“Got three at home.”
“At home?
“In the DR.” When he saw Mike’s puzzled expression, he said, “Dominican Republic.”
“You miss home?”
Oscar nodded.
“You came here to play ball?”
He nodded again.
“Want to watch the game?”
Oscar picked up the cat. She burrowed into his neck.
Downstairs Oscar’s eyes widened as the eighty-four-inch screen came down from the ceiling and the projector hummed to life. But he was too cool to say anything until a life-size Billy Budd swung two bats at them in the on-deck circle. Then he laughed. “Santa mierda.”
Mike got some Cokes and chips. “You like Billy?”
“The best, man.”
“You got his stance.”
“You, too.” They clicked Coke cans.
Billy popped up to the shortstop. Oscar stamped his feet. “He need to wait for his pitch.”
“He’s batting .324.”
“Should be more. Goes for too many bad balls.”
“Did you go to one of those baseball academies in the DR?”
Oscar nodded. “Campo Juan Marichal. Oakland As.”
“For how long?”
“Three years. Play every day.”
“You signed with the As?”
He nodded.
“How come you’re not playing pro ball?”
Oscar cracked his knuckles. Mike noticed how big his hands were. “You know what a buscone is?” When Mike shook his head, he said, “Like a scout. In the DR. When they sign you up with a team, they get some of your money. Buscones were ripping off kids and there was trouble. The Major League made the teams cancel some of the contracts.”
“Yours?”
He nodded. “Don’t know what’s going to happen now.” The long dark face looked miserable.
Mike felt badly for him. “What are you going to do?”
Oscar shook his head.
“How’d you come to Ridgedale?” When Oscar seemed to hesitate, he said, “I won’t say anything.”
“My uncle knew Hector’s father and Hector told Coach about me. Coach said he could help get me papers. My dad, too.”
“Is that happening?”
Oscar spread out his hands. The cat complained. “Don’ know.”
“You trust Coach Cody?”
Oscar shrugged. “Got to.” He settled back into the couch.
The Yankee game was almost over when Oscar’s cell rang. All he said was “Righ’ there.” He stood up, carefully put the cat on the couch, and shook Mike’s hand. “Thanks, man.”
Mike walked him to the front door. The van was waiting in the driveway.
He thought about Oscar. He didn’t seem like a bad guy. Trying to survive. Probably should be playing center instead of me. Coach Cody put me back in center field because he’s afraid I’ll rat out Oscar. But he knows I didn’t rat out the Cyber Club. I need to talk to Kat.
TWENTY-NINE
He had heard so much about Craig’s parties that he was prepared to be disappointed, that it would turn out to be like all the other jock parties, just rowdier and boozier. He’d have a bigger headache than usual tomorrow. But the moment he and Lori walked through the door, he felt the difference. The air was damp with beer and sweat, and sweet with pot. The mood vibrated with gathering waves, like surf before a storm. It was pumping up to a wild night. Lori pressed against him. He thought she was thrilled and scared. He thought he might be, too.
“Here comes Mak, Mighty Mak,” roared Craig. He had a bottle in his hand and he swayed. Wasted already. “Let’s give it up for the man who busted the pukes.”
Whistles and applause. Slaps on the back and butt. A glass was in Mike’s hand. He was absorbed into a scrum of bodies. Lori was swept away by a couple of senior cheerleaders. A joint was pressed to his lips, he shook it away. Somebody laughed. He drank from the glass, nearly choked. It wasn’t beer.
Mostly seniors, mostly jocks. Teammates appeared. He recognized a few guys he barely knew. Alumni. He’d heard that guys came home from college for Craig’s parties. He saw Eric Nola’s older brother, Derek, who had been team captain when Mike was a sophomore. He was playing at Montclair State now. He gave Mike a light shove to the chest with the heel of his hand. How I hit Zack, Mike thought. He wondered if that had been deliberate. Derek rocked back a step and shouted, “Mak the Man.” He swayed away.
The music pounded through the house, the same music that came out of Craig’s iPod dock in the locker room. Chief Loki was screaming, “We own da season!” until Strep started yelling, “I’ll tell you again I am unbreakable.”
He began to relax. Everybody was friendly. Everybody seemed to know him. Even the student government big shots. The tough kids he’d figured were the school’s dope dealers all wanted to bump fists.
He felt drunk before he had had much to drink. His eyeballs were swimming in the glass bowl of his skull. Lori floated back into view. Was her makeup smeared or his sight blurry? She came into his arms. They danced.
He didn’t know how long they had been there before Craig pulled him away from Lori and whispered, “Follow me upstairs. Now.”
Craig’s girl had her arm around Lori and was leading her away.
The eight seniors on the baseball team were crowded into Craig’s bedroom. They all had bats. He saw trophies jammed into bookcases and a huge poster of Roger Clemens on the wall. Even after the Rocket was busted he was Craig’s hero. The lights went out. A single red bulb flicked on in a corner throwing a bloody wash across the sweating faces surrounding him.
The faces made a circle around him, started chanting, “Rangers, Rangers, Rangers.”
A blindfold was tied around his head. His stomach churned. They were going to make him next year’s captain.
DeVon’s deep voice, “Who proposes?”
“I do.” It sounded like Willie Lockett.
“Speak.”
“He puts team ahead of himself. This is a stud who crashes into walls, who takes no shit, who can lead the Rangers.”
“Who opposes?”
“I do.” Sounded like Jimmy Russo.
“Speak.”
“He’s a coach’s pet, never one of the guys,” said Jimmy. “What made him change? What’s his deal? Can he be trusted?” It sounded memorized to Mike. Was there a script?
“He bided his time,” said Willie, “stepped up in the clutch.”
“Nark’s a nark,” said Jimmy. “Weasels his way in. Drops the dime.”
“Spies for the good,” said Willie. “Like Nathan Hale.”
“What say you, Captain?” said DeVon.
“Vote,” said Todd.
One by one, eight voices said, “Yea!” Each banging his bat on the floor. Even Russo.
“So be it,” said Todd. “Captain-elect Mike Semak. Do you accept?”
Before Mike could say anything, they were all on him, pummeling, poking him with their bats, pulling at his clothes. Someone had a hand between his legs. He fought his way free.
Jimmy Russo pulled him to his feet, whispered, “That was just part of the ritual, didn’t mean it.” He pulled off Mike’s blindfold.
DeVon handed him a glass. “Drink the blood of the foe.”
They all chanted, “Rangers, Rangers, Rangers,” while he chugged it down. He had no idea what was in it besides alcohol that stung his nose and made his eyes water. He was dizzy. Who was the foe?
Downstairs there was more whistling and applause, more drinks. Lori hugged him. “I’m so proud of you, Mike.”
He tried to say something and DeVon said, “Good thing he ain’t captain of the drinking team.”
Laughter in the fog.
He had no idea how he got home.
PART THREE
“Yesterday’s game is over and tomorrow’s game could be rained out. Today’s game is the only one on my mind.”
—IMs to a Young Baller by Billy Budd
THIRTY<
br />
He woke at noon with a weight on his chest. The moment he opened his eyes, the cat started meowing and digging her claws into his collarbone. She shrieked as he rolled her off. His mouth was dry. His head hurt. He was nauseous.
He was captain of the Ridgedale High baseball team.
It took more than an hour, a shower, tomato juice, coffee, and three ibuprofen tablets before he started to think clearly.
He was friggin’ captain of the friggin’ Ridgedale High baseball team!
He didn’t bother checking his cell or computer—they would be packed with messages. Andy and Ryan would be coming over soon. Maybe even Lori. Mom and Dad would want to know. The day would disappear into the night and he’d never talk to the only person whose voice he wanted to hear.
If he was ever going to do it, he had to do it right now.
What if she’s in a nasty Tigerbitch mood? Why wouldn’t she be? She thinks you narked out the Cyber Club.
You gotta risk it. You can handle it. You’re a jock.
Don’t you remember that she said, I’m not into that these days?
Go for it, Captain Mak.
He called Kat.
“Hello.” Her voice was clear, high.
“It’s Mike.”
“Mike.” She sounded glad.
“Ready to run?”
“Now?”
“I’ll come right over.”
“You know where I live?”
He felt confident, strong, the Captain. “Forty-three Harrison.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m a stalker.”
She laughed. “Come around the back.”
“See you in fifteen.”
He was there in less than ten. He flew. He zoned into getting there fast. He didn’t want to think about why her mood had changed. It had. Stay in the now.
He circled around to the back. It was one of those old mother-daughter houses. She had her own apartment with her own entrance. Peeking through a window, he saw her standing at a mirror, her T-shirt pulled up. She was pinching a roll of flesh at her waist and shaking her head. He had never thought of her as being at all self-conscious about her body. She was beautiful, an athlete in great shape, full of confidence. He felt a rush of warmth. He knocked on her door.
“That was fast.”
“I ran.”
She pushed up the bill of his baseball cap and looked into his eyes. “Rough night?”
“Sort of.”
“How long you good for?”
“Try me.”
She set a slow and steady pace until they reached the trails that wound through the county park and up into the hills. She picked it up. Her knee seemed fine. So was his ankle. They ran single file. She never looked over her shoulder to see his mouth open and gasping for air, the sweat pooled around his eyes. His legs felt heavy. Booze always goes to your legs. They were halfway up the first hill trail when she said, “You okay?”
“You?”
She lengthened her stride. He watched her long pale legs churn like pistons, the muscles bunching in her calves. The round cheeks of her firm, high butt rose and fell under her blue and gold running shorts. He wondered what they would feel like if he reached out and touched them. Sweat darkened her T-shirt between her shoulder blades. His own shirt was soaked. By the time they were at the top of the second hill he had lost any desire to touch her. He just wanted to keep up with her.
He spilled some water into his mouth and spit it out. Anything more on his stomach and he’d barf.
This is crazy, he thought. I’m a baseball player, not a runner. Drop back.
No way.
Tell her to slow down.
You kidding?
This some kind of macho thing?
Whatever.
He hurt all over. His hair hurt. His teeth ached. Billy said you have to know the difference between pain and injury. Pain is your body complaining. Maybe it’s just tired, wants to quit. Injury is something wrong. You got to stop and take care of it.
He talked to himself. This is just pain, Mike. Hungover pain. Running faster than you’re used to pain. Trying to impress a babe pain.
At least the ankle feels fine.
You can do it, Captain.
They reached the top of the last hill. He was pleased to see she was sweating and breathing hard, too. She bent over, hands on knees. She cocked her head at him. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”
He smiled at her. “Nothing better to do.”
“I bet on you.”
They laughed and sat down on the soft earth.
It was cooler up here. A light breeze tickled and chilled the drops of sweat. He used his cap to wipe his face and neck. They drank water and stretched out.
“So what was the occasion for getting wasted last night? Or don’t you guys need one.” She was gently teasing.
“How could you tell?” He rolled over on an elbow. She was on her back staring at the pale blue afternoon sky. Her hair was gathered under her baseball cap. Her neck was long and graceful. He wanted to touch it.
“Your eyes,” she said. “They’re always so clear, white and light brown. Today they’re red-rimmed and a little muddy.”
“I feel muddy,” he said. “I was elected captain of the baseball team last night.”
She sat up, smiled at him. “Congratulations.”
He took a breath. Got to get it out in the open. “I’m captain because they think I ratted out the Cyber Club.”
Her smile faded. “I know you didn’t.” She looked so intense, serious, he wanted to reach out and touch her face. “You couldn’t have.”
“You’re the only one who doesn’t think I did it. How come you’re so sure?”
She hesitated. Watching her face, he thought she was about to say something, then swallowed those words and said something else. “You’re a straight arrow.”
He sat up and faced her. “Straight arrow? Is that like a dumb jock?”
“Straight arrow is honest, steady, dependable. Good.”
Their knees almost touched. “Sounds boring.”
“Doesn’t have to be,” she said.
They reached for each other at the same time.
THIRTY-ONE
The little apartment attached to the back of the house was neater than any of his friends’ rooms, Mike realized, because there was was hardly anything in it. The pictures on the walls looked as if they had been bought by old people at a garage sale. Except for the purple laptop on an old rolltop desk and the red iPod in a dock on a nightstand alongside Kat’s bed, there weren’t too many clues that a high school kid lived here. None of the stuffed animals that gaped at you in Lori’s room or the video games, dirty laundry, and sports equipment that littered the rooms that Andy and Ryan and he flopped in.
He looked at a tall black metal rack in one corner. He’d seen them before in a gym. You could hang upside down. “For your knee?”
“For my head,” she said. “You hungry?”
Behind a set of folding doors was a tiny kitchen. Refrigerator, stove, sink, some cabinets with dishes. Without asking what he wanted, she started making sandwiches. He dropped into a black canvas sling chair. Hadn’t seen one of these since his grandparents were alive.
“Who lives in this house?”
“My grandparents. My mom was raised in this house. Her grandparents lived in this apartment while she was growing up.”
“Your folks split?” He didn’t usually ask so many questions, he realized. He was hungry for information about her.
“It’s more complicated than that.” She seemed absorbed in slicing a tomato. “More than you want to know.”
“Hey, straight arrows want to know everything.” He thought he had said it comically but she turned sharply, her face tightening.
“Don’t assume you own me because of what we did.” The Tigerbitch voice was taking over, low, cold, sharp.
“I don’t assume anything. I just like being with you.” He realized he had never said th
at to Lori.
“What about your girlfriend. The twirler?”
“The one who deserves as much respect as the tubs of lard on the offensive line?”
Her face relaxed again. Her voice rose, warmed. “You my official biographer?”
“Job open?”
“Maybe.” She handed him a plate with a sandwich. It was turkey on whole wheat bread with lettuce and tomato. He bit in hungrily. “’S good, thanks.”
She put a glass of orange juice on the floor next to his chair. He swallowed. “Pulp.”
“More nutrients.”
“That’s what Mom says. Tastes like seaweed.”
“That’s good, too.” She sat on her rolling desk chair and ate her sandwich. The music on her iPod speakers was familiar. Tiffany had blasted it constantly in her locked bedroom. Plenty of fights with Mom and Dad over that.
Kat caught him looking at the iPod. “Pink Floyd,” she said as if he should know. “The Wall.”
Scotty hated it, called it music for crazy girls. Mike didn’t want to think about that. He watched Kat eat from the corners of his eyes, the way he tracked a fly ball in the sun. She wasn’t pretty and perfect like Lori, the nose and chin too sharp, eyes close together, but his breathing stopped when he looked at her, the strong teeth tearing off chunks of sandwich, the small muscles along her jaw pumping under the smooth skin. She closed her eyes when she swallowed.
He got excited remembering them holding each other on top of the hill. She had set the pace for their sweaty slick bodies. With Lori, sex was quicker, driving to climax. With Kat it seemed as if they were trying not to let it end. She seemed as sure of herself when she was making love as she did when she was running, older and more confident than she seemed now.
“Stop staring at me.” Her voice was tense.
“Sorry.” He looked down at his sandwich. “I can’t help it.”
“I’m so beautiful, right?” she said sarcastically.
He took a deep breath. “To me you are.” Is that me talking?
She put the sandwich down and looked at him. He thought her eyes were gleaming. Tears? “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Enough,” he said, “to know I care about you.”
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