Beyond Dreams

by Marilyn Reynolds

  More of that school bullshit, I think.

  He looks at me for a while, not saying anything. Then he shows me this form that lists what I still need for graduation. It’s a lot. I’m supposed to be a junior, but I’ve got the credits of a first semester sophomore.

  “You screwed up,” he says, like I need someone else to be telling me that. “That’s the bad news. The good news is there’s hope.”

  Here comes the full-of-shit, it’s-up-to-you lecture. I stare out the window at a tree, counting leaves.

  “I ran into Coach Hernandez at a meeting the other day. He asked about you. Said he wished you were still on the team—you like playing baseball?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know, if you could get caught up on credits, you could go back to Hamilton High in time for baseball second semester, play your senior year if you’re still good enough.”

  I look at the form again. I’m 60 credits behind. Impossible.

  “Interested?” Mr. Grant says. “If you’re not, I’ll not waste any more of your time or mine. If you are, I’ll run down some possibilities for you.”

  “Go ahead,” I say, interested, but without much hope.

  By the time I leave Grant’s office, I’ve got a plan in my pocket. It includes summer school, extra credit projects, information on how to get credit for working at McDonald’s. It doesn’t seem impossible. For the first time in a long time, I let myself think about playing baseball again.

  First period I go over to the table where Merton is sitting. I sit down beside her. She gives me a funny look.

  “Sometimes it makes me nervous when students sit next to me,” she says. “But I guess you’re okay.”

  I laugh. Really, I only sat next to her because I don’t want anyone to hear what I’m saying.

  “Could I get some homework? And another book to read?”

  “Be still my heart,” she says, clutching her chest.

  I laugh again.

  Second period I talk with Fowler about the extra credit coaching thing. I can get ten elective credits doing that, so I say yes. For science he gives me a book and a series of questions to take home.

  “Start here, on the page with the picture of Ms. Merton’s first husband,” he says, pointing to a picture of Cro-Magnon man. He doesn’t crack a smile.

  Period three I tell Miss Keyes that I want to work on complet­ing one of those computer certificate things.

  “Good choice,” she says, and tells me what I need to do to get started.

  I know it’ll be hard to catch up, but right now, I think maybe I can do it. At Hamilton I tried to change lots of times. I’d tell myself that I would start going to all of my classes, pull my grades up so I could play ball. Then I’d get pissed off over something, a teacher nagging me about homework, or bugging me because I’d missed a lot of assignments, and I’d think to hell with it and stop going to class again. This time feels different though. I’m going to try to make it different. Really.

  I call Scott when I get home and ask him if he’ll meet me at the park and toss a few with me.

  “Sounds good,” he says.

  Coaching Little League turns out to be a trip. The kids are mostly fifth graders. As soon as I walk on the field they start hanging on me, “Jason, Jason, can I play first?” “Can I play left field?” “Will you take me home after practice?” “Will you buy us pizza?” But they’re a tough team, and they’ve moved into second place since I’ve been coaching them.

  There’s this one kid, Perry, who drove me nuts at first. He had about a zero batting average, and he couldn’t hold on to the ball if someone walked up and handed it to him. I wished I didn’t have to play him, but that’s how it goes in Little League, everyone plays whether they’re any good or not.

  When Perry gets up to bat, everyone groans. I’m trying to get them to stop that, to say encouraging stuff, but inside, I groan, too. The thing that gets me, though, is this expression he gets on his face when he walks up to bat. It’s kind of a smile and a frown combined, like maybe this time he’s really going to hit the ball, get a home run, hear the cheers—and maybe not.

  I’ve been taking extra time with Perry, before regular practice, to help him with keeping his eye on the ball and extending his arm when he throws. Simple stuff, but stuff he keeps forgetting. It’s funny, I like the natural ballplayers. They remind me of Scott and Johnny and me when we were in Little League. But the kid that really grabs me is Perry.

  In June I go see Mr. Grant for a credit check.

  ‘'Hey, Jason, how’s it going?” he says, standing to shake my hand. I wonder, if it snowed, would he still walk around in those sandals?

  Mr. Grant gets out my records, calls my teachers to see how much credit I have in each class right now, adds a bunch of numbers, checks his addition, then tells me what I want to hear.

  “You’re doing great, Jason—making up credit at a good pace. Mr. Fowler says you’re doing an excellent job coaching baseball. If you continue at this rate, you’ll be qualified to go back to Hamilton High in September.”

  “September? Do I have to go back in September?”

  “No. You can wait and return second semester if you want.”

  “And play baseball?”

  “You’d be academically qualified to play, if you make the team.”

  I laughed. “I’ll make the team.”

  “You know, this depends on the same kind of effort in summer school, too.”

  “I know.”

  “Sometimes students get tired, lose their motivation, fall back into old patterns—you getting tired? You must be busy all the time between school and work and coaching.”

  “I like it. I’m almost never home anymore, except to sleep.”

  “How’re things with you and your dad?”

  “Okay,” I say. “He’s still asleep when I leave for school in the

  morning, and he’s in bed when I get home from work late at night. So we get along fine.”

  Summer school means I won’t get to stay very long with my mom and Katie in Tucson, but it’s beginning to seem possible that I’ll have enough credit to go back to Hamilton second semester of my senior year. Katie’s going to come visit Dad and me for two weeks, then I’ll drive her back home when summer school’s over. She’s twelve now. Mom says Katie’s changed a lot since I saw them last summer. God, I hope she doesn’t have boobs yet. I hate that, thinking of my little sister with boobs and having a bunch of boys all horny over her.

  The night before a game between the Lions and Vernon’s Pharmacy, I’m surprised to see Perry sitting on the back steps when I get home from McDonald’s.

  “What’re you doing here? It’s ten o’clock.”

  He just sits with his head in his hands.

  “Come on, Perry. What’s up?”

  “I’m quitting the team.”

  “Just when you’re starting to get good?”

  He keeps sitting there, not looking at me.

  “Do your mom and dad know you’re here?”

  He shakes his head no.

  “Call them and tell them where you are. Then we’ll talk.”

  I walk him into the house and hand him the kitchen phone. My dad is sound asleep in front of the TV. I turn it off, open a soda for me and Perry, and sit at the kitchen table.

  “My mom wants to talk to you,” Perry says.

  I take the phone and tell her I’ll bring her boy home in a few minutes.

  “Sit down,” I say to Perry. “What’s this about?”

  “Nobody likes me. I always strike out. I know I’ll mess up in the playoffs, and then everybody will hate me,” he says, putting his head down on the table, trying to hide his tears.

  “Perry, in the last game you got a hit that brought in a run,

  and you helped make an out at third base.”

  “Yeah, but usually I just mess up. I’m a loser. Ask anybody and they’ll tell you,” he says, rubbing his eyes and his nose, still trying to hide the fact that he’
s crying. I take a paper napkin from the drawer next to me and hand it to him.

  “Wipe your nose . . . Listen, Perry. This guy told me a while back you’re only a loser if you think you’re a loser. So I want you to stop with this loser stuff—it’s not true and it messes you up.”

  “That’s easy for you to say because you don’t know what it’s like to have everyone think you’re a loser.”

  I laugh. “Someday I’ll tell you my life story,” I say. “Come on, I’ll take you home. But you’ve got to promise to show up for the game tomorrow. Promise?”

  Perry nods. “But it’s hard.”

  “I know.”

  When I get back, my dad is sitting at the kitchen table looking over some papers. “That kid’s got problems,” he says.

  “Everybody’s got problems,” I say. “Perry’s better than he thinks he is.”

  “Maybe,” my dad says, looking at me sort of like I’m a stranger to him.

  I go to bed wondering how that “you’re only a loser if you think you’re a loser” load of shit came out of my mouth when I was talking to Perry. Maybe it isn’t really a load of shit.

  My dad surprises me one morning by being up and dressed when I get up for school.

  “I made some coffee,” he says. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks,” I say.

  He’s sitting at the kitchen table, his hands curled around a mug of coffee. He’s freshly shaved, unlike most of the time I see him, and it looks like he’s just had a haircut. He’s wearing clean khaki pants and a sport shirt.

  “Going someplace?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Why?” he says.

  “I don’t think you got all cleaned up just to see me this morning,” I say, opening the refrigerator to see if I can find anything edible. No luck.

  “I’m gonna start a retraining program, for a desk job,” he tells me.

  “I can’t sit around like this no more. It’s driving me crazier than ever.”

  “I thought they wouldn’t let you work anymore,” I say, remembering all the tests and meetings he had two years ago, after the “incident.”

  “Not on patrol. I can’t take that pressure anymore. I know that and so do they. But I been talking to the association. They talked to the captain. Maybe it’s gonna work out.”

  Suddenly he reminds me of Perry, the look he gets on his face when he gets up to bat. Like he’s afraid to hope, but maybe, just maybe, something good is going to happen.

  He looks down into his coffee cup. “Seeing you doin’ better made me realize I should get up off my duff and make some changes, too.”

  I don’t know what to say. I kind of want to pat him on the back or something. But I just stand there watching his Perry expres­sion. For the first time in a long time it seems like maybe I could start liking my dad again.

  Like I said in the beginning, since eighth grade my life’s been getting worse and worse. But maybe things get better sometimes, too. I mean, between me getting back to baseball and my dad getting back to work, maybe things can get better. Not like I’m counting on anything, but I think it’s possible—maybe.

  Baby Help

  ***

  In my Peer Counseling class today, we have a guest speaker from the Hamilton Heights Rape Hotline. I’m sitting in the back of the room, pretending to take notes, but really, I’m writing my name over and over again, as it is, and as it will be. Melissa Anne Fisher, Melissa Anne Whitman, Mrs. Rudy Whitman.

  Melissa Fisher has thirteen letters in it. I think I’ve had a bad luck name. If my name changes to Melissa Whitman, with fourteen letters, maybe my luck will change. I think it will. I touch the bruise on my upper arm, lightly, through the sleeve of my long-sleeved blouse. Things will be different when my name changes.

  Rudy and I have been together for three years now and, next to our baby, Cheyenne, he’s the most important person in my whole life. And I’m important to him, too. Before Rudy and Cheyenne, I wasn’t important to anyone but me, and that wasn’t enough. Rudy has his faults. I’m not saying he’s perfect. But nobody’s perfect. Right?

  At the front of the classroom the guest speaker is writing her name on the chalkboard. Paula Johnson. She says to call her Paula. She looks young enough to be a student here at Hamilton High School, but Ms. Woods introduced her as a college gradu­ate with a degree in social work.

  “Let’s define rape,” Paula says, turning to face the class.

  “Being forced to have sex when you don’t want it,” Leticia says.

  “Right,” Paula says. “How can someone force a person to have sex with them?”

  “By overpowering them,” Christy says.

  “With a gun or a knife,” Josh says.

  Paula writes responses on the board, under types of force.

  I write Cheyenne Maria Fisher, Cheyenne Maria Whitman, next to my own names, half listening to the talk about rape, half concentrating on the names in front of me. Cheyenne is two now. I love her most of all. Even more than Rudy. Even more than myself.

  Last summer when we were practically dying of the heat, we went to Rudy’s aunt’s house to use her pool. I asked Rudy to watch Cheyenne while I went in to the bathroom. I came back out just in time to see my baby fall into the deep end of the pool. I ran to that end, jumped in, grabbed her and held her over my head. I can’t swim, but I didn’t even think about that. I just knew I had to get her out. I was swallowing water, holding her up, when I felt her lifted from my hands. I sank down, my lungs burning for air. Rudy jumped in and dragged me to the side and his uncle pulled me out. I lay there coughing and gasping for air, sick with all the water I’d taken in.

  Rudy said I was stupid, that he saw her, too, and could have rescued her faster. But I didn’t care—all I saw was that she needed help. Anytime my baby needs help, I’ll be there, even if it means risking my own life. That’s how I know I love her more than myself.

  “What if the girl asks for it?” Tony says.

  “What do you mean?” Paula asks.

  “You know—like if a girl is a big tease and she gets the guy all horny, and then she yells rape when he does what she’s been asking for all along.”

  “So let’s get this straight. The girl comes on to him, maybe she’s wearing clothing that shows a lot of her body, and then he forces himself on her?”

  “Well, yeah. But she asked for it.”

  “If any of you think that’s okay, you’ve got a good chance of ending up in jail. Never is it okay, never is it legal, to force sex with anyone, young or old, male or female, friend or stranger. Never. She can take off all her clothes and strut her stuff right in front of you, but if she says no to sex, and you force yourself on her, you’re committing rape.”

  Questions are flying around the room now. What if she says yes and you’re already, like almost there, and then she says no? Can a girl ever rape a guy? What about if you’ve got these plans, like say after the prom is going to be the big night, and the guy rents a limo and takes her to a hotel and he’s got condoms and everything because that’s what they’ve planned, and then she changes her mind? What about if you’re married?

  Paula writes the questions on the board as fast as she can. I write Rudy Charles Whitman on my paper. I write our names in a forward slant and a backward slant, dotting the “i”s with little hearts, getting my Flair pen out of my backpack and going over the ballpoint writing to darken it. I like how the names look, and how Whitman looks after Cheyenne Marie, and after Melissa Anne. I like the feel of the “W” under my pen. It’s a prettier capital letter than the capital “F” of the name I’ve always had. I practice capital “W”s while the buzz of discussion goes on around me.

  “Anytime anyone touches you in a way you don’t like, that’s abuse. It may be sexual abuse, or it may be physical abuse, but if you don’t like it, and if you’ve made that known, and it continues, that’s abuse.”

  “Are abuse and rape the same thing?” someone asks.

  “Not necessarily, except in a general sen
se. They both bring great pain and suffering to another human being, the suffering continues long after the actual experience, and they are punish­able under the law.”

  I hear the anger in Paula’s voice and stop my writing to look up at her. I wonder if she’s been raped or abused. I touch the sore spot on my cheek, fingering it gently so as not to rub off any of the cover-up make-up.

  About five minutes before the bell is to ring, Ms. Woods gives us our assignment.

  “Copy three of these questions from the board and write a paragraph about each of them. Don’t worry about right or wrong answers. Write your opinions, and the reasons you think the way you do. Paula will be back tomorrow and we’ll continue this discussion.”

  I turn to a fresh sheet of paper and write:

  1. Is rape a sexual act, or an act of violence?

  2. Is rape more likely to occur with a stranger or with someone the victim knows?

  3. Is there such a thing as rape in marriage?

  I walk to my next class alone. Even though I’m a senior, I’m pretty new to Hamilton High. I’ve moved around a lot. My mom works for the race tracks, not with the horses or anything like that, but selling tickets to bettors and cashing tickets for the winners. She sells a lot more than she cashes in.

  Anyway, most of my life I’ve not been in any one school for over three months. It’s hard to keep friends that way, so I’m kind of a loner. My best friend since third grade was a guy, Sean Ybarra. His mom works for the tracks, too, so we always ended up at the same schools. He was a really good friend—someone I could talk to about anything. But Rudy freaks out if I even glance at another guy, much less talk to them. So I’ve kind of lost touch with Sean. The last time I talked to my mom, about six months ago, she said Sean was signed up to join the Conservation Corps. I’ll probably never see him again.

  Hamilton Heights is the longest I’ve lived in any one place. After Cheyenne was born, Rudy’s mom said the baby and I could move in with them. My mom thought it would be a good idea, so

  Cheyenne would know her father and all, and besides, she told me, it was hard enough for her to support herself and me, much less adding a baby to all of her financial responsibilities. She wasn’t mean or anything, but I sort of got the idea she didn’t want me and Cheyenne tagging along with her if there was someplace else we could go.