by Ginger Scott
“Don’t be nervous. You’re going to be amazing. And your dad knows so too,” he says. My focus swings from one of his eyes to the other, and I notice the orange hue cast in their blue pools, reflections of the sunset behind me.
“You make me less nervous,” I say. He smiles softly, stepping in close enough to cradle my head against his chest, his hands running slowly, soothingly up and down my back.
“I want this, Wes. My dad. This game. This…life. I want it so bad,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Wes’s lips fall down on top of my head and he holds his kiss to me briefly before rolling his to the side so his cheek rests on my hair.
“I know you do, Joss. I want it for you,” he breathes. His chest fills slowly, and his exhale follows even slower. The tempo soothes me. “I’m gonna make sure you get it.”
Sixteen
I’m nervous.
The more I come to realize I’m nervous, the worse it gets. My first two years of high school softball were spent playing a game. There wasn’t anything on the line—I didn’t even really care if we won or not. I skipped practice, going when I felt like it. I rarely felt like it. The games were a chance for me to stretch my muscles, to remind my arms of what they could do and my legs of just how strong they were. It was a chance to show off—to be the hot shot. And if I blew it—I never gave a fuck.
I give a fuck now.
I kind of think there was this dormant part of me that always did. She’s awake. And she’s hungry.
The rain has been constant. It started sometime late last night, and the drops have pounded the school’s roof most of the day. The boy’s games were cancelled. The fields flooded. But apparently two hours to the north, California was dry. We were playing Los Banos today. A conference matchup that my father told me this morning had a small paragraph mentioning it in the paper.
This morning.
That was strange too. My father waited for me before leaving the house, insisted I ride with him—just to try it once.
It was nice. I may do it again someday, maybe even someday soon.
My father cut the article out and posted it to the fridge with tape because we lack magnets. There weren’t many years of hanging my art and report cards up. But he hung this small clipping from the paper up with pride:
PITCHING PROWESS OF LOS BANOS FACES HEAVY BAT OF BAKERSFIELD SOUTH’S WINTERS
The article went on to mention my record number of RBIs and the speed with which Caitlyn Moore throws the ball. And then, there was the prediction that she and I—both juniors—would probably face off in a state title next year.
I wonder if Chico is coming to see Caitlyn or me?
The two-hour bus trip meant skipping photography today. It was my day to present my flower images for critique, and for once, I was prepared for something. Instead, Wes is going. He’s not presenting the photos he showed me. Those were just for my eyes and my eyes only, he said. Instead, he took some shots of his brothers and father, but only of their legs—the way they line up, ankles crossed all the same, on the sofa while watching sports. He showed me the shots—and they felt special too.
With the baseball games cancelled, Wes, TK, Kyle, and Levi all planned to drive up to Los Banos for our game. I wanted to sneak Wes on the bus with me, to calm my nerves, but Taryn would have to do.
My father sits up front next to Coach Adams. It was odd to see both of their heads on either side of the bus, flanking the front seats as the rest of the team climbed in.
The bus feels cavernous, and I stop before I get too many rows toward the back, sliding into a seat near the middle. Taryn takes the seat across from me, and we both sit lengthwise, our feet almost touching in the aisle. Our team only has thirteen players, so most of the seats remain empty. It feels wasteful to take an entire bus, but the same bus is used for everything at South High. While North has extra vans painted with the team’s colors, we’re happy to have working windows and tires.
My father sits up on one knee, and my eyes catch his across the rows of seats. The bus rumbles to a start, and while everyone else turns around to settle in, he keeps his stare on me as I poke my earbuds into my ears. No lecturing. No reminders. He looks at me to make sure I’m taking this seriously, and I look at him like I used to when I was seven and he’d send me up to bat against a boy.
With fire in my eyes.
My thumb runs along my iPod, and I hit play, letting Wes’s playlist stream into my ears and warm my chest. He put songs on here purposely, some of them with hidden messages, about the quiet boy loving the firecracker girl. I know he did it for me, to tell me how he felt before he really had the courage to say it aloud. We haven’t discussed it, other than when he asked me if I liked the songs. I simply told him yes.
I’m calm for the ride to the school, and I remain calm until Taryn decides she needs to talk to me as the bus exits the highway to ride up the main road through town. She kicks my foot from the seat, and I startle as I sit up, pulling the music that was distracting me away from my ears. All so she could ask me if she thought coach would let her ride home with TK and the guys.
“No,” I say, my eyes blinking in disbelief. What I didn’t add to the conversation was that if she even as much as asked my father not to ride with the team, he’d probably make her push the bus for the first mile. That’s not an exaggeration. It’s rumored he made one of his ballplayers do something very similar a few years ago. I remember a suspension. I also remember that suspension getting lifted the moment the baseball team dropped two games to region rivals.
Taryn grimaces at my answer, but eventually shrugs and moves to sit up in her seat. I pull my gear bag up to my lap and fold my arms over it, resting my head to the side to stare out the window.
Los Banos is a lot like Bakersfield, only smaller. Poor neighborhoods, and less-poor neighborhoods—it’s a city where people have to work hard. I always wanted out of Bakersfield, but now looking at this small town, the mother holding her son’s hand as they walk along the side of the road, groceries in a bag wrapped around her other wrist—I kind of like the spirit of places like this and Bakersfield.
The other team is already warming up when our bus ambles up the dirt driveway behind the field. The air outside is cooler than normal, and it hits me like a slap. It’s the wind. I pull my jacket from my bag, zipping it closed in the front before slinging my bag over my shoulder, my hands pink with chill in my pockets.
“Remember, this weather is worse on her,” my father says softly as he strides up next to me. He’s pulling a large wagon with the buckets of balls, our nets, and the water cooler. I smile when I glance over him, and he cocks an eyebrow. “What? You don’t believe me? She won’t throw nearly as hard if her hands are cold. And that rain—it’s coming.”
“No, no…I believe you. I totally knew what you meant, I was just sort of…” I stop my words and shake my head, looking down to my feet. “I don’t know, caught up in seeing you pull that wagon.”
My father chuckles.
“I miss the Little League wagon,” he says, wiggling the handle of the rusted metal one he’s pulling now. “Our old wagon was a lot nicer than this piece of crap. Maybe I’ll see if I can get some of that baseball money over here.”
“Now you’re talking,” I smirk, splitting away from him while he pulls the wagon to one of the dugouts and I hang my bag on the other.
“I’m cold. The boys got cancelled. We should have been cancelled too,” Taryn says, following it up with a sniffle as she tosses her bag into the corner next to mine. I chuckle to myself, because while the wind is chilly, the temperature is still in the seventies, I’m sure. Taryn’s a bigger baby than I am. “Come on. Run with me. I need to move,” she says, tugging lightly on my sleeve.
“All right, hang on,” I say, switching out my shoes. Taryn rolls her neck and watches me change to my cleats. She never switches her shoes, which is why she’s worn the spikes down to nearly nothing. I brought it up once and she only stared at me, wide-eyed, t
hen pointed out that she doesn’t need to be fast hanging out in right field and doing nothing all day.
It was a good point.
My shoes on, I step from the dugout and begin a slow run toward the main road and back again. I feel Taryn next to me for most of the trip, but when I reach the roadway and turn to run back, I realize that the rest of the girls are all close by too. Not ahead, though. No. They’re following.
More accurately, I’m leading.
The red jackets stepping from the car near our bus catch my eyes first, and I jog over to the bucket of balls, my gaze on the team of coaches from Chico State. I don’t know what they’re looking for, and I’ve thought most of the day that the reason they’re really here is to see if Caitlyn Moore can strike me out. I know she’s their target. But if she doesn’t…
My teammates are watching the red jackets too.
“We’re gonna make you look good today,” Bria says, patting my back with her flat palm as she picks up a ball from the bucket and jogs to the opposite end to begin throwing with her partner.
My eyes flit to Taryn, and she grins with half her mouth, blowing a bubble with her gum out the other side.
“Bows and all, these are your girls,” she says.
I toss the ball in my hand a few times as she walks backward to her spot, and then I glance at the row of girls next to me. Their faces are serious, and they’re hardly talking. They’re nervous—nervous for me.
“Hey, Bria!” I shout, holding the ball up for Taryn to see and acknowledge before I throw it at her. She catches my throw and returns it. My eyes stay on her, while Bria answers.
“What’s up?” she says.
“We should have a party. Like…a real team party. Maybe at the beach. Bonfire. Just the girls,” I say.
I don’t look at her, but I can tell she’s smiling. A few seconds pass, but she answers.
“That’d be cool,” she says.
“Only girls?” Taryn whines. I whip the ball back at her a little faster.
“Yeah, you can make it one night,” I say.
She holds the ball in her glove for a beat, resting it on her hip as she pushes some loose hairs under her visor.
“Yeah, but can you?” she teases.
I narrow my gaze and lean my head to the side, pushing my tongue into the corner of my mouth.
“Yes, I can handle a girls night. Especially with these fine ladies,” I say, exaggerating my words and speaking loud enough that the rest of the girls pick up on our conversation.
“Woot! Party Friday night!” Shannon, one of the more quiet girls near the end says. I laugh lightly to myself and glance at her. She’s smiling as she throws, and her expression infects my mouth too, my lips unable to stop their curve into my cheeks.
“All right,” I say, catching the ball from Taryn then waving her to take a few steps back. The rest of the girls follow. I lead—they follow. “Friday it is,” I say. “But it has to be late. I’ve got work.”
And I can’t miss out on gum scraping with Wesley Stokes. Not even for the girls.
The quiet starts to fade, and soon there’s a mixture of laughter and camaraderie along with the sounds of the balls smacking into the leather of our mitts. It’s the sound of friends. I haven’t heard it since I was little.
Maybe, I haven’t been listening.
After warm-ups, we line the dugout, and there’s a moment I notice that nobody else does. Coach Adams hands the blue lineup card to my father, and for a brief moment, both of their hands are holding it, their fingers pinching it in place. My father takes it completely, his lip twitching in a small acknowledgement to his counterpart. Taking the lineup card to the umpire is something the head coach does. This was the passing of trust.
We’ll bat first, because we’re visiting, so I pull my bat from my gear bag and step around the dugout to take a few practice swings. My father joins me a minute later, nodding over his shoulder for me to join him behind the brick side of the dugout. He’s hung a small net against the fence and brought a few balls with him.
“Take a few swings for real, from the left,” he says, kneeling down to steady himself in place to toss the balls for me to hit.
I glance behind me at the sound of Caitlyn’s pitch hitting the catcher’s glove with a commanding pop. She’s throwing hard.
“You sure I should hit left today? She’s throwing hard. I’m not sure I’m ready,” I say, loading my bat over my shoulder.
“You’re ready. You were ready before practice. You just needed to remember what you were capable of,” my father says.
I smile, briefly, and take a quick but deep breath through my nose. I focus my attention on the ball in his hand as he spins it around, his fingers finding the seams.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod.
He tosses, and I swing through the ball, hitting it hard into the net, the sound it makes when it pushes far enough through to hit the brick where the chain of the fence connects making an equally confident sound. I tuck my chin into my shoulder, but my eyes glance over at Caitlyn. She’s watching.
“She see that?” my father says, the cocky smile spreading quickly on his face.
A few drops of rain pelt my eyelids.
“Yeah, she saw that,” I say, swinging my bat around and laying it back on my shoulder. “Go again.”
I swing a few more times while Caitlyn takes her warm-ups, each of us battling to be more impressive. She throws harder—I hit harder. Finally, after about ten swings, I help my father pick up the few balls, and we walk around the dugout to step back under the eave. The rain is picking up.
“They’re going to have to cancel,” I say, sighing.
We both cling to the fence and look out at the storm rolling our direction. The clouds are a dark gray, heavy with rain. One of those clouds is bound to open up, and it’s going to completely flood this field.
“Maybe you’ll get your bat in first,” my dad says, zipping his jacket up and tugging his hat down over his thinning hair.
“That’s some serious rain, Coach,” a familiar voice says behind us. My father and I both turn at the same time to see the boys—TK, Levi, Kyle, and Wes.
“Gentlemen,” my father says, his voice serious. He’ll never really stop being their coach. “I see you made it here in record time. Not sure I want to know how you did that.”
“Kyle drove,” Wes says, selling my friend out. Kyle shoots a glance his way, his eyes wide. Wes just shrugs. “Dude, your driving scares the crap out of me. I’m not going to pretend it’s better than it is. It’s fast though.”
“Ah yes, the Marley lead foot,” my father says, his gaze coming back to Kyle. “I hope your father’s truck made it here in one piece?”
“It’s my truck now, sir. I’m paying it off. And yeah, it’s in one piece,” he says, rolling his eyes at Wes before looking at me. I offer him a half smile.
“You do drive fast,” I say.
“Yeah, nobody was complaining when they wanted to get here on time,” he says.
Wes chews at the inside of his cheek before leaning his elbow into Kyle. “You’re right, man. Thanks for driving—like a fucking maniac,” he says.
Kyle stares at him again for a few seconds then nods. “You’re welcome,” he says, holding his knuckles against the chain link between him and me. I meet his knuckles with my own for a quick pound and he steps over to the bleachers to sit next to Levi and TK.
“Thanks for coming,” I say, stepping toward the far end of the dugout while our lead-off batter steps out to the plate. I hit in the fourth spot, so I have a batter or two to get myself ready for this.
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” Wes says, his head leaning forward against the fence. I slide my fingers over his where they grip the metal links.
“How was photography?” I ask.
“Good. I think he gave me a B. He said I was supposed to use an object,” he shrugs.
“Your brothers’ legs aren’t objects?” I say, one eyebrow up.
“The Chico guys are here,” I say, glancing over to the home plate where Bria is now facing two strikes.
“Yeah, I saw them,” he says.
“Strike three!” the ump calls. Bria jogs back to the dugout, her expression dejected as she runs by me. I pat her helmet as she moves to the corner.
“You’ll get her next time,” I say.
“She’s too fast,” Bria says, stuffing her helmet into the pocket on the bottom of her bag. She pulls her gloves off and grabs her gear to get ready to take the field. My attention comes back to Wes.
I breathe in slowly, our eyes locked again. No smiles. Just nerves from me. I look down at my gloves and adjust the Velcro tighter.
“You’re faster,” he says. I chuckle once. “I’m serious. I’m not feeding you bullshit. You’re faster, and you know it.”
I sigh and turn around to grab my bat from the place I hooked it through the fence. “They’re here to see her. I’m kidding myself thinking that anyone gives a shit about me,” I say.
“Stop it,” Wes interrupts. I pause, one leg propped up on the bench as I lean my weight into the fence. His hand reaches in between the links to find mine and I let go of my bat to feel him. My eyes flit up to his to find his stare challenging me. “Make them notice you. She throws hard. You hit hard. They’re going to want you both on their roster. Make them. Then fuck ’em, and go play for Stanford.”
