by Karole Cozzo
Our assistant coach lays into him at once. “Watch it, Brendan. Have a little respect.”
Eve acknowledges none of it, just coolly goes about her business and then looks around, eyes coming to rest on a metal cart. She wheels it over, then struggles mightily in her attempts to lift the full thermos onto it. I watch her as I swing my right arm around in circles, loosening it up. It’s almost painful to watch. Just admit you need help.
But she won’t. Eve keeps her back to us, I guess thinking we won’t see her struggling, but for anyone who’s paying attention, it’s obvious. She lucks out when Scott appears, grabs the other side, and they heft it onto the cart together.
I shake my head again and shrug into my jersey.
When I get down to the field, I’m sort of stunned by the size of the crowd. The combining of the two teams inevitably means more spectators, but beyond that, it’s impossible to miss the extra reporters, some with badges from city papers, and several groups of middle school girls, who can’t seem to take their eyes off Eve.
Naomi’s there, and she waves to me. Behind her sits that Marcella chick, who comes in with Eve every day. I see my mom, still in her Target uniform. I hope she didn’t give up hours to be here. I notice a set of parents and a dude who looks a couple of years older than us wearing buttons with Eve’s picture on them, her still in her Bulldogs uniform in the pictures.
I stare at them for a minute. Then, Focus, I remind myself.
Doesn’t matter how many people are here to see her. I’m the Pirates’ starting pitcher.
I repeat the mantra to myself in those last few minutes leading up to the game, and then the home plate umpire pulls his mask down and gives Coach a signal, and I jog out to the mound. As the first hitter from Overbrook approaches the plate, I hear the claps and whistles, and I let them energize me.
Then I stop thinking. I switch over to auto mode and do my thing.
First batter up … I strike him out looking.
The second batter’s a lefty, and he sends a pop-up into right field. Nathan catches it without any effort, and there’s two down.
Third batter hits a fast grounder toward second and makes it to first before Chris can throw him out.
Which brings Trevor McFadden to the plate in the cleanup position, arrogant smile clearly visible behind the face guard.
Fucking Trevor McFadden. We all hate that cocky prick.
Unfortunately for me, he also has the bat power to back it up. His presence gets inside my head, because I want to get out of this inning, and I want it badly. I want to get out of this inning with Trevor at the plate. He swings and misses on a fastball, then gets a piece of it for a foul tip on the second pitch. I’m so close, and the realization distracts me. I throw three balls in a row.
I spit into the dirt and pause, and the crowd comes to life to lift me up.
“You got this, Ace!”
“Strike three, baby!”
“All you, man, all you!”
I soak it in, then tune it out, focusing on the catcher’s mitt like a laser. I wind up and send a curveball into Timmy’s glove. I strike him out looking.
I pump my fist and dash toward the dugout, the crowd jumping to its feet as we put them away. I enter the dugout whooping and smack my glove onto the bench. “And that’s how you start a season, gentlemen!”
* * *
The innings go by smoothly. During an at bat in the third, I send Phil home and we secure the lead. At the other end, I’m keeping runs from scoring and feeling strong. Things take a turn during the fourth, when on my way to the mound, I notice that Olivia’s shown up at the game. She’s with two other girls, and they all look like they’re struggling to keep their eyes all the way open. She’s giggling her head off and keeping her distance from our mother.
Suddenly I’m tense. But I know how to keep home shit off the playing field—I’ve been doing it for years. I visualize steel bars coming down on the other side of me, blocking it out, providing blinders that let me focus on the plate. Getting the ball to it as quickly and accurately as possible. Right now, nothing else can affect me.
It’s a solid opener for me, and I’m surprised when Coach calls a time-out and jogs out to the mound during the sixth inning. Sure, there are two men on base, but I just struck out two batters in a row and I’m feeling confident I can get the third.
Coach kicks the dirt, clears his throat, and looks me in the eye. “How you feeling, Abrams?”
“Good. Strong. Planning to shut this thing down right now.”
He flashes a quick smile. “You’ve had a tremendous start.” He clears his throat again. “Let’s go out on a high note, all right?”
I shake my head. “I’m good, Coach,” I say. “And I thought pitch count didn’t really matter till the season officially started.”
He shrugs. “The league goes back and forth on that. You should save some regardless.”
“Come on, Coach…”
“Abrams. Save some.” His voice lets me know this issue is not up for debate.
He gives me a quick slap to the rear. “Take a rest.”
Before I follow his orders, I stare to the right of the dugout. I should’ve known who’s warming up. I should’ve known what this was about.
I glare at Coach for a solid twenty seconds before walking off the mound. It doesn’t matter that the crowd is loud with appreciation, that they see nothing wrong with what’s happening. Sure, it’s a rare thing for me to pitch an entire game. But they don’t get the picture at all.
And immediately, their attention is diverted when Coach calls Eve into the game. Girls and women are jumping to their feet, letting her know how supported she is, how eager they are to stand behind her. Right away, it’s evident she’s not going to be held to the same standard. If this game gets away from us, which it probably will, they’ll still be proud of her. Just for getting out there.
Give me a break.
I slide into the corner of the dugout, ignoring my teammates, who slap my back and extend their hands for high fives, leaving distance between myself and the rest of the team. I glower at her, eyes immediately pulled to her right hand. Even from this distance, I can tell it’s shaking. There’s no way she’s going to be able to deliver.
Eve stands there a long minute, like a statue, attempting to collect herself, and Scott takes off his mask and runs out to the mound to talk to her. He whispers in her ear; he says something that makes her laugh. Then she nods decisively, and with a final thumbs-up in her direction, he returns to his place behind the plate.
Then she does it. She delivers.
She delivers strike after strike. She keeps her cool when the count is full. She keeps her cool when grounders come in her direction.
She’s good, damn it, faster than Pat, more consistent than Matty, and we’re adding runs to our count while she’s keeping them from adding runs to theirs. And regardless of how I hate her up there, I don’t have it in me to wish for a loss for the sake of spiting her. I can’t begrudge her for getting the job done.
But my newfound respect for her game, along with Coach’s decision making, starts to fade during the ninth inning.
That’s when it starts slipping away from her, when Overbrook scores two runs and gets a runner to second off a double. And Trevor’s up to bat. At the rate she’s going, she’s on her way to getting lit up.
The pitching coach has Matty warming up. But Coach isn’t even glancing in his direction. He’s not walking out to the mound. And I feel myself start sweating as I stare at him.
What the hell are you doing?
I look back out at Eve. It’s a sink-or-swim moment, and she knows it. It’s written all over her face. She’s doubtful.
Normally, Coach would pull a pitcher in this scenario, let someone with a fresh arm get us out of the jam. But he wants her to bounce back, regain control. He wants her to prove to herself that out here, with a new team that doesn’t fully have her back, she can.
I know what Coach is doi
ng—he’s helping her. It’s what he does, it’s what he’s always done for me: helped me. But not like this. Not by giving me a chance when I really didn’t deserve one.
I tell myself that if the actual season were under way, he wouldn’t be so cavalier with the team’s well-being. But I don’t even know anymore.
I see Eve’s lips moving. She’s coaching herself, without even relying on Scott or Coach to boost her. She faces Trevor, who’s making some lewd gestures to try to throw her, and glares right at him. She shuts him down. Then their final batter sends a line drive toward third, which is caught by Brayden, who promptly turns and tags the runner who was caught between the bases.
My teammates jump to their feet, fists in the air. I can hear the roar of the crowd outside. And I see Scott throw off his equipment and run toward the mound, swallowing her up in his arms like it’s game seven of the fucking World Series.
Coach is beaming, looking toward the mound and clapping.
Because he made the right call, and Eve got the job done.
My anger and disbelief turn to panic, and I’m on my feet at once. She got the job done.
Suddenly, I’m gathering my stuff in a flash. I smash my Windbreaker into a ball and jam it into my bat bag, and I crush the paper bag of cookies in my fist, probably destroying them. As I leave the dugout without a word to any of my teammates, I make my way around the back, past the spectators in the bleachers. From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of my mom with her hands cupped in front of her mouth, calling my name over the cheers of the crowd. I rush on up the hill like I don’t hear her.
And I don’t think anyone else notices me leaving.
I march up the hill, not sure if I feel like trying to get my emotions under some kind of control or just letting them expand and explode. The rational side of my brain reminds me that I was usually relieved midway through a game, midway through even my best games. The W will still be mine, regardless. Resentment swirls inside me. It doesn’t feel like that anymore. It doesn’t feel like I was the star of the show.
There’s a feeling like something is being crushed inside me, and I picture an old car at a junk lot being mashed between the jaws of a huge, remorseless machine. Fuck, it hurts, the sensation, and I don’t stop it as it transforms itself into bitter, blinding anger instead.
I reach the parking lot, cleats clattering against the pavement as I cross over from the grass. My hands are curling themselves into fists, creating tension in my forearms in keeping with the pressure building up inside me. I wonder exactly how thick the locker room cinder-block walls are, because I have a sudden need to slam my bat against them a few times when I get inside the door. I’m almost there.
“Jamie!”
A voice reaches me from the distance as I stand there, hand on the outside doorknob. It sounds excited and elated. She sounds excited and elated.
Eve.
She jogs across the parking lot in my direction. She’s lost her ball cap and her face is wide open—she’s practically glowing. Downright euphoric.
“We pulled it off,” she says with a smile. “That was an awesome start to the season.”
Eve steps forward, her right arm outstretched, like she’s looking to shake my hand.
I immediately shift my bat bag farther back on my shoulder and jam both hands into my pockets.
Now she looks surprised, chastened, hand hanging foolishly in the air like she made a mistake.
I feel a vein in my neck pulsing, but I work to control it, to keep my voice even. “So you have to feel pretty satisfied about today.” I offer up a big, fake smile.
She doesn’t respond for a minute, looking unsure. But I keep the smile in place, and eventually she speaks. “Yeah … I am. It felt like a team effort and…” Eve gazes into the distance, then ducks her head. “That felt good.”
I wait until she looks at me again. “No, you must feel satisfied,” I repeat, letting the smile slide right off my face. “Ultimately, it’s all about you, right?” I gesture with my thumb toward the field. “All those people down there, shit, record numbers for a scrimmage, that little ‘girl power’ crew from the middle school, the goddamn reporters. They were all there to see you.” Expression completely flat, I clap three times. “Congratulations. Good for you.”
I turn on my heel and open the door.
But she grabs it before I can disappear inside and let it slam behind me, in her face. I spin around in surprise, nearly clocking her with the bat bag.
Her face is right in mine, and she’s seething. “What the hell is your problem, dude? I came up here because you pitched an awesome game and I have absolutely no problem saying so. You were the starting pitcher, Coach chose you, and you set up the win.” She shakes her head, braids flying. “What the hell reason do you have for being so nasty?”
“You don’t get it, all right?” I snap. “Nothing’s enough for you, is it?”
She looks frozen and doesn’t respond, so I press on, ticking my points off on my fingers. “You have your grades and all the teachers love you. You’d get into any college without being some sort of ‘phenom.’ You have soccer. You have basketball. And you know that that’s your future, that in reality, this is not.” My voice becomes sort of high-pitched and screechy. “You don’t need this!”
I swallow hard. “You don’t need a scholarship. Your future’s not going to depend on one.”
You’re not like me. This is all I have. This is everything and this is it.
I take a deep breath, because I can feel my emotions shifting again, and I can’t let them slip away from me. Not now.
“I need this, okay? I need this. It’s not just a game to me; it’s the only thing I can even begin to count on. And for that reason, you’re always going to be in my way.” I look down at the pavement and kick at a rock. “So go ahead and feel satisfied with yourself, tell yourself that it’s a team effort. But the truth is, you stole the show just because you could.”
I stare into her eyes. I can’t read them; I can’t tell if she’s furious or wounded or confused. But she is quiet for once.
“Without even thinking about what you were stealing. So, congratulations,” I whisper.
I turn my back on her and open the door. And this time she has enough sense to stay out of its way. It slams behind me with a satisfying smack, shutting her off and shutting her out.
Chapter 9
March 15
Eve
I should be in a pretty stellar mood.
I closed out the game on a high note, and that’s usually a high that lasts at least twenty-four hours. I heard my name mentioned during the sports announcements in homeroom, a first since I’d started at East. My teammates, including some seniors from East who’d continued to keep their distance since practices had started, were quick to come up to me and congratulate me all over again. Even some girls from East, ones who’d never talked to me before, came up to show their support.
“You go, lady,” one of them said to me as she’d clapped my shoulder in passing between classes. “That took balls yesterday.”
But none of them, none of their encouragement, could reignite the excitement that had been extinguished, unexpectedly and in one fell swoop, after the game.
I avoided the lobby in the morning in an attempt to avoid him. Hours later, I’m still sorting out my feelings in response to his explosion. The adrenaline crash after the game left me too worn out to even think about figuring it out, so I faked a good mood with Marcella and my parents, and then buried myself in two hours of homework as a distraction.
His cruel accusation continues to pop into my head, though.
You stole the show just because you could.
I shut my eyes against them and hurry into my English classroom. At the door, Marcella peels herself off Brian and follows me inside, taking a seat beside me.
“Hey, Superstar.”
Her greeting makes me cringe. “Stop.”
Superstar.
I mean, does he rea
lly think …
I push our encounter out of my head, again, and follow Marcella’s gaze to the doorway. Brian’s still hanging out outside our classroom, talking to a few guys from the East soccer team, laughing at something some girl is saying.
Marcella’s lips come together in a tight line as she observes. But she doesn’t say anything, she just keeps her eye on him until he wanders away with the rest of the guys and the girl walks into our room.
Mrs. Jabrowski appears in the door as the bell rings, Pepsi can in hand, and makes her way to her desk. “Okay, people,” she calls over our chattering, “so I don’t forget, I’m going to collect your Crucible pre-reading assignment first thing.”
On all sides of me, classmates bend over backpacks or open folders to retrieve packets for the new unit. I sit, motionless, panicking at once. The assignment isn’t due today; it’s due tomorrow. I’m certain of it. So why does everyone else have theirs?
I flip to the syllabus page in my binder. Right there! It’s due March 16, just like I thought. I recognize the packets they’re all pulling out—I completed half of mine last night before nearly falling asleep at my desk. But I’d planned to finish it tonight. The night before it’s due.
Mrs. Jabrowski approaches our corner. She waves her hand impatiently above my desk while reaching for Marcella’s packet. “Eve, may I please have yours?”
“It’s at home.” It’s hard to meet her eye, so I point to the syllabus instead. “I thought it was due tomorrow.”
“It was due tomorrow.” She turns in the direction of the whiteboard, where assignments for all her classes are listed. “But I updated the due date on the board yesterday at the end of class. We finished To Kill a Mockingbird early, and I needed to adjust our schedule.”
Now I meet her eye, shaking my head. I missed the last fifteen minutes of class due to our early dismissal to get changed for the game. And she knows it. “But I left early. I wasn’t aware of the change. And you didn’t send out an e-blast through the system.”
She stares at me, silent for a few seconds, because she knows I have her on this point. It’s a requirement for teachers to formalize syllabus changes through the school’s e-blast announcement system. Yet my calling her out on it seems to make her huffy, and she refuses to stay on the matter at hand.
