by Ginger Scott
“You kinda are,” I say. His dad was right about what he said inside—Wes is kind. But he’s more, and I just wish I could see his full story. To do that, though, I’d have to ask things of him. I’d have to share pieces of me.
I feel him step closer to me, and my heart picks up its pace until it’s almost doing nothing but squeezing inside my chest. His fingers touch my chin, and he tilts it higher, forcing me to look at him, and despite how tiny my movement right now, it’s the scariest, most honest gesture of my life when my eyes finally hit his.
“I love the way you see me. I do,” he says, his breath held until the last second when he painfully exhales, and his shoulders fall along with his hand from my face. His expression is soft, but serious. “You make me want to live up to your expectations. I’m afraid I’ll disappoint them, though.”
“I don’t have any expectations, Wes. I learned about disappointment a long time ago. I just wanted you to know I appreciate what you did. That’s all,” I say, lying. It’s a lie, because I used to not expect anything. I didn’t have hope or wishes or dreams or plans—none of it. I had the next day. And then the next. And I filled the in-between with whatever distraction I could find in the moment to get me through.
And then Wes Stokes showed up and changed everything.
If I could, I would fold into myself. I don’t like this feeling—the one I get talking about feelings. Not that we’re talking about feelings, but we’re dancing around talking about feelings. I’d rather go back to making fun of his pitching, or to water fights and trash talk over the basketball game. This…this is uncomfortable.
“I should get home. I can walk…really,” I say, my hands working to untie the bag and fish out my wet shoes. I don’t get far in my quest as Wes’s hand moves over mine.
“Your shoes are so wet you’ll get blisters. Get in the truck, stubborn girl,” he says, winking and not waiting for my answer as he walks to the driver’s side and gets in, starting the engine.
I move to the passenger door and climb inside, instantly feeling the pressure of less space around us. I tuck my wet bag between my feet and wait, until after a few seconds I look up at him and shrug.
“Why aren’t you going?”
He laughs and turns to face the front window for a second, shaking his head before twisting his body to the side to look at me, his arm resting over the steering wheel. “I have a rule with you. It’s a new rule, and it’s sorta your fault,” he says.
“Okay…” I swallow, not really sure where this is going.
“Whenever I’m responsible for you, like, say…when I’m driving you home in my truck, you will follow every single safety precaution ever suggested. That means buckle up, and lock your door, because I don’t want that thing mysteriously flying open in the middle of a tight turn,” he says, pausing as if he’s waiting for me to agree with him. I hold his gaze for a second and think about arguing for the sake of feeling more comfortable in my combative skin, but there’s something about the way he tells me to be safe, and the way he’s looking at me right now, that makes me just smile, pull my belt on, and click the door locked.
“Was agreeing with me so bad?” he laughs out his question, shifting the truck and pulling out of the driveway.
“You have no idea,” I sigh, earning a short laugh from him. He bites his lip when he shakes his head. It’s the slightest thing, but it’s sweet and vulnerable too.
Wes flips the button on the stereo, bouncing between a few stations and settling on classic rock. It makes me smile when I notice his lips moving along with the Journey song. I love Journey. My dad used to play it in the garage when he’d throw me whiffle balls and let me hit them into the net. It’s a good memory, and somehow I’ve kept it pure. Steve Perry’s voice still makes me smile, and I lean back comfortably into my seat and add the memory of Wes lip syncing to the list of happy thoughts associated with this sound.
Whatever part he’s returning is in the box between us. I pull it closer to me with two fingers and look inside, not really sure what it is, until Wes explains.
“It’s a main drive gear and a pilot bearing…it’s…just parts for a transmission,” he says, glancing at me quickly, then moving his eyes back to the road. I notice his hands are quite literally at ten and two. He’s being serious about by-the-book safety. I smile at that too.
“Is yours broken?” I ask. I know nothing about cars. I haven’t bothered to learn, because I have yet to drive anywhere. I got my license, but my father allowed that only so I could drive my grandmother around when she came to visit. He knew he wouldn’t be able to most of the time. I’m covered under the minimum of family insurance plans, so unless I get a job, I’ll be hitching rides and running most places I go.
“It’s just acting funny,” he says, glancing at me again with a tight smile.
I look down at the part, not really sure how it works. The truck seems to have been fine the last time I rode in it, though I can hear the engine more today—like everything under the hood is working just a little harder. I listen to the hum of his motor, to the way everything sounds like its playing catch up when he accelerates after pulling to the stop sign near my street. I look over to Wes and watch him, and even though I know he can sense my eyes on him, he keeps his forward, his lips pursed—he’s holding the truth in.
“It was from last night, wasn’t it? When you had to drive so fast to catch Kyle?”
He doesn’t answer, but after several long seconds, he pulls up to my house and exhales a heavy breath before looking at me. He doesn’t have to answer. With that one look, I know.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be sorry. It’s an old truck, and it was going to need some work soon anyway,” he says.
The good feeling I had listening to Journey is gone. Now I just feel guilty. I step from the car and pull my bag of bandages and damp clothes out with me, rounding the truck and pepping myself up to turn and wave thanks. I’m not expecting Wes to be waiting outside his door when I get to him—but he is.
The motor is still running, the grind coming in waves. I understand why he’s going to exchange the part today. The transmission isn’t going to last much longer, and I know enough to understand that part is probably fairly important in the truck going anywhere at all.
“I’m really sorry, Wes,” I say, not able to look up at him. His hand finds my chin quickly, righting my gaze back to his. His smile is warm and genuine, and it breaks me a little more.
“Joss, please…do not be sorry. It’s an old truck. I swear,” he says, his eyes willing me to accept what he says. He’s lying. But he’s lying for me. It makes me feel both worse and amazing all at once.
“Wes, what are you doing here?” My father’s voice breaks through everything, and on instinct, I step away, like a child caught touching something expensive and breakable. At the last second, though, Wes reaches for my hand, clasping it and not letting go. My father’s eyes see it.
“Hi, Coach. We had Joss over for lunch. I’m just bringing her home,” he says, as if this is normal—as if me going to his house is a thing I do often, a thing my dad accepts. It isn’t any of those things, and that’s painfully clear in the expression on my father’s face.
“That’s thoughtful of you, Wes. Joss, I’m sure you have homework or something you’re probably ignoring inside. Why don’t you head in. I’m going to chat about our opening week of games with Wes for a few minutes,” my dad says over his shoulder, his focus not really on me, more at me. His jaw is rigid, and his neck muscles are flexing.
“I don’t have any homework,” I sigh.
“And maybe that’s part of your problem. She’s got straight Cs,” my dad answers quickly, almost proud to point out my faults and failures in front of Wes. I feel my gut clench, and I suppress my desire to argue with him.
“Sure it is,” I say, biting my tongue on the rest.
I hold up a few fingers and mouth thank you to Wes as I shuffle my bare feet toward the house. I stop at
the edge of the garage and open my bag to pull my damp shoes out to let them finish drying. I take the opportunity to study Wes and my dad, looking for clues on their conversation. It looks like they’re only talking baseball, even though my instincts tell me they’re probably talking about me.
Wes clutches his keys a few times and nods at my father, glancing at me when he can, his expression remaining the same. When my father places one hand on Wes’s shoulder, patting him twice, I know their conversation is done, and I fumble with the knot in the plastic bag, trying to get my shoes out faster.
“What are you wasting your time with now?” my dad says, pulling the bag from my hands and making short work of the knot. He holds one of my wet shoes up and tilts his head.
“We had a water fight,” I say, regretting sharing anything about my day with him the second the words leave my lips.
He sneers, letting a short puff of air escape his nostrils as he pulls out my second shoe, tossing both of them in the full sun of the driveway before handing the bag of clothes back to me.
“You should get a job, quit wasting your time on things that won’t get you anywhere. Maybe it will make you focus on studying more too,” he says, moving into the garage, toward the door to the house. He pauses to kick my softball bag further into the corner, out of his way. It feels like he’s kicking me. “I’ll pay your phone bill this month. Next month, it’s on you. And Joss…”
I don’t even bother to look up as my father turns. My name sounds like disappointment coming from his lips as he stands there, one foot already inside the house. I keep my eyes on my three-year-old bag of equipment that’s falling apart, the handles taped together, one sewn to the bag with fishing line I got from Taryn’s dad.
“Don’t bring Wes down with your…drama. That boy’s talented.”
He doesn’t expect me to answer. He expects me to obey. The door closes behind him, and I think about how I probably should follow his orders. But then I think about how I’m talented too, and the man who’s supposed to believe in me couldn’t give a damn about that.
Somewhere along the way…he forgot.
Seven
“It won’t be so bad, Joss. We’ll get to work together sometimes too.”
All morning, Taryn’s been talking up the job she got me at Spider’s Jungle Gym. She works there on Sundays, so when I called her yesterday afternoon, after the ultimatum from my dad, she put in a word with her manager before she left. All I have to do is fill out the application and drop it off this week and voila—the job is mine.
I guess I should be glad the process was easy. And the gig isn’t anything hard. I have to run the party room, and then clean up the gym when they close three or four nights a week. As a bonus, my father won’t be able to count on me on Saturdays anymore, because that’s the biggest reason I got hired—they lost their Saturday person, and Taryn said I could fill the slot. I’m sure my dad will call anyway, but he’ll have to wait. And maybe…just maybe…eventually he’ll quit calling period.
“I know. Thanks for getting me the job, T. I was kinda thinking of getting one anyway. I guess I just hate that my dad put his foot down like that,” I say, knowing it sounds whiney. It’s not that I don’t want to work, it’s just that I don’t understand the things my dad decides to care about when it comes to me.
“Girl, you know my dad made me get this job. I turned sixteen, and he was like, hello sweet sixteen and goodbye allowance,” she laughs.
I smirk and lean into her while we carry our bags from the locker room toward the bus idling by the main field, our cleats scratching and clapping against the pavement. We have an away game with North today—not a far drive. Taryn’s family is coming to watch. I like it when they come, because they usually cheer for me too. Without them, I’d have nobody in the stands.
The boys have a game at home, and as I step up onto the bus, I see Wes throwing his warm-up pitches in the bullpen, my father right behind him, measuring his speed with the gun.
I see Kyle run from the locker room to the field, and I’m relieved. He wasn’t at school for most of the day, and he ignored the text I made Taryn send him. I’m still too uncomfortable to text him on my own; I don’t know what to say. I’m glad he’s here though. I didn’t want him to miss his game. Even if he isn’t pitching, I’m sure my dad will play him. Kyle’s too good to leave on the bench.
Taryn and I shuttle our bags to the back and each take a seat in the rear of the bus. There are no senior girls on our varsity squad, so we’re the oldest. We’re also the toughest. I’m not sure how I became a leader, other than the rest of the girls were just natural followers. They still try to put braids in my hair, though, so I must not intimidate them too much. I succumbed to one ribbon today—our catcher, Shelby, insisted. I pulled the bow part out when she wasn’t looking, so I’m only sporting two long strands of red ribbon now. I saw her notice, and I could tell she was itching to fix it. I don’t know what I’ll do if she touches my head again.
“Looks like Wes has a fan club today,” Taryn says, nodding over my shoulder. I sit upright and turn to see McKenna and a few other girls walking out to the baseball field wearing shorty shorts, high socks, and red baseball jerseys.
“Whatever,” I say, turning back and pulling my headphones from my bag, pushing them in my ears and cranking LCD Soundsystem up as loud as it will go. Taryn keeps her eyes on me, her lip twisted in a smirk. She knows I care more than I’m letting on, but I’m still not taking these earbuds out of my ears, and I’m not acknowledging Wes’s entourage of hooker wannabes either.
I might be a little jealous.
My phone only has thirty percent left, so after a few songs, I turn the streaming music off, but I leave my headphones on for the rest of the trip so I don’t have to answer any questions about Wes or McKenna…or my lunch at the Stokes house. That’s the problem with Taryn dating TK—he told her I was there Sunday, and when I didn’t mention it to her, she called me on it, eyebrow raised, arms crossed, and suspicion and teasing twinkling in her eyes. I’ll have to answer her questions eventually, but not before our game—and not on a bus full of over-excited freshmen and sophomores who would absolutely die knowing Joss Winters has fucking fluttering going on in her tummy over a boy.
I put my phone and earbuds away when we get to North’s campus, and Taryn and I are the last two off the bus. The North girls are supposed to be pretty good this year, and our team’s young. I’m anticipating getting our asses kicked, but I plan on standing out.
Coach has me at shortstop, and after we unpack, stretch, and warm up, we take infield. For the first time all day, I feel all stress and anger leave my body. It’s a team sport, but when I’m out here, I’m on my own. Nobody tells me what to do—they just let me be. I field cleanly, turn my double plays, and even make a diving grab that gets the attention of the other bench. I can see them whispering about me, and that makes me excited. I get off on their fear—I live to intimidate.
I am home.
It’s an honor to bat fourth. That’s what my dad used to say. When the first three girls strike out, though—and we can’t seem to get an out to save our lives so I can get back up to bat—being fourth in the lineup kinda feels more like a curse. Our only outs are the two balls hit to me, until finally someone reaches for a slow pitch and pops it up to Shelby. I’m almost willing to let her retie the bow in my hair I’m so happy she caught the damn thing.
North has one of the best pitchers in the state, and she’s throwing hard. I notice a few men in college jackets sitting on the front row of the bleachers right behind the backstop, all of them with speed guns in their hands and cell phones in the other. I hope their cameras are rolling when I’m up to bat, because I plan on disrupting her seventy-mile-per-hour strike fest.
I step into the box and take two balls before she throws a strike, and I purposely let that one go by. I didn’t like it.
Don’t swing at just any strike, pumpkin; swing at the right one.
As broken as we a
re, my father’s words run through my head every time I touch the ball and my feet hit the dirt. I will never get away from him completely; he and I are woven together in this game I love. It’s the hours together in the back yard of me throwing the ball incorrectly, and him training my arm to do it the right way. It’s the moment I swung the bat and finally made contact. It’s the first home run I had in T-ball when he carried me from the field on his shoulders. Like listening to Journey, playing this game reminds me of when everything was good. And as bad as he turned out to be as a father, he was always one hell of a coach.
The right pitch comes along next, and I see it before it leaves her fingertips. I shift my weight and cock my arms, loading my swing so by the time the ball reaches the plate, I hit it so far I don’t even have to look to know it’s gone.
Home run.
I hear the ump say the word, but in my head, it’s my father’s voice. I round the bases and let my teammates hug and jump on me once I step on home plate. I celebrate with them, and I talk shit with Taryn about how I plan on doing that again.
I only get to bat two more times, thanks to the falling sun and the absolutely pitiful fielding by my teammates, who seem hell bent on letting the other team run up the score. But I get on base both times—two doubles, right up the center, and just low enough that the pitcher gets scared. I blow a kiss to Taryn after my third hit, and the ump gives me a warning. I’m used to warnings, though, so when he turns his back, I blow one to him.
We end up losing twelve to two, but I hold my head high knowing those two—they’re me. The ride home feels lighter, and I don’t feel the need to hide behind my music and headphones. I even give in and let Shelby loop the bow correctly in my hair. It seems to make her happy, and when Taryn makes fun of me, I tell her not to shit on my girl Shelby’s bow-tying skills. Shelby smiles and lights up at the fact that I call her my girl. I love that I seem to matter to these girls—to all of them. They should hate me, but they don’t.
