Play On

by Michelle Smith

  “Try dressing in something other than a T-shirt and baseball pants, Floral Prince. Then you won’t have to worry about that precious rear.”

  My rear is pretty precious, if I say so myself.

  She unties her apron on the way to the counter. “It was swamped tonight. I was counting down the minutes until closing.”

  “A rush is good for ya. Makes time go by faster. And you can handle it. You’re a natural at the whole service-with-a-smile thing.”

  “Well, it’s easy if you’ve had a good teacher.”

  She stops just short of the counter, hangs her head, and sneaks a look at me over her shoulder. I don’t have a clue what to say to that. She reaches for her jacket and I head for the back room, flipping on the light switch. The tiny space is just big enough for a few boxes of extra stock, a table we use for making arrangements, and a couple folding chairs. I set up the chairs beside Dad’s old trunk, which doubles as our dinner table.

  “Hey.”

  I whirl around, finding Marisa leaning against the doorframe. My mouth drops open a little. Her face is flushed, and good Lord, I’ve never seen a girl look more gorgeous with messy hair and bright red cheeks.

  “Your mom’s up in her office,” she says, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “She might be a while. She has to finish up some order stuff because she couldn’t get to it earlier.”

  I have no idea why, but my tongue feels like it’s glued to the roof of my mouth when I’m in the same room as this girl. And when I do open my mouth, something stupid usually tumbles out.

  “Do you eat food?”

  Like that.

  She laughs so hard, she snorts. I’m pretty sure I’ve never made a girl snort before. She covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking as those eyes of hers crinkle, just like they do every time she smiles. And my stomach does its flip-flops, just like it does every time she smiles.

  Nudging the brim of my cap, I point to the food on Dad’s trunk. “Trying again: Do you want to eat with us? I bought extra.”

  She cocks her head to the side and smiles. “You got extra for me? Even knowing I don’t like barbecue?”

  I shrug, feeling my own face flush. “I still can’t believe you don’t like it. Have you ever tried South Carolina barbecue, for Christ’s sake? But there’s chicken, too. And fries. You can’t say no to fries.”

  She nods to the trunk. “You guys really eat on that thing? It looks like you pulled it up from the Titanic’s wreckage. I thought it was a junker.”

  She’s not entirely wrong about that. I plop down on one of the chairs, but remember that Momma still has to come down, so I move to the floor so she and Marisa can each have a seat. “If you eat with us, I’ll tell you why.” I grin and pat one of the chairs. “Come on. You know you want to. They can hear your stomach growlin’ down in Georgia.”

  She glances at her watch. “My parents are pretty big on the family dinner thing. They like me home by seven.”

  “It’s barely six,” I remind her. “That’s plenty of time. Think of it as an appetizer. Everyone needs appetizers.”

  She chews on her lower lip, like she’s weighing her options. “I don’t know if I should.”

  “What? Think I’m going to try to poison you?” Wow. I’ve officially crossed into desperation territory. I wouldn’t blame her for running now.

  “Please.” She walks over and sits beside me on the floor. She crosses her legs. “You don’t have a bad bone in your body.”

  I narrow my eyes, handing her a plastic utensil packet. “See, now I’m a little insulted. You clearly haven’t seen me on the field.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve been told I throw a badass fastball.”

  She shakes her head, her hair falling across her face. “You’re such a dork, Austin.”

  “An adorable dork, at least?”

  She rolls her eyes and tries to hide a smile. She should stop that. Let the smiles flow, girl. I grab one of the containers of barbecue and pop it open. “You sure you don’t wanna try it?” I ask, waving it under her nose. “It’s pretty amazing. Joyner’s is the best there is.”

  She looks at the container and back to me. With an overly dramatic sigh, she takes it. “You should feel really lucky. I’ve never liked this stuff. And in Maryland, our town had a barbecue place that was featured on TV. I’m a tough critic.”

  “But they’re not Joyner’s. There’s a huge difference between South Carolina barbecue and whatever they serve in Maryland.” I nod to the container. “Go ahead. You can do it. I have all the faith in you.”

  She scrunches her nose, but scoops out a bite with her fork. “If I die, I’ll haunt you forever.”

  “Won’t be necessary.”

  With her nose still all scrunched up, she puts the food in her mouth. She narrows her eyes at me. “I hate you,” she says through a mouthful.

  I stifle a laugh. “Why? Because it’s awful?”

  “Because it’s amazing, and now I don’t have an excuse to not eat thirty pounds’ worth of sodium-laden pig.”

  Baseball lover, and now a barbecue convert. She’s officially a Lewis Creek resident. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “My heart would argue with you.” She passes me the container. “So what’s with the trunk, Floral Prince?”

  Dang it. I was kind of hoping she’d forget that part of the bargain. I stare at the battered black trunk, which does look like it belongs on the ocean floor. It’s been two years since Dad died, but talking about what happened never gets any easier—which is why we don’t talk about it at all.

  “We’ve been doing this for years,” I tell her, taking out my own fork. “My parents worked their butts off around here for as long as I can remember. But when I was a kid, I didn’t really give a crap—I was just starvin’ come dinnertime and turned into a demon child. So we’d have our family dinner right here.”

  She nods, pulling a fry out of the bag. “’Kay. Still doesn’t explain the trunk.”

  “It was my dad’s. It’s where all his high school ball stuff is stored. He was, like, a local legend before he blew out his shoulder. Momma brought it here after he died. She thinks it’s a way of having him here with us or something.” Not that I agree with her, but sometimes you shut up and let people have whatever helps them feel better. She barely ate for a week after he died. Wouldn’t come out of her room for two. If keeping an old, beat-up trunk makes her happy, she can have at it.

  Marisa chews, studying me for a moment before asking, “What happened?”

  My stomach clenches, but I shove a bite into my mouth anyway. Breathe, Braxton. “Car accident. He drove off the town bridge when I was fifteen.”

  I hold her gaze, praying to all that’s holy that she leaves it there. She doesn’t need to know that Dad had no reason to be on the town bridge in the middle of the night. She doesn’t need to know about the letter Momma found on the kitchen table, about the nine words scrawled on the page: All my love, all my promises, all my swears. Dad used those words for as long as I could remember. He promised he’d never let anything hurt us, swore that nothing would ever tear our family apart. And he was the one who’d demolished it.

  There’s really no reason to tell Marisa that my dad fucking killed himself when he had a wife and kid at home.

  The silence is deafening, slicing through me like a knife. Her expression softens, like she can tell my heart’s about to burst through my chest. There are only four people in this world who know that part of Dad’s story: me, Momma, Jay, and Coach. Jay and I have been joined at the hip for years, so bringing him into the loop was inevitable. Coach knows because he’s the one I called when Momma couldn’t get out of bed two days after Dad died. Literally couldn’t, thanks to the medication cocktail she was on. I panicked and Coach was the only person I could think of to call. He spotted the letter, which was still on the kitchen table like some twisted keepsake.

  Dad truly was a local legend. A baseball hero for th
e school. And he was a good guy when he was around. No need to ruin his legacy, even if I still kind of hate his guts for what he pulled.

  More like really hate his guts.

  Marisa nudges me softly. When I look down, she smiles and whispers, “Hi.” And even though she just hit the sorest of my sore spots, I say, “Hi.”

  “‘Hi’ begins a new conversation,” she says. “Sounds like you need it.”

  More than anything on God’s green earth.

  She shoves a forkful of barbeque in her mouth. “It’s a good thing I trust you,” she says. “I don’t eat after just anyone. I could catch the plague or something.”

  All my muscles unclench. My heart’s still racing, but I think I’m out of heart-attack territory. “Shows how much you know. It’s chock-full of poison. I spit mine out when you weren’t lookin’.” After one more bite, I set my food on the trunk and lean forward, resting my elbows on my bent knees. “All right, let’s talk about you. What’s your story?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not that interesting.”

  “BS. Tell you what: if you can’t think of at least five things about yourself, then I’ll let you get away with”—I use air quotes—“‘not that interesting.’”

  She blushes. Her lips quirk. And as she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, it’s cut-and-dry: she’s downright one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen.

  “Fine. Let’s see. Born and raised in Baltimore,” she begins, ticking it off on her finger. “Eighteen. Moved down here during Christmas vacation after Dad accepted the chief of surgery job at the hospital. Homeschooled science nerd who knows a lot about flowers. Going to University of South Carolina in August.” She wiggles her fingers. “That’s five. Anything else?”

  My ears perk. USC, she says? “See? Now that’s interesting.” I scoot across the floor until I’m facing her. “And while I have no complaints about you going to USC, why go there when you lived in Baltimore for eighteen years?”

  Her mouth opens, but footsteps thunder down the stairs out front. Worst timing ever. Hanging my head, I take a deep breath, bracing for the hurricane. The calm was nice while it lasted. Momma appears in the doorway and snaps, “I need to talk to you,” before storming back into the display room.

  Marisa winces. “Yikes. Harsh. Everything okay?”

  Here we go. I push to my feet. “Nope. Be right back.” I walk into the dark display room, where Momma’s waiting beside the counter with her arms crossed.

  “Coach Taylor called me,” she says.

  Rubbing my eyes, I groan. “Of course he did.”

  Her own eyes widen, filled with lightning that’s bound to strike. I take a step back. She steps forward. “Highly recommending that you watch that mouth, Austin Michael.”

  She waits for me to speak, but she’s going to be waiting a while. We’ve reached middle-name status. Not walking into that trap, thanks.

  When I say nothing, she continues, “You need to give me something here. Do you need help? Tutoring?”

  “Shh!” I glance over my shoulder. I don’t want Marisa, self-proclaimed science nerd, finding out that I’m an idiot, too. My stupidity is need-to-know business. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I’m two weeks into the semester and it’s one class, for Christ’s sake. Can’t y’all give me more time than that before you give up on me?”

  Tears spring to her eyes, and now I’ve graduated from idiot to a pile of pure shit because I just made my momma cry.

  “How can you even say that?” she whispers sharply. “We want the absolute best for you. If you can’t see that—” The phone upstairs rings. Instead of excusing herself, she rushes toward the staircase, leaving me alone in the dark.

  Fantastic. Just freakin’ fantastic.

  I blow out a breath and turn back to the stockroom, only to find Marisa in its doorway. She smiles tightly. “Sorry. Wasn’t sure if I was supposed to hear that or not.”

  I fall into step beside her as she walks toward the front door. “Too late now. Is it time for you to leave already?”

  She nods. “Yeah, I should get going.” She zips up her coat and looks at the door, which is already covered with a thin sheen of frost. “Which class is it? That you’re having trouble with, I mean.”

  “Chemistry,” I say on an exhale. “The work of Satan. Whatever you wanna call it.”

  She smirks. “You know, I’ve aced everything up through Organic Chem in my homeschool program. And I’m going to major in Chemistry at USC.”

  My eyes widen. “Oh,” is all I can think to say. It doesn’t take a genius to know what she’s getting at, but asking her for help? Nope. Not going to happen. I mean, we work together. Plus, she’d realize just how dumb I really am, and that’s not an option. Of course, neither is failing.

  Damn it.

  The bell jingles as Marisa pushes the door open, snapping me back to the moment. I grab the door, holding it for her as she walks out onto the sidewalk. My muscles tighten and my breath downright disappears once the cold air hits my bare arms.

  “Marisa?” I say. The door rattles behind me as it closes. She turns, her lips slightly parted. If I thought the cold took my breath away, it’s nothing compared to her face shining beneath the downtown lights.

  I clear my throat. “Thanks for—” I gesture to the shop. “For not thinking I’m an idiot, I guess. I just have a tough time with that whole balance thing. School, work, and ball all at once is rough sometimes. I’m handling it, though.” Sort of. Not really.

  She smiles. “I’m not sure I could think you’re an idiot, Austin. A little crazy. We’ve covered dorky. But never an idiot.” She shivers and bounces from foot to foot. “Sorry. Kind of cold.”

  I take off my cap and tug it onto her head. Now my head’s freezing, but the sight of her in my cap is enough to keep me from complaining. Girls in baseball caps? You can’t beat that.

  “There,” I say. “Better?”

  She holds my gaze with this strange look of amazement on her face as her smile grows. “Much. I’ll get it back to you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  That smile stays glued to her face as she backs toward her car. Before opening her door, she pauses. “You got your phone?”

  “Um—” I dig into my pants pocket and pull out my phone. “For what?”

  She gestures for me to hand it over, which I do. The screen lights up her face even more as she types quickly. “Here,” she says, giving it back to me. “If you decide you need help, now you’ve got the number of a science pro. No excuses.”

  Stunned, I stare down at my phone. I grin once I see the new contact listing. The girl’s number without even asking? Jackpot.

  She slides into her car, cranks the engine, and backs out of her parking space. But instead of driving on, her window lowers.

  “I’m going to USC because it’s where my parents went to school,” she calls across the road. “Thanks for the appetizers, Austin.”

  With that, she starts down the road. As I watch those taillights disappear, I can’t stop my grin from growing.

  chapter five

  All right. Here’s the scenario: You’ve worked one-on-one with this girl for two days. The girl’s cool as hell, a blast to talk to, and easy to look at. (Really easy to look at.) She even gives you her number and says she’ll see you tomorrow. And POOF! She’s a no-show for nearly a week. It’s tragic, really. According to Momma, it’s not a tragedy, but a case of the stomach flu. That only makes me feel worse. What if sharing food with me did give her the plague?

  I’ve kind of missed her. Okay, I’ve really missed her. I haven’t decided what level of pathetic that is yet. Because seriously—two days.

  On my way to the cafeteria for lunch on Monday, I stare down at my phone. Marisa’s number is pulled up, ready to go. All it would take is a few clicks to send her a message. But for real, we’ve only worked together twice. How stalkerish is too stalkerish, especially if it’s just an “I hope you’re not dead” text?


  I stop in the cafeteria’s doorway. Stare at the screen some more. Suck it up and type out a quick text.

  Its Austin. Havent seen u in days. Little worried. U ok?

  Good and simple. Before I chicken out, I hit Send and stuff the phone into my pocket. The cafeteria’s swamped, with all the school’s seniors and half of its juniors. I spot Jay, Brett, and Right Field Randy at our table across the room, by the back windows. After grabbing a plate of cheese fries, which I scored for free thanks to a well-timed grin for the cashier (being the star pitcher does have its perks), I weave through the obstacle course of people on my way to the table and slide onto the bench across from Jay and the others.

  “That all you’re eatin’?” Eric asks, plopping down beside me. Kellen sits on his other side and tosses up a wave to the rest of us. “You’ll never make it through this afternoon. We’ll be scraping you off the field.”

  Team tryouts are this afternoon, but for us, it’s basically just early practice. The new recruits take the brunt of Coach’s drills. “How about you worry about you, and I’ll worry about me,” I say.

  He rolls his eyes and turns to Kellen.

  “Austin,” a voice singsongs behind us. Hannah Wallace drops her huge purse onto the table and sits beside me. She grins at me with a smile perfected by years of braces as she swings her tan legs over the bench. “Hope you’re ready for your interview, because it’s time to get this show started.”

  Hannah’s been the head of our school’s paper since we were sophomores. She’s the head of almost everything in this school, really. Every year, she practically tackles me when it’s time for the Spring Sports write-up. Give the girl five years, and I guarantee she’ll be camera-ready for ESPN.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I tell her.

  Another girl, who’s wearing a lot less hairspray and eyeliner, sits on Hannah’s other side, quiet as a church mouse.

  “Oh!” Hannah gestures to the girl. “Guys, this is Morgan. She just moved here from Alabama. She’s taking journalism this semester and I let her tag along. Y’all be nice to her.”