by Ginger Scott
“So, I guess I owe you this,” he says, holding out a ten-dollar bill. I smirk at it and shrug. I don’t want it anymore.
“Bet’s a bet, right?” I say, taking the ten from him and pushing it into my back pocket. I bend down and pull my cleats from my feet, then zip them into the bottom pouch of my bag, my back to him. I drop my flip-flops on the ground and stuff my feet in, scrunching the socks between my toes.
“Yeah…bet’s a bet,” Wes says behind me. I sigh and turn to look at him, instantly guilty because I can’t seem to just give in and tell him yes, I want to go to the dance. He’s already left the dugout.
I look out to the home plate area and notice my father talking with our coach. He isn’t yelling. In fact, at the moment, they’re both laughing, my father with his hand placed on my coach’s back, leaning forward and smiling. They both turn to look at me, and the laughing stops, so I step from the dugout and follow Wes’s steps toward the bleachers.
“Nice hitting today, Winters. Your dad was just telling me we should get you some work on the left side of the plate. I didn’t know you switched,” coach says.
“I don’t,” I answer quickly. I notice my father’s response—he leans back with a silent chuckle and folds his arms over his chest.
“She does. She’s just rusty. It’s been a while,” he says, his eyes dancing over me with a familiar fire.
Pride.
I pause my steps and look at them both. I’m expressionless because this feels like a trick. I’m waiting for things to turn.
“We’ll work on it,” my father says.
My eyes go right to his, expecting something different. I expect a dig or criticism. But instead, I think he might just be making plans.
“Sounds good to me,” coach says, patting my father on the back once and moving toward the dugout to grab his things. He spins on his heels and walks backward, looking at us both. “Oh, and you might want to have that ready to go next week. Chico State has a guy coming out to our road game to take a look at you.”
“She’ll be ready,” my father says. He’s holding a glove in his hand, and he slaps it once in his other palm before letting it drop to his side. It’s something he’s always done—he’s always thrown with the boys, always done every drill he expects them to do.
It’s something he used to do with me.
I feel Wes step closer behind me, but he stops as my father approaches. I’m caught in the middle, like a cat lost in the rain, and every muscle in my body wants to run. My heart wants to stay right here though.
“Whaddaya say you get up early with Wes and me, come out here to the field, and we work on some things this weekend? I mean, you’ve been getting up early and running on your own anyhow,” my father says with a light laugh that turns into a cough. He’s nervous. “You’re not as quiet and sneaky as you think you are. I hear you in the morning.”
“I didn’t think you were aware of anything in the morning,” I say. I hear Wes’s breath change behind me, like he wants to interject. I’m attacking, and I know Wes doesn’t want me to blow this moment, but I’ve waited so long to say some of these things with my father in a state-of-mind that was willing to hear them. I have to get them off my chest.
“You’re right. And that’s fair.” My father’s words shock me.
I wait for him to give me the but portion of the statement; instead, he brings his arms up, his trusty glove still in one hand, and shrugs, admitting his guilt.
“I have work,” I say, my chin raised as I deliver my next excuse—the next hurdle to overcome in this Hallmark moment.
“We’ll work around your schedule, so you don’t have to get up too early after coming in late,” he says.
“Ohhh, yeah. For me, right? Not you and your coming in late. This is about me,” I say, turning back to gather my things. I run into Wes, who has moved closer and is already holding them.
“Joss, just give him this. Just listen,” he says.
I pause and study Wes’s expression. His eyes are begging me to take this leap, to trust that my father is doing something kind right now. This olive branch is real, and Wes wants me to take it.
I spin back to face my father, but his eyes are on Wes’s. He’s biting his bottom lip, and he stands there motionless, in thought, for several seconds before speaking.
“She has a lot of reasons not to listen, Wes. I know. I have not been…present. I haven’t been there,” my father says.
“You haven’t been anything but a drunk, abusive ass!” I interrupt, my voice caught between laugh and cry.
My father swallows hard, his eyes shifting to me as he passes the glove between his hands. He slowly begins to nod, then leans his head slightly to one side, his eyes frosting over with something I don’t recognize. It’s not quite regret, but it’s close.
“I’ll be here Saturday, at nine in the morning. And I’ll be here for you. Hope you can make it,” he says, walking past me and stopping at Wes to shake his hand before he leaves us both on the field alone.
It’s quiet and uncomfortable for the full minute it takes for my father to walk the length of the field to the parking lot where his car sits.
“Joss, I—” Wes starts, and I turn and point at him.
“No! You nothing. What was this? Did you put him up to this? Was this like an intervention or some lame attempt to try to fix our fucked up relationship? You can’t fix us, Wes. You can’t! We’re too broken.”
I rip the straps of my bag from his hand, but his grip is hard and fast. We both tug, but I’m no match for his strength, so I halt as he lowers his head and holds my eyes captive.
“Goddamnit, Josselyn! Your dad did this on his own. He planned this days ago, when he saw your schedule was different from ours. He shortened our practice, and told the team if any of us wanted to keep our starting position he’d better see our asses on the bleachers cheering for the girls. He said all of that, Joss. Your dad! Not me…him!”
Wes lets go of his hold on my things, and the loss of his grip sends me back a step or two. I hold his gaze, and all I feel is foolish. I’m embarrassed because my life is so fucked up. All this boy has ever really known of me is how much my father has broken my heart. He’s seen it—from the very beginning. The fact that he’s here, witnessing this attempt at making things right—which will no doubt fail—makes me feel more ashamed.
“He’s going to disappoint me,” I say, the cry sneaking up on me. I suck it in and roll my shoulders, rebuilding my resolve.
“Maybe he won’t,” Wes says, stepping into me more.
I take one step back and shake my head, looking at my feet and dropping my things.
“He always disappoints me. He’s going to do it again,” I whisper. I don’t say it loud, because I’m regretful to admit I don’t believe in my dad. I’m even more ashamed to admit I want to.
“What if he doesn’t? What if he wants this more than you?” Wes closes the distance once more.
I swallow and nod to myself, lifting my eyes to meet his, my arms wrapped tightly around my body.
“Are you going to pick me up when I fall? Are you going to be there for me when he fails?” I bite my lip hard, doubt pushing on one side and the little girl who wants this wish to come true pounding on the other.
Wes rests his head on mine and pushes the stray hairs from my face, running his thumbs along either cheek.
“He’s not going to fail, Joss. He’s not. I looked in his eyes today, and I believe. But I will be there for you, for every bump and setback that might happen. It won’t be perfect, and he’ll make mistakes, but he’s not going to quit. He’s not going to fail.” Wes’s voice is soft, and he tilts my chin with his thumb, urging me to look up at him.
I whimper once and let out a hard breath, looking to the side while I run my wrist over my eyes.
“It’s okay to cry, Joss. It doesn’t mean you’re weak,” he says.
“Yeah, it does. And I hate it,” I say, refusing to meet his gaze.
“It’s o
kay to cry,” he repeats, and his words ignite another sob escaping me.
“Whatever,” I breathe, running my hand over my eyes again, finally giving in and facing him. His smile is soft and his head leans to the side while he takes over the work on clearing my face of pain.
“Whatever, as in…you’ll try? You’ll come out here with us on Saturday morning?” he says, his lips in a faint, tight smirk.
“Whatever,” I shake my head. “Yeah, fine. I’ll come out here.”
His grin stays in place, and his eyes remain on mine, studying me, as if he’s drilling down to uncover the secrets underneath them. But I have no secrets. Not from him. He was my secret—is my secret.
“What?” I finally shrug after long seconds pass under his scrutiny. I feel hot from blushing.
“Are you going to let me take you to this stupid dance?”
It isn’t chocolate or flowers, and to anyone else—Taryn especially—it isn’t romantic in the least. But to me, that one frustrated sentence is the world. It’s everything. And it’s exactly how I wanted to be asked.
My lip tugs up on one corner, and I nod slowly, still holding his stare. “Yeah, I am.”
Twelve
“If you would hold still, it wouldn’t hurt when I pulled on it.”
I think Taryn likes feeling like she’s the boss of me. It’s typically the other way around. She hasn’t really been the one in control of things in our friendship since we were kids. When my life turned upside down, she ceded dominance to me. The older I got, the more I realized she gave it to me because she knew I needed it—I needed to be in charge of something. So, she let me call the shots when it came to the trouble we got into.
But now—now that she has a handful of my hair in her grip, pins poking every which way into my scalp, hot irons poised to scald my skin—Taryn is once again in charge.
“This is torture for me. You know this is torture, right?” I blow up at my forehead, a few stray curls she’s left there to cool sliding across my skin.
“This coming from the girl I watched purposely throw herself from a moving vehicle at fifty miles per hour. Yeah, I’m really sure this is going to be the thing that kills you,” Taryn says.
“It might,” I say, my eyes looking up from the corners, my head held firmly in place with her hand while she pushes one more piece of metal into a thick chunk of my hair. “And I’m pretty sure we were only going thirty at the time. Maybe thirty-five.”
“You know, I would kill to have thick hair that curled like yours. It’s so unfair,” she sighs.
“Well, I’d give it to you if I could. You have no idea how many times I’ve thought of shaving my head,” I say.
Taryn’s fingers pause and she twists my head so my eyes are looking at her, her hands sliding to my cheeks where she pushes my mouth inward from the sides.
“Please say you’re kidding about that. Do not—I repeat—do not, not ever, shave your head.”
“I’m…kidding?” I say through smooshed lips.
Taryn stares at me for an extra second, then rolls her eyes and jerks my pony tail once more. I’m pretty sure she didn’t really need to do that. I zone out on the thought of me shaving my head for a few minutes while Taryn finishes working my hair into something presentable. I really did have the clippers to my head once last year. I even went ahead and took off a chunk in the very back. It was just enough that when I pulled it up in a tie, I could feel the short hairs along my neck. I liked to touch them and think of how easy it would be to shave it all—to be that free.
“Okay,” Taryn says, pushing hard on my right shoulder and spinning me around on the kitchen stool we’d pulled into her bathroom. “Time to take it all in.”
I don’t recognize myself at first, and all I can seem to do is stare at the girl looking back at me in the mirror. Her face is still mine. I refused the extra makeup. I have eyeliner on—heavy—and that’s enough. I insisted that my hair be pulled up, because I feel more in control that way. I always have. But Taryn insisted I let her make it look hot. It isn’t anything big, and the changes she made were subtle, but the girl in the mirror is older, happier, and maybe ready to be kissed on a dance floor in front of everyone who thinks she doesn’t deserve it.
“Well? You like it?” Taryn’s biting her thumbnail and looking at me in the reflection. Slowly, my lip rises on one side and my eyes slide over to meet hers.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
“Thank God!” she says, slouching back, resting her weight on the bathtub edge behind her. She looks me up and down, her eyes scanning me almost the way Kyle’s do. “You look good like this. I know you say it isn’t you, but…it’s you. This is you tonight, Joss. And every guy—mine included—is going to notice.”
My chest starts to pound and my head feels light. I don’t need everyone noticing me; I only need one boy noticing me. All I want is to look good enough for Wes not to regret picking me.
“Okay, do you want to just take the dress home so you can finish getting ready there? Or do you want me to help you with that too?” Taryn says, drifting across her hallway into her room. I follow her, my fingers instinctively feeling the slickness of my hair pulled up on all sides. Whatever she did, my hair isn’t moving for the rest of the night.
“Uh, I guess I’ll take it home. Wes wants to pick me up there. My dad…he…he said he wanted to see what I looked like,” I say, my hand moving to my eye, rubbing the lid because it’s starting to twitch. This entire night is surreal. It was never supposed to happen—on so many levels.
“It’s good that he does. Maybe…maybe he’s checking back in,” she says, handing me a plastic-covered dress on a hanger.
“Maybe,” I shrug, knowing how quickly he can tune out again.
I fold the garment over my arm and lean into my friend. I’m not a hugger, but I feel like I need to give her some gesture to show her how much this afternoon meant to me. She spent a good hour making me look like a princess—at least the blond parts. The rest is up to me.
“Text me when you guys are leaving to go there. We’ll get there around the same time,” she says, hanging on her door as I leave through the hallway. I promise her I will, and make my way through her front door, letting the screen slam closed behind me.
“You look beautiful, Joss,” Taryn’s father says as I pass him at the end of his driveway. He’s standing from the kneeling position, holding a car part in an oily towel that he’s working with his hands. Her father takes on a lot of spare repair jobs at their home, separate from his work at the garage. It helps pay for her sisters’ college tuitions, and it will probably help pay for Taryn’s too. “You want a ride home? So you don’t have to get your hair all messy?”
The breeze has picked up, and it actually feels nice against my bare neck. I smile at him and shake my head no.
“It actually feels kind of nice,” I smile. “I think I’ll walk.”
“Okay, JJ. You be good tonight, you hear?” He leans forward and presses a small kiss on my cheek. Taryn’s father has always treated me like one of his own. He’s been calling me JJ since Taryn and I were kids, and I know he said it just now to remind me of the fact that I’m still his little girl. It warms my belly to feel that kind of love.
It only takes me a few minutes to get to my house from Taryn’s, and I head right to my room, turning my iPod on and plugging it into my clock speaker. Wes downloaded a bunch of top-forty music to it yesterday, and he insisted I listen to it to get myself ready for the dance. It’s all pop, and I know most of the songs—they just aren’t what I usually listen to. Nothing hard, and every song has a happy ending. By the fifth tune, I’m almost giggling at the difference between this playlist and my usual soundtrack.
My phone buzzes with a text from Wes, telling me he’s on his way, so I pull the silky black dress from the bag and hanger Taryn leant me. It was the dress she wore for her quinceañera two years ago. It’s simple and nice, and it will do the job. I slip it on easily, reaching the zipper on my
own and working the length down my hips until the hem rests at my knees. I stand on the end of my mattress and press my hands on the ceiling above me to hold my balance so I can see the full form. I’m turning to the side when I hear the soft knock on my door.
“One second,” I say, glancing down at my bare legs. It feels too fast for Wes to be here, and I’m not completely ready yet.
“It’s just me. He’s not here yet,” my father says. I slow as I step down from the bed and approach the door. My hand stops on the knob, and for a moment, I consider telling him I’m still getting ready. I don’t, opening the door instead.
My father’s eyes move right to mine, then fall along my cheek, hairline, and shoulder, taking in my appearance as his head falls to the side. His lips are in a flat line—emotionless.
“Well?” I lift my hands to either side and spin slowly for him. “It’s T’s dress. I don’t really have anything, and…I’m so uncomfortable.”
My father only nods slowly, his eyes caught somewhere around my waist while he chews at the inside of his cheek. My hands move around my body, and I mentally begin to file through other dresses I like in Taryn’s closet—or sweaters or something that isn’t what I have on right now. Then my father lifts the plastic bag from his side and hands it to me.
“That one isn’t you. But this…maybe?” His hand trembles with the weight of the bag. It’s not that it’s heavy. It’s that he got something—for me. And I think maybe he just trembles more now too.
My brow pulled in tight, I take it from him and move back to the edge of my bed, sitting while I pull the bag open and reach inside. The white crisscross of the back of the dress is the first thing I see, and I let the weight of the dress and bag fall into my lap under my hands, my eyes jetting to my father’s.
