Life in the Balance

by Jen Petro-Roy

  “Nah.” I shake my head. “I bet she’s—I mean, I think she’s busy.”

  Libby gives me a curious look, but she still heads off to class. I do, too, trying hard to ignore the guilt blooming right next to that seed of hope.

  Twenty-One

  “She’s here again.”

  “What?” I twist my head toward the stands at Claudia’s whisper. “Who’s here?”

  I know who she means, though. Who else could Claudia mean but Coach Ortiz? When I look at the stands, she’s in the top row of the bleachers, her eyes hidden behind her buggy glasses. If Coach Ortiz really were a bug, she’d be a ladybug—her sunglasses are black and today she’s wearing a red t-shirt with white running shorts.

  I wonder if her being here is good luck. Probably not, because this ladybug looks like she’s poisonous. Coach Ortiz isn’t smiling at all and her posture is so straight she looks more like a ballerina than a softball player.

  Making the team isn’t about luck, anyway. That’s one of the things Mom always told me. “I worked hard at softball, Veronica.” We were sitting on the first-base line one day, taking a break from an afternoon of batting practice. “I wasn’t one of those kids who was born a natural athlete. Not like my older brother, Sam. He basically came out of the womb with a basketball attached to his hand.”

  That’s when I made a fake gagging sound. No one wants to hear their mother talking about wombs.

  “Me, on the other hand…” Mom shook her head and traced a pattern in the dirt. “I spent hundreds of hours in the batting cages. Thousands of hours playing catch with my mom and running around our neighborhood.”

  Just like we do, I thought at the time. I remember looking up at the wispy clouds that drifted overhead. We’d been studying cloud types in school, so I knew that the ones above me were cirrus clouds, the small ones that looked like strands of cotton candy. They meant good weather ahead; sunny days with no chance of storms.

  Apparently clouds don’t know everything.

  Mom was right, though. Hard work does pay off. Because I’ve never been the best natural softball player, either. I’m not Libby, who probably came out of her mother’s womb (ew) wearing a softball glove. I run a bit slower than most of my team. I struggled at shortstop before finding out I liked third way better. And every time I get up to bat, I still have to remind myself to follow through.

  I’ve gotten so much better, too. And I really think I can make the All-Star team. Well, in the alternate “I’ll definitely be able to play and it will fix everything” universe.

  I really don’t want to give up on that universe yet.

  That’s why, when I see Coach Ortiz in the stands, I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine I come from a family with no problems at all. A family where it’s totally expected that my parents will be at every single one of my games. Where I’m going to play awesome enough that Coach Ortiz will be dazzled by my mad skills.

  “Don’t scouts usually come to games instead of practices?” I whisper to Claudia.

  Claudia peeks at Coach Ortiz again. “Maybe she wants to see how much we mess up in practice? Or our work ethic or whatever?”

  “But practice is when we’re supposed to mess up!” Amelia Underwood pops up by my side. “What if my throw goes wild and hits her in the face?” Her eyes open wide with horror.

  “You could do that in a game, too,” Claudia points out. “Why is practice any different?”

  Claudia sounds calm, but I know exactly how Amelia’s feeling. The “what ifs” fly through my head like wasps, threating to sting me and replace all my joy with pain. Claudia’s words do nothing to make me feel any better.

  At least they help Amelia. “I guess you’re right. Coach Ortiz will see how we play at tryouts anyway.” She runs off, leaving me staring after her. Amelia is another one of those born athletes, the girl who runs the mile faster than everyone else in gym class without even training. Maybe she can relax, but I sure can’t.

  And what if I mess up at tryouts, too?

  Buzz buzz buzz.

  I force myself to take a deep breath. Maybe if we start playing, I can get my mind off my worries. “Let’s go practice. We have our last game this weekend and I want to win it.” I run onto the field, but with each step, I can feel Coach Ortiz’s shadow looming over me.

  It reminds me of the time we all went out for Mom’s birthday and she drank a few too many margaritas, when I kept squirming in my seat, wondering if the tables around us were talking about how loud she was getting.

  It reminds me of when I’m walking down the hallway at school, hear someone say the word mom, and wonder if they’re talking about my mom.

  Somehow I’ve transformed into a specimen under a microscope. If the rest of the world isn’t analyzing me, then I’m analyzing myself and wondering what’s going to happen.

  I just want to live.

  I just want to play and have fun, to have life be the way it always was.

  But the ladybug’s eyes are on my back, boring into me. Judging me as much as everyone else is.

  So even as I hit and throw and catch, I wonder what I’m doing wrong.

  I worry that I’m going to drop a ball. (Which I do.)

  I worry that I don’t hit far enough. (One time, I only hit a grounder to first.)

  I worry that I’m not as fast as Claudia and Amelia. (Today, I don’t feel fast at all.)

  I’m better than I used to be, for sure. But am I good enough to impress Coach Ortiz?

  Twenty-Two

  “Dad?” I walk through the front door cautiously. “Is that you?” It’s a silly question to ask, because of course I know it’s Dad. I know my own father’s voice. I just didn’t expect to arrive home to him yelling like this. My heartbeat speeds up. Is Mom home? Are they having another fight? I hear a pause, then Dad’s raised voice again.

  Oh. Right. He must be on the phone. A pit opens in my stomach. Of course Mom isn’t home.

  Of course.

  “Dad?” I call again.

  “In here, honey! I’ll just be a second.”

  “Okay.” I throw my backpack by the foot of the stairs, then turn and unzip it, pulling out the apple I didn’t have at lunch. I might get attacked if I go into the kitchen for a snack now.

  “We’re fine. I promise.” Dad’s voice is still loud, and he heaves a heavy sigh, the kind of Big, Bad Wolf sigh that could blow down a house of straw. “Mom, you don’t have to come here. I can handle my own daughter.”

  I creep closer to the kitchen door, one of those swingy ones that look like the entrance to an Old West saloon. I press myself against the wall, then peek around the door. Dad is facing the window over the sink, his cell phone so close to his ear that I think it might fuse with his head. Grandma Helen and Dad don’t talk on the phone that much. They’re close, but Dad always says he’s not a “phone person.”

  I’ve never heard him this upset with her, either.

  “I can cook, too!” Dad’s throws his hands in the air, then quickly brings the phone back to his ear. “I am a functioning adult, you know.”

  I can’t hear Grandma on the other end, but I bet she’s saying something about bringing over a bunch of casseroles. Stuff that neighbors and family do when you lose a loved one. Mom’s not dead, though. She’s going to get better and come home soon.

  Unless Dad and Grandma Helen know something I don’t?

  Dad keeps talking, stuff about how Mom is working hard to get better. About how I’m doing fine with him working two jobs and how we “one hundred percent don’t need anything.”

  Which is a total lie. As I look around the hasn’t-been-vacuumed-in-weeks living room, I want to shout the truth at the top of my lungs.

  We do need you! In so many ways.

  Dad doesn’t know how frustrating it is when he’s at the hardware store and I need help with my homework. He doesn’t know how lonely it is to heat up a microwave pizza for dinner and eat it at the table by myself while he’s at the hardware store.

 
; He doesn’t know what it’s like to want to tell Mom how I’m getting more and more nervous about softball by the day. How scary it is to think that Coach Ortiz is going to be judging me against the other girls. That I might stay that nervous and scared the entire season since I have to keep proving I’m as good as everyone else.

  I probably couldn’t tell Grandma Helen all that, but I could at least get a hug from her. She could at least eat dinner with me.

  Why didn’t Dad tell her the truth?

  Is he ashamed of Mom after all?

  Twenty-Three

  “Maybe a bake sale?” Even as the words leave her mouth, though, Libby shakes her head. “No. Ingredients cost money, and I bet we’d need a lot of ingredients.”

  “Especially since I’d probably mess up a lot.” I roll my eyes. “I am not what you’d call a master chef. One time Claudia and I tried to make brownies and I forgot to set the timer. By the time we remembered to check the oven, they were basically chocolate bricks. If I’d bitten one, I’d have lost a tooth!” My stomach is in pangs at the thought of Claudia, but I push the guilt away. She’s probably busy doing homework now anyway. Or at yoga with her mom. She doesn’t need—or want—to know all this.

  “Bake sales are boring anyway,” Libby adds. “The PTO does that kind of stuff. We need something with pizzazz. With oomph!” She wiggles her fingers in a jazz hands pose.

  “With sparkle!” I lean back against the batting cage fence to think. There’s no one else around tonight, so we’ve set up camp behind home base, right in the dirt. “Ooh, what about the town talent show? I saw a sign for that the other day. That’s sparkle-tastic.”

  “No way,” Libby says quickly. “Not for me.”

  I picture myself up on stage in a shimmery costume and a top hat, singing and dancing. It sounds fun, but I’m probably not good enough to perform in front of a crowd. Not yet, at least. “I guess not for me, either.”

  Libby nods. “My one talent is softball, and I don’t think hitting a line drive into the audience would be the best idea.”

  “An odd-jobs service?” I shudder, imagining some parent hiring us to change litter boxes. Or clean toilets. I don’t know which one would be grosser.

  I think Libby’s thinking the same thing—her mouth is twisted up like she just ate a lemon.

  “No way,” she says, then hesitates. “But I was wondering … do you want to keep this a secret? Or do you care that other people know that we need money?” I notice that she says “we,” which makes me happy. Libby lives in a big house and always has tons of new clothes, but she’s not judging me for needing money.

  “I guess it doesn’t matter,” I finally say. “I mean, everyone wants to make money, right? I bet people will just assume we want to buy candy or books or movie tickets.” I think for a second. “As long as…”

  “As long as what?” Libby rustles in her messenger bag and pulls out two bags of Skittles, then hands one to me. “Speaking of candy.”

  “Ooh, thanks.” I rip open the package, then pick out two reds, my favorites.

  “You definitely won’t tell anyone I need the money because of rehab, right? You won’t do that?” I know I’ve asked Libby this before. I know she’s reassured me she’ll keep my secret. I still need to ask, though. I still need to be on guard.

  I’ve gotten too used to people betraying me.

  “Of course not!” Libby shakes her head so hard some of her brown hair falls out of her loose braid. “I promise.”

  “But you tell people.”

  “Only at my support group.” Libby draws a circle next to her, then a cloud. “Because I know they’ll understand. That’s why it’s nice to talk to you, too.”

  “Yeah.” I feel the same way.

  “I know it’s scary to tell someone for the first time, though.” Libby holds out her hand and wiggles her pinkie finger in the air. “That’s why we should do a pinkie promise.”

  I giggle, then hook my pinkie onto hers and tug. “Pinkie promise we won’t tell.”

  “Pinkie promise we won’t tell,” Libby echoes.

  The last two lines of my favorite song flit into my head, and before I can stop myself, I sing them softly.

  I promise, I promise.

  Forever and ever.

  “Wow!”

  “Huh?” I press my lips together quickly, bottling the music back up inside me.

  “You’re good!”

  “No way.” I shake my head. “I’m okay.” I get a thrill at Libby’s words, though. Maybe I am good.

  “You should totally do Chorus Club,” Libby says. “I bet you’d get all the solos.”

  “I do!” I exclaim. “Well, Chorus Club, I mean. And I did get some solos. I just can’t sing for the rest of the year because of All-Star practice.”

  “That’s a bummer,” Libby says. “It always looks like so much fun. I’ve never been able to do it because of the extra batting clinic Dad signed me up for. But I love to sing, too!” She sings a few lyrics from the song, then jumps up and does some moves from the music video.

  Never gonna hold me back,

  It’s time to get on track.

  It’s not quite as good as Claudia’s and my routine, but she’s good!

  Good enough to be on stage, for sure.

  “We should do the talent show!” I exclaim. “You and me.”

  “No way,” Libby says again. “We’re not good enough for that!”

  “We are, though!” I think about what Dad and Mom and everyone keep telling me about softball—that even though I’m nervous about All-Stars, I’m one hundred percent talented enough to make the team. I can already tell that Libby and I are good enough to be in the show. Especially since I know there’s a three-hundred-dollar grand prize!

  If getting up on stage is what it will take to do softball again, then I’ll dance and sing in front of the whole world.

  “We can totally win, Libby.”

  Libby looks pale. “But…”

  I stand up and still her trembling hands. “Like you said, we’re good. And you danced in front of me just fine.”

  “But that was just you,” Libby says weakly.

  “You won’t even notice the audience,” I beg. “And we’ll learn the moves so well that we won’t mess up at all. I promise.”

  “Everyone will laugh at us.”

  “The jerks might. But everyone else will cheer.”

  My stomach feels a little jittery, but I can also see big dollar signs floating before my eyes. Floating uniforms, too. And cleats. Everything that I can’t afford but will soon be able to. I blink and they’re gone, but the idea is still there, waiting to be realized.

  “Please?” I beg. “I know you’ll be awesome. And I can’t do this alone. I need a teammate. A friend.”

  Libby bites her lip. She opens and closes her mouth.

  “Okay,” she finally says, and I rush forward to wrap her in a hug. “I’ll do it. But I’m going to be super nervous.”

  “Me too!” I promise her. “But this is a plan. A good plan. A great plan.”

  I can’t hide the smile on my face.

  I get to be a singer and a softball player.

  I’ll win the money, make the team, and then welcome Mom home for good.

  Finally, I have a plan.

  Twenty-Four

  “Stop! Don’t do it! Don’t go!” My shrieks echo in my ears as I wake up with a gasp, my pajamas soaked through with sweat and my sheets tangled around my feet. I pull the top sheet around me and clutch it to my chest like a security blanket, my eyes darting around my room.

  All I can see are shadows, but the emptiness in my chest makes me check that everything’s still here. My desk and lamp are where they’re supposed to be, as is the backpack slung over the arm of my rocking chair and the overflowing pile of stuffed animals in the corner.

  Dad keeps telling me that I should start thinking about which stuffed animals and toys I want to donate, but I can never bring myself to choose between Mr. Button
s the Bunny and Grizzly the Bear. So they’re both still here now, their beady little eyes staring at me out of the dark.

  Everything is here.

  Except the one thing that matters most.

  I close my eyes, but the image from my dream looms behind my eyelids, settling in as it makes a permanent imprint upon my brain. I squeeze my eyes tighter and whimper.

  “Veronica? Honey? Are you okay?” The door to my room bangs opens, and Dad barrels in, his hair night-messy and his t-shirt stained with something that looks a lot like salsa.

  I pull the sheets closer to my chin and shrink back against my headboard as Dad flicks on the light. It’s not that I’m scared of Dad. Or even really scared of the images still flashing through my brain. I know it was a bad dream. Logically, at least.

  But dreams are based in reality—I learned that when I was a kid, after I had a bad softball game the same day I baked a cake with Mom. I dreamed that I was trapped in a big mixing bowl, trying to scrape off the batter on the sides with my softball bat.

  This dream is no different.

  “I, uh, just had a bad dream.” I keep my eyes open as wide as possible. To let the light in. To let reality in, even if reality isn’t much better than the darkness inside my head.

  “Are you okay?” Dad’s slippered feet shuffle along my rug. Dad’s a big slipper guy—he wears them basically from September until June, and alternates between normal boring “Dad” slippers and fuzzy animal ones that I beg him to hide whenever I have a sleepover. Today he’s wearing polar bears on his feet.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I try to smile at Dad to show him I’m telling the truth, but my lips are shaky. Which is weird. Lately, I’ve been a master of fake smiles.

  “You sure?” He sits down and looks closer.

  “Total—” That’s when my voice breaks, the sobs finally working their way up my throat and into the dark bedroom. They feel almost real in the air around me, ghosts whispering about what—who—is missing and gone.