Hurricane Heat

by Steven Barwin

  “It’s gonna be close,” Ethan said.

  Jessie said, “And no cheating.”

  Ethan fired back with, “Only losers have to cheat.”

  “Oh, this is so on!” Jessie said.

  I tried to focus on my own game. No offense, Jessie, but I don’t want to lose to you. The baseball approached. I lined my bat up down low to get a small amount of height on the ball, and then my cell phone went off in the front pocket of my jeans. First a vibration, then a full-on ring. I rarely got calls, so I was curious enough to take it. I stepped away from the pitch, rested the bat against the cage and answered the call. “Hello?”

  “Travis. Hi, dear.”

  It was Tracy, my foster mom.

  “Oh, hi.” Another ball zipped past. “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course. I wanted to let you know that I signed your baseball waiver and emailed it to the league yesterday.”

  Another ball whizzed over the plate. “Thank you.” I reached for my bat.

  “So you picked up baseball?”

  I tried not to sound like I was rushing her off the phone, but I was. “Yes.”

  “I think that’s just wonderful. And how is it going with your search?”

  Yet another ball shot past. I was losing my opportunity to catch up to Ethan. “I’ve hit speed bumps. But I haven’t given up.”

  “That’s great to hear. Glad that you’re okay. I don’t want to take up more of your minutes. I’ll call you later at the house, and you can fill me in on work and the team. John says hi. Take care.”

  “Thanks.” I hung up and stepped into the box, missing another opportunity.

  Ethan said, “Too bad about the distraction.”

  “Don’t let him get to you, Travis,” said Jessie.

  “He’s not. I want a rematch.” I swung, and the ball hit within the four zone. I yelled it out extra loudly.

  “There are no rematches. Just take the defeat,” said Ethan.

  Before the next pitch, I looked over to Jessie. “Tell me you’re doing well.”

  “Is twenty-six good?”

  “You have twenty-six?” Ethan said.

  “I’m guessing that means I’m doing well,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Keep it up, Jessie.”

  I knew there couldn’t have been more than two baseballs left. I made contact, and the ball flew in a perfect line toward the pitching machine. It looked like it was going to hit it, and then the baseball disappeared. “Did you see that?”

  Jessie’s and Ethan’s machines stopped, and they approached.

  “What’re your totals?” Ethan asked.

  Maybe they hadn’t heard me. “Did you see my last shot? I think I might have got it back in the machine.”

  “Impossible,” Ethan said.

  I crossed the yellow do-not-cross markings and walked toward my machine. Ethan and Jessie followed. “How many points would I get for that?”

  “Like, a hundred,” Jessie said.

  I raised my hands in celebration. The ball was lodged in the pitching machine. “What are the chances!”

  Jessie gave me a high five and announced that I had won before Ethan could even protest.

  chapter seven

  So far there had been two eras in my life. One was ad, the era after the death of my parents—the one I was living in now. The other was bd, the time before the death of my parents. In the bd era, life was good. I played ball all the time. In fact, things seemed simpler then, like the pitching philosophy of one of my favorite coaches, Coach Jacobs. He said, Pitching’s simple— just keep the ball away from the bat. I wasn’t sure if it was a metaphor for life, but I chuckled every time I thought about it.

  Unfortunately, our team wasn’t following his advice on Thursday. The Royals were enjoying a three-run lead in the third inning, and I was getting restless. Feeling like the odd man out, I was at the very end of the bench, sitting so close to the edge that there was barely enough room for both cheeks. Two other pitchers sat beside me, in conversation. When they laughed, I wasn’t entirely convinced they weren’t laughing at me. They had matching sundrenched-blond hair, dark suntans and whiter-than-white teeth. I wasn’t exactly good at small talk, and they didn’t attempt to engage me. I was the new guy, and they were doing a great job of making me feel that way. I figured they didn’t even know my name. What did it matter? At the end of the summer, I’d be heading home and would never see them again. So I tried not to let their chitchat get to me.

  Coach Robert paced in a small rectangular pattern. He broke from it when one of our guys flied out and ended our turn at bat. I felt the bench rise as it cleared of players, and then it was just the two pitchers and me. I moved to a more comfortable spot.

  One of the pitchers stopped me. “You can’t move.”

  The other one chirped up. “Yeah, this is our pitching order. You’re at the end of the line.”

  I returned to my spot. “I didn’t know.”

  They continued their conversation, and I tried to focus on the game. Another tip my old coach had given me was that some of the highest-paid pitchers spend most of their time warming the bench. The smart ones keep their minds in the game, studying the batters. I was a bit intimidated to be playing again. I needed to find a flaw in a player’s stance or swing to get reconnected. A batter who stood too close to the plate was my favorite. I could get inside, send him a message and take control of the situation.

  “Mr. T!”

  It was Coach Robert yelling, and it took me a second to realize that I was Mr. T. I sat up. “Yes.”

  “You’re going in,” he said.

  “I am?”

  “Is there an echo? Do you have a problem with that? ’Cause I can get—”

  “No. I’m good to go.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  The two pitchers looked at me like I had done something wrong. I took off, and though I held my glove out to the outgoing pitcher, all he did was give me a grunt.

  Coach Robert handed me the ball. “Don’t give them a bigger lead.”

  I wanted to tell him that I could only do my thing. What batters did with the ball after I released it was up to them. But I didn’t. In position on the mound, I gazed ahead at Ethan and threw five warm-up pitches that were generally on target. When the batter stepped up to the plate, it was a whole other ball game. Ethan called for a fastball down the middle. I nodded, liking the idea of sending a message. I placed two fingers across the seam of the ball and my thumb on the soft leather. When I released it, I watched it sail off course, drifting to the right. The batter recoiled from the plate. It was too late. The baseball hit him firmly on his shoulder. The crowd hissed, and I lowered my baseball hat and slinked back to the mound. I shook my head, ignoring the crowd and my own bench. One pitch, and a guy at first with a freebie.

  Ethan approached the mound. “Way to fit in.”

  “That sucked.”

  “I’m only joking,” he said. “Don’t let it get to you.”

  “You ladies done chatting? Can we play ball?” the ump called.

  With Ethan back behind the plate and a fresh batter up, I told myself that if I was never going to find Amanda, the least I could do for myself was to try and get a scholarship and some independence. That awkward logic allowed me to get my next pitches on target, and I struck out the batter. Two more fly balls were caught, and then I was back on the bench.

  The coach strolled by and gave me a pat on the head. I had to switch gears, from pitching to hitting. Unfortunately, the only advice I had ever received about batting was to not strike out. I tried to remember the batting cage, and how fun it had been to just let the bat fly. Ethan managed a line-drive single, and I stepped on deck. Three pitches later, I faced the righty. I let the first two pitches whiz past. One ball and one strike. Go down swinging, I told myself. The next pitch came at me low. I swung for the fences and missed. After that, I decided on the opposite strategy and used the batter’s best friend—the bunt. The b
all dug into the ground in front of the plate, and I sprinted to first, but the ball beat me there. Back at the bench, I was surprised when some of the guys gave me a quick round of applause for getting Ethan to third. I only pitched one inning that game, but I was part of an inning that allowed us to tie the game.

  After the post-game wrap-up, I was exhausted and told Ethan I’d talk to him the next day. I had a long walk home ahead of me and had worked the late shift the night before. About a thirty-minute walk in the opposite direction of the beach, just past a strip plaza where the rumble of the freeway was more present, I reached the small green bungalow where I was staying for the summer. There were bars in the window, and it looked run-down, but inside it was nicer and more welcoming. Most important, I had a place to sleep. I hit the pillow hard.

  chapter eight

  The end of my day shift was in sight. I cleared off the last tower of lunch plates. Luckily for me, Jessie had been working the front until about an hour before that. I tossed my apron in the laundry and headed out, exhausted but happy to see sunlight.

  “Hey, Travis.”

  I turned to see Jessie sitting outside the Pineapple Hut. “You must be their number-one customer,” I said. “You practically live here.”

  “What can I say? I walk in, they know my order, and I get to hang outside as long as I want. Where you heading?”

  “Going to the library to do some research.”

  “You writing a paper?”

  “Hell no. I’m going to do some online searching for Amanda.”

  “Well, I’m meeting some friends here. You’re welcome to use my computer.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a MacBook.

  “You don’t mind?’

  “Of course not. Another reason I like this place is their free Wi-Fi.”

  I sat next to her as she logged in for me. I showed her my Facebook page. “You won’t believe how many people set up Facebook pages to search for lost family.”

  I updated the title of my page, changing it from Searching for Amanda to Searching for Amanda Miller. “Thanks to you, I have a last name. I feel I’m one step closer.” In the Facebook search bar, I typed searching for and slid the computer toward Jessie.

  Jessie was blown away by how many people were looking for someone. “That’s so crazy,” she said.

  “I set up my privacy settings so anyone can read it and friend me,” I said. “I have about a thousand friends, but no leads. It’s like people are using me just to get their friend count up!”

  She flicked through some of the pages, and the necklace dangling over her T-shirt caught my eye. It was a silver medallion, and on it was what looked like a Greek guy holding a spear. Jessie looked up from the screen and caught me staring. “I wasn’t…”

  She touched the medallion. “It’s St. Christopher. My dad got it for me when he was in Hawaii. It’s the most cherished possession I have.”

  She knew a lot about me, and I hardly knew anything about her. I asked about her family, and she told me her parents had divorced when she was five. She spent most of her time flip-flopping between both homes. With a brother at Stanford, she said that her parents had high expectations of her.

  Jessie stopped in midsentence. “I’m blabbing on about my family and you asked about my medallion.”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “One of the St. Christopher stories is that he was very strong and helped people get across a dangerous river. I’m a surfer, so that’s why I wear it. It’s like he protects me out there. It’s a good-luck charm.” She blushed. “And it makes my dad feel better. He hates that I surf.”

  “I guess everyone around here surfs.”

  “That’s a stereotype. Oh, hold on—you’re right!” She slapped my arm. “Have you ever surfed?” Without waiting for my reply, she said, “I tried baseball with you. You’re going to have to try riding the waves with me.”

  “It’ll be more like crashing the waves.”

  She laughed as two girls approached. Jessie gave me a quick introduction to her sister, Sophia, and her friend Mariah. They started talking and I tried a few new searches. I went to Google and typed Amanda Miller Hermosa Beach California. The search came back with a Molly Miller.

  Sophia wrapped her long dark hair behind her ears and asked, “So, you’re trying to find your sister?”

  I nodded.

  “And you know what?” Jessie held out the yearbook. “This is her.”

  The girls gathered around to check it out. My next search was through 411.com. It gave me a slew of names, but they were for Redondo Beach, Los Angeles and a few places I had never heard of, like Lawndale and Playa del Ray. After a few more searches, I still had nothing, so I closed the lid.

  Mariah asked, “Wasn’t what’s-her-name in a book club with that girl?”

  “What’s-her-name?” Sophia repeated.

  “You know. She moved here from Seattle.” Mariah slapped her hand against her head as if that would help her remember.

  “Christina?” Sophia asked.

  Mariah shouted out, “That’s her!”

  “Let me see if I have her number.” Sophia scrolled through her Blackberry. “Got it!” She turned away to make the call.

  Jessie looked at me. “Doesn’t hurt to ask anyone and everyone.”

  I didn’t hold much hope.

  Sophia hung up and turned back to us. “So, Christina has been out of touch with Amanda for a long time, but Christina’s father worked with Amanda’s father.”

  I couldn’t believe she had actually found something that could help me. Finding Amanda’s father could lead to finding Amanda. “Where did they work?”

  “Some tech company…” Jessie, Mariah and I waited for what seemed like an hour for her to spit out the name. “Two Oceans Tech. Weird name, right?”

  Jessie beat me to her computer and googled the name. At first glance, it looked like it was a company that designed navigation equipment for expensive-looking yachts.

  “Click on the About Us section,” I said.

  Jessie opened a link, and a company directory appeared. The girls peered over our shoulders. Jessie scrolled down but didn’t find anyone with the last name Miller.

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  Sophia shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry, guys. I feel horrible. That’s all Christina remembered.”

  I was disappointed, and I could tell Jessie was too. But what could I do? I thanked Sophia and Mariah. It wasn’t their fault. I was getting used to dead ends.

  chapter nine

  The next evening, a day shift and two buses later, I joined the rest of the Hermosa Hurricanes in the outfield for our six o’clock game. I should’ve accepted Ethan’s offer to drive me, but I felt as if that might be abusing the friendship—he’d been chauffeuring me everywhere. And, right or wrong, I knew Ethan’s hanging with me put him at odds with the other pitchers. Out of breath and kneeling on one knee, I positioned myself in the second row with the rest of the bullpen, facing Coach Robert. Ethan was front and center.

  The coach had already started his pregame pep talk. “Hurricanes, we have a tough battle ahead of us. The Raiders haven’t lost a game yet, and I’d like to make it so the buck stops with us.”

  Coach Robert shifted knees. “I want to remind everyone about the baseball weekend coming up.”

  Ethan turned around. I held up my glove, and he nodded. I listened to Coach Robert talk about the upcoming weekend tournament. He outlined the times. It sounded as if I was going to have to ask for the next weekend off work.

  On my way to the bench, I paused so Ethan could catch up with me. “I had no idea about this tournament,” I said.

  “That’s because you keep taking off. I know you’re looking for your sister, but a lot of what goes on with the team happens before and after games.”

  I wasn’t foolish enough to not know that the guys hung out and chatted online. Being on a team was like being in a fraternity. Problem was, my life wasn’t just playing ball and surfing.
I was a brother looking for his sister. My part-time obsession with baseball was getting me through washing dishes. The summer my teammates were all enjoying was a ticking time bomb for me. At the end of August, I was out of here. Sister or no sister. But what could I say to Ethan? He was right.

  “Two games ago, after you took off, Coach Robert announced the weekend tourney.” Ethan shrugged. “I guess I forgot to tell you.”

  He started to tell me about the tournament, but Theodore, the starting pitcher, cut us off.

  Theodore was the tallest guy on the team. He had an incredible reach, which I had been trying to copy. “Hey, E,” he said. “I got to start this game. You going to make some time for me?”

  I let them talk and took a seat on my end of the bench. We were playing in a different ball park tonight, but it felt the same as the last one. Maybe sitting in this spot wasn’t so much a pitching order as it was a seniority order. Maybe I had to stop taking everything personally and just go with the flow. This was baseball, and I was the new guy. Maybe I should feel lucky that I hadn’t had any hazing. Then again, maybe the pitchers’ not talking to me was their form of working in the new guy.

  The game started, and I quickly understood why the Raiders hadn’t lost a game. Their starting pitcher had an incredible arm. He threw a curveball that dipped like a roller coaster. They got an early lead and kept adding insurance to it, a run an inning. Then, to my surprise, the Raiders’ coach stepped onto the mound and pulled the pitcher. That was when the game changed. My guess was that he thought he’d given his team enough of a lead and there was no point burning out the pitcher’s arm. Ethan started the seventh inning off with a double and was soon driven home. Changing the pitcher gave our batters a chance to make contact with the ball. At the third out, it was Raiders 6, Hurricanes 7.

  Coach Robert offered some advice.

  “We’re winning, but we haven’t won. I pulled the starter, and he’s icing his arm. Now I’m counting on you guys. Charlie, you’re up. Mr. T and Davis, consider yourselves on deck.”