Rebels Like Us

by Liz Reinhardt

  When Doyle pulls the cap off his head, he inspects it like it’s a foreign object he’s never seen before. “Does it get you riled up?”

  He asks an honest question, and he wants to know my honest answer, but I don’t know how I feel.

  “I only meant to joke with ya. Rebels and Yanks. I didn’t mean… I never meant to offend you, Nes.”

  Watching Doyle search for words is like watching an expert juggler fumble. I nab the hat by the bill and throw it on.

  “I guess if I never even noticed the stupid mascot the dozen times I passed it in that hellhole of a school, I’ve got no business crying about it now.”

  His face droops with relief, and I’m happy to let it all go and sink into some good old-fashioned fun fit for all races and regions. Doyle grabs a cooler out of the back of his truck and explains that anybody with real skill plays on the school’s official team. This is just a bunch of “slackers who like to horse around and drink the beer Lonzo’s small-time crook cousin provides for a steep finder’s fee.”

  “Sounds perfect.” I crack open the can he hands me and drink a few swallows.

  “Everybody!” Doyle yells as we approach the diamond. A few people already have cans of beer in their hands, some have cigarettes, all wave. “This is Nes. She’s new here, but she comes from Brooklyn and her last name is Pujols.”

  “You sure we want a Yank on the field?” asks Alonzo from English. Now that I see him standing at full height, I realize he’s at least six and a half feet tall. His dark skin shines in the blaring sun, and his teeth are so white, they look almost blue. I gulp for words like a fish out of water, trying to decide whether or not he’s teasing. “Nah, nah, I’m just messing with you, all right? Wanna be on my team?” He holds out his hand. “I never introduced myself all formal-like. Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I’m Alonzo Washington.”

  “Don’t you dare try to nab my star player, Lonzo.” Doyle throws an arm over my shoulders, and I know a pretend-casual stake on a claim when I feel it pull me tight.

  “Are you any good?” I ask Alonzo.

  He presses his hand to his chest and his mouth is a perfect O. “Me? I’m not just good. I’m the best.”

  “How can I turn that down? You better have the moves to back up all this swagger, Lonzo.”

  Doyle’s mouth steels in a grim line. “All right. Desert me in my hour of need, then.”

  “Be on our team too,” I suggest.

  “Nah. Me and Lonzo’re the only two who can hold our liquor. These fools’ll be sloppy by the third inning.” He turns and calls, “Teams!” And I’m not remotely shocked when two pretty girls flock his way first. He introduces Amanda and Destiny to me like they’re the reigning queens of backyard baseball.

  “Who we waiting on? Braelynn coming, or she still butthurt I called out Queen A?” Alonzo yells.

  Khabria walks through the fence, face bent over her phone, and swats at Alonzo’s arm without looking up. He yelps and pouts, but when he can see she doesn’t give a rat’s ass, he stops.

  “Runnin’ your mouth again?” Khabria slides her phone into her pocket and shakes back her hair.

  “Just tellin’ it like it is.” Alonzo makes a big show of looking over both Khabria’s shoulders. “Where’s your barnacle?”

  “Shut up.” The words are fierce, but she chuckles around them. “Delivery runs. And if you give him an ounce of hell, I swear I’ll poison your chow mein next time you order.”

  “Ice-cold.” Alonzo pretend shivers.

  I suppress a groan when I see someone familiar making her way to the field. It’s Generic Mean Girl Number Two.

  Alonzo waves his arms over his head. “Braelynn! Did Ansley let you outta your closet tonight? You ain’t gonna turn into a pumpkin, right?”

  “Real funny, Lonzo.” Braelynn’s scowl is so intense, it’s blinding. Then she turns to me, and I realize I ain’t seen nothing yet. “Oh. You’re here.”

  “This is our homegirl Nes, and if you don’t wanna play with her, you can leave.” Lonzo crosses his arms and stands at my shoulder.

  “Me?” Braelynn jerks a thumb at her peach Simply Southern tank top, a few shades lighter than her orangey spray tan. “I don’t intend to mess with no one tonight.” She pulls out her cell phone and taps away.

  “Secret messages to your handler?” Lonzo stage whispers.

  “Screw off,” Braelynn hisses as she and Khabria mosey to right field, heads bent close.

  Doyle jogs back over to our huddle. “Ansley gonna show?” His mouth twists.

  “Naw.” Lonzo waves a long arm. “She’s waiting for you to call and ’pologize for hurting her feelings.”

  “Yeah, she can go on and keep waitin’ for that.” Doyle’s expression sours into a frown.

  “Forget her. I never got what you saw in that chick anyhow.” Lonzo winks at me. “C’mon, Nes. Ready to watch me strike this joker out?”

  “I’m beyond ready to see Doyle Rahn taken down a peg or five.” I slide the mitt over my hand and try not to worry that it swims on my fingers. This game is fun… I remind my competitive edge.

  “Ooh, hear that, Doyle? Your sweetheart wants to see you eat clay!”

  Doyle practice-swings a bat like he’s starring in a Powerade commercial. He points it to the distant gray patch of woods.

  “Can you pitch?”

  “I’ve played baseball once every gym cycle since third grade. I’m probably not the person you want as your pitcher.” I throw my hands up, and the leather mitt arcs into the air. Alonzo tucks and rolls, sticks one hand up, catches my mitt, then jogs back and hands it to me with a low bow. “Holy crap. I think Alonzo should pitch.”

  Doyle scowls in the face of Lonzo’s physical prowess. “Damn show-off. Imma make you run.”

  “Do your worst, Rahn.” Alonzo swaggers onto the improvised mound, tossing and catching his mitt without taking his eyes off Doyle’s. “If you spent half as much time practicing ball as you do running your mouth, we’d all be watching you at Turner Field.”

  “Nes, go center. I’ll hit one right to you.” Doyle winks. “Lonzo, get ready to duck, ’cause this ball’s makin’ a beeline for your fat ole head.”

  “Come at me, beau.” Lonzo claps. “Khabria, Braelynn, double up in left. You know Doyle can’t keep straight!”

  “I’m always center!” Khabria yells back, sloshing beer from her red Solo cup onto her hand.

  “Aw, don’t ruin Doyle’s date any more than he already did. He wants his girly center!”

  “I’m not his girly!” I wave arms over my head like I’m signaling for a plane to land. “I’ll go…wherever.”

  “Doyle, you serious?” Khabria drinks several swallows from the cup, tosses it aside, and burps. The field erupts into laughter as she wipes her mouth. “Hell, son, you never heard of dinner? Or the movies?” The cackles grow louder and Doyle rolls his eyes.

  “Seriously. I’m not… We’re not a thing!” I’d might as well be screaming into the abyss.

  “C’mon, quit raggin’.” Braelynn hikes her tank up and knots it in the back, sweeps her long red hair into a high ponytail, and slides on aviator sunglasses. “Maybe they just wanna play some ball.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to thank Braelynn for defending me against all this third-grade “Doyle and Nes sitting in a tree” ribbing.

  “We all know what Doyle’s like when he really cares ’bout a girl. Remember how he filled Ansley’s Jeep with roses last Valentine’s?” Her announcement is met with awkward shuffling.

  And I’m glad I held off on the thank-yous.

  I march to the cooler, grab another beer, and toss it back faster than Khabria chugged hers. “How about we quit running our mouths and play some ball?” I crush the can, toss it, and stalk back to center.

  “I love that idea.” The heat of Doyle’s eyes burns me from across the field.

  “Play ball!” The catcher yells the words around the wad of gunk tucked in his bottom lower lip and lets off a fine spra
y of dark brown mist as he does.

  In the center of the diamond, Alonzo contorts himself into all kinds of yoga-inspired shapes. Doyle shuffles his feet over home plate and taps the bat against his boot soles impatiently.

  “When you’re done with the gymnastics, we got a game to play,” Doyle gripes.

  “All right, all right.” Lonzo shakes his shoulders out and palms the ball in one full rotation before he turns to me. “Keep that mitt up, Nes. I usually strike this clown out, but Imma let him take a taste today. Seein’ his girl take him down on this sad excuse for a date’s gonna make my weekend!”

  Doyle adjusts the brim of his cap and adjusts his stance, then narrows his eyes at Lonzo, who pulls back and whips the ball straight down the plate. At the last second, Doyle straightens up and yawns.

  “What was that?” Lonzo’s goofiness melts away as the ball smacks into the catcher’s mitt with a clean thump.

  “Strike one!” The catcher spits into a jagged-edged can that’s just begging to give someone tetanus.

  “Doyle, you better hit the next ball.” Lonzo points his mitt and waits for Doyle to return to position before he lets another ball sail, this one a little wobbly, but still clean over the plate. Doyle stands and leans his weight on the bat like it’s a cane. His smug grin elicits a scream of frustration from Alonzo.

  “Strike two!”

  Some members of the outfield boo and chant, “Struggling!” and “No batter, no batter, swing, batter, batter!” in various states of drunken slur.

  “You asshole! Imma throw you a curveball that’s gonna knock you on your conceited ass, you hear me?”

  Doyle rocks his neck, points to his eyes then at me, and blows a kiss. I blame the tingle that floats up my spine on the fizzy beer I chugged.

  Alonzo doesn’t need to yell directions to any of the disorganized boozehounds scattered across the outfield. Doyle’s flagrant disregard for the sanctity of this admittedly ragtag game leaves everyone hungry to see him go down. The intensity directed toward home plate is nuclear.

  The ball sails out of Lonzo’s hands on an impossible-to-hit curve, but Doyle swings like it’s all in slow motion for him. The crack of the bat shudders through the air, sending a flock of roosting birds cawing into the orange sky. Every outfielder stampedes, desperate to ensure Doyle’s out. But that damn ball sails straight for me.

  I’m fairly athletic, but I have no stomach for high-stakes situations involving missile-like projectiles. Panic forces me to shut down. I raise up my mitt to prevent traumatic brain injury, duck, and close my eyes. The thwack of the ball against the leather palm is more shocking than a concussion would have been.

  Everything goes completely still, then the field ignites with cheers and whoops. Even Braelynn high-fives my mitt. “Girl, that was badass!”

  “Woo, baby, that’s one way to pay that fool back for not taking you to Red Lobster. This girl earned herself some cheddar biscuits!” Khabria hoots.

  My legs shake like a newborn colt’s. To my horror, the ball rolls out of my glove with a thud. I swoop to grab it and wonder if I’ll lose the goodwill my surprise catch earned me…

  I zero in on Doyle.

  Leaning against the chain-link, jawing to the catcher, arms crossed, winner’s smile on his loser face.

  “Hey!” I bypass Alonzo’s high five on my march over the mound to home base. “What the hell was that? Why didn’t you run?”

  “’Cause I knew you’d catch it.” He pulls his hat brim up. “And looky there.” He tugs the ball out of my hand and spins it in his fingers. “You did it.”

  “You didn’t know I would though.” But I’m not sure.

  “Yeah.” He tosses the ball back to Lonzo without looking away from me. “I did.”

  My desire to kiss him mud-wrestles my desire to punch him in his smug mouth.

  “Cheater.”

  “A cheater’d be ‘a person who acts dishonestly to gain advantage.’ That’s Webster’s words, not even mine.” His pupils grow dark and wolfish.

  I bare my teeth. “You’re going down, Rahn. Don’t underestimate me.”

  “I never do.” He leans close and swoops back the second my breath catches, then strolls to the bench.

  The next few batters don’t hit any balls in my vicinity, so I mostly stare down Doyle from across the field, plotting his demise.

  A steep incline in alcohol consumption leaves my team stumbling to the bench for our second turn at bat. I follow the herd and combo smile/nod at everyone, because I can’t keep track of names. The alcohol has left me floaty. I’m second at bat, following a quiet girl with buckteeth named Kelwanda Smith, who Lonzo tells me will be Ebenezer’s valedictorian. Doyle pitches an easy third ball to her, then takes his time catching so she can make it to first. When I step to the plate, his eyes gleam with pure evil.

  “Bring ’em in! C’mon, clowns, come in. Easy out!” He waves in the couple flirting at center field, the daydreaming left fielder, and the first baseman who alternates between squatting low and ready and tipping over drunkenly.

  I practice swing and, encouraged by Lonzo’s cheers, point with my bat into the indeterminate distance. “Quit yapping and pitch already, Doyle!”

  “Woo hoo!” he hoots. “You hearin’ this, Lonzo? I was jest gonna deal with this Yank, but I figure your whole team needs to be taken down a peg.” He nods to me, crouches low, snaps his arm back, and hurls a ball so twisty, it knocks the catcher and his can of sticky brown muck into the dust.

  I hop back before that pitch comes near me, and Lonzo screams at Doyle, but I shake my head. “Forget it, Lonzo. I can take this fool. Don’t hit me, Doyle! I wanna knock it out of the park, not limp to first.”

  My teammates stomp and chant my name. Between Solo-cup slurps, Khabria and Braelynn even improvise a cheer dance that’s surprisingly polished. The catcher tosses the ball back, and Doyle winds up to shoot a second blip of a pitch, which curves slightly left. I nick it with the tip of my bat, and it pops in a high arc that would have landed directly in the second baseman’s mitt if she was anywhere near second base.

  Luckily she was chain-smoking and practicing handstands, so she’s scrambling while Kelwanda books it past second to third, and I’m hot on her trail. She’s already rounding home while the outfield fumbles the ball in the general direction of third base, and I try to determine if I should nab third.

  I’m halfway between second and third when Handstand Girl scoops and tosses, so I slide. This isn’t the soft orange clay I’m used to. My outer thigh skids along a patch of uneven sand, and my toe catches on a grass lump before I roll and…

  “Safe! Damn, girl, that was a helluva slide!” The catcher screams around the lump of chew in his cheek.

  Doyle bolts my way, mitt, beer can, and ball cap abandoned on the mound. “You okay? Nes?” He turns me back and forth by my hips, and our fingers knot as we swipe at the dirt on my legs.

  “I’m fine, Doyle.” I hold out my arms and turn around. “Just a little bruised. I’m not made out of sugar.”

  His twilight eyes sweep over my grass-stained shorts and shirt, and he runs a hand through his golden hair, wavy from the sticky Georgia heat. “Don’t know ’bout that. I had a lick. Thought you tasted pretty damn sweet.” He grins and points back to the mound. “Lonzo’s up. He’s gonna pop it outta here.” He jogs backward, his grin pure cockiness. “I’m tagging you out.”

  My left big toe barely touches the edge of third base as I stretch my right leg as close to home as possible. “I hope you don’t mind disappointment.”

  “Don’t know. Got no experience with it.” He calls for a beer. The catcher tosses him one, which he tosses to me.

  “I’m half-Irish, Doyle. You’re not gonna win this by getting me drunk!” I crack the beer and chug it defiantly as my teammates cheer, stopping only when I hear Doyle’s low whistle.

  “You sure you know which direction you’re headed if Lonzo actually hits this?” he teases. He holds out a hand to catch another be
er, drinks this one, crushes it, and drops the crumpled can. I’m swimmy, but his words burn clear and bright. “Leveling the playing field. Jest me and you.” He winks at me like a cocky idiot, and I stick my tongue out at him. Childish? Yes. Satisfying? Deeply so.

  I want to focus on the game, but I have a sudden urge to pee that’s so intense, my thoughts are sloshing around between my ears. I promise myself that when I round home, I will find somewhere—anywhere—to go.

  Doyle winds up and throws a clean pitch, and Alonzo’s bat cracks the ball with thunderous force. I can’t count on the outfield fumbling this ball. They’re out to prove themselves after their last disastrous performance.

  Handstand runs the ball down like she’s in flames and that ball is her icy bucket of water. She scoops it up smoothly, and Doyle waves for her to throw it as he hops in my path. I run like my life depends on getting to home base. The ball sails over my head, and Doyle positions himself in the path directly between me and home, his mitt up and ready.

  I attempt to pass him, but the alcohol has dulled my coordination, and I wind up bashing into his side. He twirls around and pivots back in front of me. I hear the thwack of the ball against his mitt as I knock him off balance and topple on top of him, my fingers stretched out to brush home just as he’s grazing my ass with the tip of his mitt.

  “Out!” The catcher spits a long, sticky stream of tobacco juice to punctuate his call.

  Alonzo screams from second base. “Are you kidding me, Walsh? Are you for real? Rahn didn’t smack her ass with that ball till after she touched the base!”

  Handstand Girl jumps in to holler that she clearly saw Doyle tap me before, and Kelwanda throws down her mitt and tells Handstand Girl she would punch her in the face, but she has a rule against hitting blind kids. Braelynn records the two of them on her phone, and Khabria giggles as she tries to stay upright against the chain-link, a few of her braids stuck in the diamond cross sections. Another girl heads over to untangle her.

  Doyle laces his arms around my waist. “So, how you doin’?”