“Great. I’ll call you when we’re done eating.”
On the way to the car, I turn a touch-the-ground tic into a cartwheel. Hannah sees me and does a cartwheel, too. To my surprise, I find out that I’m much better at them than Hannah. Of course, I’ve been doing them for a while. Maybe there is something to this practice stuff after all.
Chapter 9
Dad grabs me and swings me around when I tell him about being on the softball team. “That’s so great. Izzy! As soon as dinner’s over, I’ll take you to a sports store and get you a glove.”
“Let’s go this weekend.” I show him the one Coach lent me. “This one’s okay for now. Tonight I want to practice catching. Abbie and Hannah are coming over.”
“Okay, sure. Is it okay if I join you? You know how much I love baseball.”
Seeing the joy light up his eyes makes me a little nervous. Will he expect too much from me? Dads love to play baseball and football, stuff like that, with their sons. Maybe he wishes I were a boy. One who didn’t have Tourette’s.
“So what do you say, Izzy?”
I look up at my dad. “Sorry. I was ... thinking of something. What did you say?”
“I said maybe we could go out for ice cream after we toss the ball around.”
Ice cream! My family’s answer to everything, both good and bad. “Yeah. Sure.” Then I remember. “What about Abbie and Hannah?”
“We’ll take them, too.”
I stand there punching my glove, thinking about dads and their sons.
“Something on your mind?” Dad asks.
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
Dad stares me down. “Out with it, Izzy.”
I hesitate, then ask, “Do you ever wish I was a boy? Dads want sons, don’t they?”
Dad lifts my chin. His face has that serious look he gets sometimes. “I don’t know about all dads but this one is thrilled to have a daughter.”
I jab, jab, jab his shoulder. “Thanks, Dad.”
He hugs me tight. “Let’s get dinner over with so we can get to the important stuff.”
Mom is quiet at dinner. Dad asks her what’s wrong, but she says nothing, which really means something. Dad keeps at her until she gives in.
“It’s all this softball talk. I don’t want Izzy to get hurt again like she did with the tennis thing.”
“This is different,” Dad says. “This is softball, honey. Izzy knows all about the sport.”
“She knew all about tennis, too. She took lessons all summer, and she was good!”
“Hey!” I say. “I’m right here.”
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Mom says, “but I can’t help worrying.”
Dad wipes his mouth with his napkin and throws it down on the plate. “For heaven’s sake, Jen. She’s 12 years old. She’s not a baby.” He looks at me. “I know you can do this, Izzy. I’ll help you.”
Mom stands and starts to clear the table. “You wouldn’t be this enthusiastic if she wanted to be a ballerina or something. It’s because it’s baseball you’re so excited!”
“It’s softball, and no that’s not the reason.”
I can tell they’re going to get into a shouting match if I don’t stop this. I hate it when they fight over me.
“I love you, Mom.” It pops out of my mouth like it always does when I’m upset around her.
Mom hesitates, sighs. “I love you, too.”
She puts the plates on the counter and sits back down in her chair.
I tap, tap, tap the table. “Coach knows all about the Tourette’s.”
They both look at me, surprise on their faces.
“You never talk about your Tourette’s,” Mom says.
“I didn’t bring it up. She did.”
“She brought it up?”
“Yes. I was so nervous when I went to tryouts that I was ticking like crazy. She couldn’t help but notice. She said she had a student who did a lot of what I did and he told her he had Tourette’s. She said all she wants from me is to give 100 percent.”
Dad looks at Mom. I’m praying he doesn’t say “See!” or something stupid like that. But he doesn’t. He waits for her to talk first.
“I guess you’re going to do it whether I like it or not. Just be careful, okay? I don’t want you getting hit in the head with a ball because you were distracted by a tic.”
I want to say, “Thanks for the confidence,” but I decide not to push it. My cell phone rings. “It’s Abbie. She and Hannah are coming over to practice. They’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“Hannah? That’s the new girl that Abbie likes?” Mom asks.
“Yeah. She tried out today, too.”
Mom starts to collect the rest of the dishes. “And you’re okay with her being around?”
“Why wouldn’t she be?” Dad asks.
“It’s nothing!” I’m tired of the conversation and Mom’s questions. I just want to go practice. “Can we get started, Dad? Maybe you can teach me a couple of things before they get here.”
Dad looks at the dirty dishes piled up on the counter. “You need help with those?”
Mom shakes her head. “No. Just go.”
I know she’s upset, but she’s trying. “I love you, Mom.”
She strokes my hair, her smile sad. “I love you, too.”
Chapter 10
Abbie fields a grounder from my dad and shoots it over to Hannah, who blasts it back to my dad, who gently tosses it to me. Annoyed and tired of being babied, I throw it back at him—hard. It flies high, and he has to jump to catch it.
Dad tosses the ball to Abbie and comes over to me. He puts his arm around my shoulder and walks me a short distance away. “I know you don’t want special treatment, Izzy, but you’re not ready for the harder thrown balls. Believe me, when you are, I’ll send them your way.”
I know he’s right, but that doesn’t make it less embarrassing. “All three of you are so good at what you do,” I say. “I look like a stupid beginner. I am a stupid beginner.”
“You don’t look stupid, and they were beginners once, too.” Dad nods toward Abbie and Hannah. “Everybody starts at the beginning.”
“Yeah, but do they do it in front of so many people? It’s embarrassing, Dad.”
“I guess I can see your point. How about we practice ground balls for now. Just remember to keep your glove low to the ground. Let it touch the grass.”
“Ok. I’ll give it a try.”
I grunt and start hitting my glove’s sweet spot.
Punch. Punch. Punch.
Grunt.
Punch. Punch. Punch.
Grunt.
Dad knows that my tics get worse when I’m frustrated, so he throws some grounders to Abbie and Hannah while he waits for me to settle down.
“Ready?” he asks after a few minutes.
I nod.
I suck at fielding ground balls, too. Why did I say yes to Abbie and Hannah coming over? If it were just Dad and me, I wouldn’t mind messing up so much. But this is torture.
Abbie suggests we practice batting.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say. “You three go ahead and hit. I’ll be right back.” It’s a lie. I just want to get away.
When I get to the bathroom I grab a towel and scream into it until my throat hurts. I can tell Abbie really likes practicing with Hannah. They probably think I’m the world’s biggest klutz.
I am the world’s biggest klutz. I just want to die. I am not going out there again.
Someone knocks on the door. Figuring it’s Mom, I ignore it. The knock comes again.
“Are you okay?” It’s Abbie. I’m too upset to answer. After a minute she says, “You’ve been gone a long time. I was worried.”
I grunt. Punch, punch, punch the air. Force myself to answer. “I’m okay. I’ll be right down.”
“You know,” Abbie says through the closed door, “when I first started playing I couldn’t catch the ball for anything. And forget about hitting it.”
“I said I wa
s okay!” Grunt. Punch, punch, punch.
“Izzy, please let me in.”
Knowing Abbie, she’ll stand out there forever, so I give in and open the door.
“What?” I ask.
“Your dad said he’s had enough practice for one night. He wants to take us out for ice cream.”
“You couldn’t tell me that through the door?”
“Izzy, come on. Nobody cares if you can catch the ball or not right now. You just started. You’ll get better with practice.”
Abbie is really trying. It’s not her fault I’m so horrible at softball.
“Do you really think I can get better?” I ask.
“You won’t know if you don’t try.”
“You’re my best friend. You’re supposed to say, ‘Yes, Izzy. I think you’ll be great!’”
“Yes, Izzy. I—”
I poke, poke, poke her shoulder. “I was kidding. You’re right. And I did promise Coach I wouldn’t quit even if it gets really hard. Just next time we practice, please don’t invite Hannah. It’s too embarrassing.”
Abbie shrugs. “Sure. So how about that ice cream? I’m hungry.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
I don’t tell her I’m always hungry. I don’t mention my meds make me that way. Or that they make me tired. I don’t say anything about any of that. But I think about it a lot.
Maybe if I eat less and exercise more I’ll be faster on the field. Maybe I’ll be able to catch more fly balls. Maybe, if I lose weight, I’ll be able to slide onto a base and avoid being tagged out. Maybe I’ll be able to get the bat around faster and hit the ball harder and farther.
Maybe, if I don’t take those meds ...
Chapter 11
The next day, my dad is sitting in his car waiting to take me home after softball practice.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask. “She usually picks me up.”
“I told her I’d bring you home. I took the afternoon off.” He has a big smile on his face. “I have a something I want to show you. It’s a surprise.”
I wipe my sweaty face on the sleeve of my shirt, too tired to be excited. But I try for Dad’s sake. “That’s cool. Where is it?”
“Home.”
“Want to give me a hint?”
“Nah. I don’t want to spoil it. So how was practice?”
“Hot and exhausting. Plus, we had some serious batting practice, and I pretty much sucked.”
“Watch your words, Izzy.”
“Well, I did!”
“Maybe I can help you with that.”
“How? Do you have some magic hit-a-homerun pixie dust or something?”
Dad laughs. “No. But I have something that may be the next best thing.”
Now I’m curious. But all my wheedling can’t coax it out of him.
“You’ll see” is all he says.
After we pull into the driveway, Dad tells me to leave my stuff in the car and follow him. When we get to the back corner of the house he stops me.
“Close your eyes and give me your hand. I’ll lead you the rest of the way.”
“Dad!” I’m feeling kind of silly.
“Shush. Let me do this.”
Shrugging, I close my eyes. After a few seconds of stumbling along Dad says, “Okay. You can open your eyes now.”
In front of me is a giant cage-like thing sitting on our lawn. It has screening all around it. Even across the top.
“Oh my god! What is that?”
Dad is dancing around like a little kid. “I wanted to do something special for you. Something that would give you a leg up on your learning curve. So I took the afternoon off, did some research, downloaded some videos on batting”—he turns and points to the ginormous cage—“and I bought you this batting cage.”
He looks so happy and proud. And I’m so grateful. I appreciate it—I really do—until I think of Mom and the conversation at the dinner table last night.
“Is Mom okay with this?” I ask. “I mean this looks really expensive.”
“Don’t you worry about Mom. I’ll handle her.” He grabs my hand. “Come on. Let me show you the rest of it.”
Dad lifts a corner of the screen and we walk inside. He’s set up a baseball tee. There’s also a big bucket of balls and a new bat sitting inside the cage. “I didn’t buy you a glove. I want you with me for that so we can be sure it fits your hand.”
“Wow!” Now I’m nervous. “What if I can’t do it? What if you’ve spent all this money, and I mess up?”
“All I ask is that you try, Izzy. And honestly”—he takes a breath, sighs it out—“I’m doing this as much for me as for you. I’ve been hitting balls since I set it up. I only stopped to get you. Don’t know when I’ve had so much fun.”
His excitement is catching. “Can I try it out?” My hands are itching to hold that bat.
“Sure.” Dad smiles. “Knock yourself out!”
I pick up the bat, toss it up in the air three times. Touch the ground. Put it down.
Dad waits me out. “Tell me when you’re ready,” he says.
“Let’s just start, okay?” Truth is I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.
“Come look at this first,” Dad says.
I walk over to him as he opens his iPad. We watch the video he’s downloaded with tips on batting. It looks easy enough on the screen.
“Ready to give it a try?”
“I guess,” I say.
Again I throw the bat in the air three times, but I only catch the first two. I miss the last toss and it slams into my foot. “Ow. Ow. Ow!” I slip down onto the ground and rock back and forth while squeezing my foot with both hands.
“Bet that hurt!” He bends down to look at my foot. “Take off your shoe and let me check it out.”
“I’m okay.” I stand and walk around a bit. “It doesn’t feel like anything is broken. I think it’s just a bruise.”
“You sure you’re okay?” I nod and he hands me the bat. “How about we try hitting the ball this time.”
“Not funny!”
He smiles and shrugs. “I thought it was.”
I giggle. “Yeah, it was.”
This time, I tighten my grip on the bat, stand next to the tee, grunt, focus, and swing. It doesn’t go far, but at least I hit it.
“Good first try, Izzy,” Dad says. “The more you practice the more comfortable you’ll be and the better you’ll get.”
“You mean the less I’ll tic, don’t you?”
“They’re pretty much one and the same, kiddo.” Dad puts another ball on the tee. “Try again.”
By the time I’ve gone through the whole bucket of balls, I’m hitting harder and farther.
“See,” Dad says. “When you were fully in the moment, when you were concentrating on the ball, you hardly ticked at all.”
“I didn’t tic much, did I?” Grunt. “But doing it in front of you is different than doing it in front of Coach and the rest of the team.”
“This is the first step. You’ll get there. Ready for another bucket of balls?”
I take a deep breath. “I don’t think so, Dad. I’m really tired.”
Darn those meds. I’ve had it with feeling fat and tired. I have to do something about them. Mom and Dad would have a fit if I quit taking them. In fact, they probably wouldn’t let me stop. Not without talking to the doctor first. But she’s the one who put me on them in the first place. Maybe I should—
“Hey, Izzy,” Dad interrupts my thoughts. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Startled and feeling a little guilty, I tap, tap, tap his shoulder. “Just stuff.” Grunt. Touch the ground.
“Stuff, huh?” Dad lifts an eyebrow, but when I don’t answer, he lets it go. “Okay. Go get your stuff out of the car. Dinner will be ready soon. I’ll be in in a sec.”
Dad walks over to the tee, adjusts its height. A big grin spreads across his face. I watch from outside the cage as he hits ball after ball. He looks so happy.
I have a feeling I wo
n’t see Dad again until Mom calls him in for dinner.
Chapter 12
The alarm on my phone wakes me up the next morning. I’m in the bathroom, pulling my hair into a ponytail, when my stomach gurgles. That’s when I remember last night’s dinner.
Mom didn’t talk to Dad at all. It was just, “Izzy, tell your dad this,” and “Izzy, ask your dad that.” Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I told them I was going to go do my homework. I could hear them yelling at each for a long time after I left.
I take my time getting ready, not wanting to go downstairs and face Mom. I mean it wasn’t my idea to buy the batting cage!
“Izzy! If you don’t come down right now you won’t have time for breakfast.” Mom’s voice echoes off the upstairs wall.
“Be right there!”
I stand in the bathroom, flicking the light switch on and off. On and off.
“Izzy!”
“Okay!” I give the light switch one more flick and head for the kitchen.
Mom pops the toast down into the toaster when I walk in and starts scooping scrambled eggs onto a plate. When the toast is ready, she puts everything in front of me. I quickly take a bite.
“Do you have practice tonight?”
I tap, tap, tap my fork on my plate. “Yeah.” I hold my breath, waiting to hear if she’s angry with me, too, or just my dad.
“Then make sure you eat all your eggs. You’ll need all the energy you can get. You’ve been looking tired lately.”
I let out the breath and take another bite. I guess I’m in the clear. Not so sure about Dad.
“Thanks, Mom. That was delicious.” I smile at her as I scoop up the last bite.
Also on the table is a glass of orange juice. Next to it are my meds. Two little pills. One to keep me calm, and one that is supposed to help with the tics. So far, it hasn’t.
Or maybe it has. How would I know? Maybe my tics would be even worse without it. Or maybe they would be the same. All I know is one—or both—makes me hungry and tired.
I pick up the pills, and, like I always do, start to put them in my mouth. But this time I stop halfway. What if I didn’t take them? What would happen?
Different Page 4
