the bat ever so slightly, then clutch down harder than before and fucking smash it.
The first thing my grandpa taught me was not to watch your shot. You put your head down and run, looking to the base coach for signals, and that’s it. It doesn’t matter if the ball’s in the dirt or on the grass, because if you’re doing it right you won’t even know. You just run. That’s your job, and you do it or you get your ass reamed.
I run. Stretching out my legs so that they eat distance, clipping the corner of first base with my spikes when I get the signal to keep going and focus on rounding second to see Coach pinwheeling her arms, telling me to go.
So I go.
I go all the way home, crashing into Carolina and Lydia, who are waiting for me, the other team’s catcher standing three feet out in front of it with her helmet in the dirt beside her and her glove at her side, useless. That ball isn’t coming back in anytime soon.
“You’re my hero, Mickey Catalan,” Lydia says into my ear, over the roar of the crowd.
“Heroine,” I correct her.
“Hoo—fucking—ray!” Bella Right screams at me when I get into the dugout.
Everyone is yelling my name.
Right now, everyone loves me.
Right now, I even love myself.
Chapter Thirty-One
intravenous: entering by way of a vein
“How many RBIs, Catalan?” Luther asks me on Friday.
“Five,” I say, peeling the wrapper back from the warm cupcake Edith offered me when I got in the door.
“Dang. Your stats should be looking pretty sweet.”
“Yep,” I agree.
“Sports. Hooray, go team. Can we talk about something else?” Josie asks, from where she sits cross-legged on the floor, running her fingernail under a piece of enamel that is splintering from Edith’s coffee table.
“I thought Betsy’s service was nice,” Edith says, from her recliner.
“Yeah, really not what I was going for, Grandma,” Josie says. Edith frowns and changes the channel, switching it from QVC, which makes Josie’s mouth go into a flat lin
e. Without the boost of Betsy’s prescription, we’re all a little on edge.
Josie had texted me earlier to say that even though she had a wad of cash, Edith wasn’t selling.
Fucking selfish, Josie texted, and I answered with an agreement, highly aware that Ronald Wagner’s last 80 was dissipating in my bloodstream even though I’d stretched them as long as I could.
Josie had hoped that the arrival of Luther, Derrick, and me would make Edith crack, but instead she made us cupcakes. The only pills she had on hand were her own, and they weren’t for sale. Apparently her deep love for her granddaughter-of-her-heart didn’t dip past her Oxy supply, and this revelation had put Josie in a foul mood.
“Hey.” She slaps Derrick’s knee, and he glances up from his phone. “You know anybody?”
“Uh . . .” He shares a glance with Luther, who shakes his head, almost imperceptibly.
“What? What!” Josie hits Derrick’s knee again, harder this time.
“Okay, so . . . I do know where we could probably get it, but he’s not exactly the kind of guy I want to buy from, know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I do know what you mean,” Josie says. “You’re a pussy.”
Derrick’s face falls and I want to call her out on it, tell her to stop being rude to him and to Edith. But I don’t, because there isn’t enough Oxy in my bloodstream to make the words come up. Luther has no problem with it, though.
“Back off,” he says. “Derrick’s right. If we go around buying from him it’s not like it is here at Edith’s. We get spotted, people know what’s up. I’m not losing my spot on a college team next year because of a felony. You hear me?”
“Yeah, I hear you.” Josie rolls her eyes. “Blah, blah, blah. Sports.”
“Whatever,” Luther shoots back, then nudges Derrick. “Wanna bounce?”
“Yep,” Derrick says, putting his phone away and not looking at Josie.
“What? Hey . . . guys!” Josie is up in a second. “You don’t have to . . .” Her voice fades as she follows them through the house. Edith sighs deeply, changing the channel again.
Heroine Page 14
