The ball soared out of her hand, aimed right at Cody Hatcher’s nose. Again. This time he did see it coming, and by the time he realized the only reason he saw it coming so clear was that it was twenty miles an hour slower, he’d already bailed, tilting backward, bat clanking down to the deck once again.
He’d fallen to this awkward crab-walk position, and at about six feet from him, the ball seemed to turn on mid-air, change direction, and drop right through the zone.
“Strike two,” the coach called after it ‘whapped’ flush into his glove.
“Com’on, Hatcher!” one of the players called from the side. “At least stick in there and hold your ground!” Hatcher scrambled ungracefully to his feet, both shirt-flaps untucked now, face red with embarrassment blotches.
“Did you see the late movement on that thing?” he pleaded. “It cut a foot over and two feet down on a dime!”
“Cut it out,” Coach Rivers said. “Quit complaining.”
“But she was taunting me!” Hatcher said, voice cracking.
“Use her for an excuse for poor batting, and you’ll ride the bench, bank on it. Now it’s strike two. Get in the box.”
Hatcher stared for a second, and someone started a new chant. It began with the group surrounding the kid with the speed gun and then spread around the bleachers in a slow, growing rumble.
“Get in the box! Get in the box! Get in the box!”
He did, no theatrics. Coach Rivers squatted and dropped two fingers down, then flicked his fingers upward. Next, he patted his left thigh with his palm, and Becky got it. Cutter, high and running in on him. She shook her head ‘no,’ slowly and deliberately. Both of them knew what this crowd wanted. He dropped down one finger, and Becky nodded ‘Okay.’
She wound up, reached back, and fired.
The crowd went absolutely berserk when Hatcher swung, missed, and twisted his ankle in the process. But that was nothing compared to the kid with the speed gun. He looked like he was going to have a hemorrhage, jumping up and down, knees to chest, literally screaming himself hoarse. It took a second or two for the crowd noise to die back, but then you could hear him shouting, panting, “Ninety-eight! That girl just threw ninety-eight!”
Chapter Seventeen
Becky ran home, scenery to the side flying by, tears streaming along the sides of her face. It was the running that did it, releasing of all the emotions built up inside her like a volcano. High up in her forehead, in her eyes, in the back of her throat, was the sheer and savage thrill of the kill. She was the fierce lioness who struck out nine varsity batters with twenty eight pitches in front of two thousand witnesses. The fifth batter, a blimp of a boy with sweaty, black hair, pulled his left hamstring trying to hit her Vulcan change, and their seventh guy actually sprained his hip diving at her slider. Her fastball peaked at ninety-nine miles per hour, and the thunder of cheers had made her ears numb.
Her chest felt hollow. There was something missing here, definitely. After her last pitch, Coach Rivers had slapped her five up high, but then turned immediately to his boys, telling them to gather by the bleachers. He told Becky that they needed to get used to the idea of her, and that she could come back Monday for proper introductions. A few stragglers called out “Good job” on their way out the door, but no one walked her to the water fountain. Joey and the gang were simply not there, and Becky had gone back to the locker room the same way she’d come from it. By herself.
She picked up the pace and did an absolute sprint up to Bedford Road, arms pumping, legs pistoning. Trees, bushes, shrubs, and border foliage rushed by to the sides, and Becky darted her glance from one landscaping design to the next, looking for a blur between hanging branches, movement between the trees, a shadow creeping along the grass from the other side of a given hedge. No one. The street was empty of all but a couple of younger kids doing a sidewalk chalk mural and an old guy in plaid shorts, black socks, and slippers, watering his flowers and singing old fashioned war-time battle songs to himself.
So where was Danny, anyway? He had promised to be at the practice, and she knew for sure he had not been there as a player, not even a sub or an equipment nerd. Had he been in the crowd somewhere? If so, why hadn’t he at least popped over to say “hello?” Shy was shy, but not even a nod while walking out with his friends? No passing smile? After all, he had just told her that he loved her the day before, and at bare minimum, she felt she should have at least gotten a note pressed into her hand or something.
She missed him terribly, a gaping wound in her gut that actually ached. She didn’t really know him, had hardly even been in his presence for more than a blink here or a flash there, but she felt devastated just the same. Did it make sense? No. Could she ever explain this to anyone, even Beth? Probably not. Beth was creative with conversation, but she kept it real. This feeling just wasn’t normal.
Becky charged up King Avenue, the last rise before Stonybrook Road, legs burning good now, tears still streaming and pulling off her in threads. Back home in Syracuse, Nicky had a boyfriend now, some older guy, and she rarely Facebooked anymore. And Lauren’s messages had gotten more and more distant, as she seemed to have filtered into a clique of ‘popular’ girls who talked endlessly about people in vicious little acronyms. Becky felt like the loneliest girl on the planet, and just a glimpse of Danny’s face, the warm blue eyes under those gorgeous arching brows, that thin chiseled jaw with the little lines around his mouth, would have been enough to quench this incredible thirst she’d built up for him. She felt stronger than she’d ever been in one sense, and like she was frail and dying in another. She loved this boy desperately. She certainly didn’t understand it, but was smart enough to know that understanding had little to do with it.
Becky slowed to a jog after passing over the concrete bridge by Rock Ridge Park, and dialed it down to a walk when she got to the driveway. Her breath was deep and full, but not heaving. Her hands were on her hips, but she wasn’t leaning over with her palms on her thighs, gasping. Again, Danny had been right on the mark about this. She had only run the course between home and school three times, yet felt she’d been on a strength and conditioning program for a month and a half, her endurance close to its absolute limit where she’d peak and maintain. Both cars were in the driveway, so Becky put her backpack up on the hood of Dad’s Pontiac, took off her hat, and stuffed it inside. She wiped the sides of her eyes with the back of her hand, gathered her hair, flopped it a bit, and let it fall behind her shoulders. She fanned her face with both hands, as if that would do the least bit good, grabbed her backpack, and entered the house through the laundry room door.
There was music, voices, and activity, and as she came through the kitchen, Becky noticed odd differences: scented candles on the table and the shelf by the sink, and a painting of a ship with huge gray masts covering a part of the wall leading to the foyer that had a faint discoloring Becky’s family had noted, accepted, and ignored. On the stove were two large saucepans covered and simmering, and the oven light was on. It smelled like fancy restaurant food, Middle Eastern or maybe Mexican, and she walked through the archway.
The living room looked like some sort of strange indoor campfire. The furniture was rearranged in a semi-circle. There was a new lamp, a couple of big potted tree plants, and Jill was standing on a stool fastening holiday greens over the dark fieldstone fireplace. Justin and Fluffy were in the process of hanging new curtains across the picture window facing Stonybrook Road, and Beth was playing her guitar and singing. Ma was sitting at the edge of the sofa, hands between her knees, eyes closed, rocking gently back and forth, and humming along to herself.
“Hello,” Becky said quietly, and they all responded with “Hey’s” and “Hello’s,” as if they’d been a part of her family forever. Dazed, Becky said,
“I’m going to shower up, okay?”
“Okay,” someone said. She moved off to her room, and through her window saw the strangest thing. Out in the back yard, her father and Joey Chen were putting a pol
e into the ground. Dad had on his work clothes, painter’s pants and a t-shirt, and Joey was still in his school outfit, dress shirt, sweater and all. Both of them had dirt on their knees, and there was a scatter of tools and scraps all around them: shovels and a tamper, and a pair of steel rakes, plus a couple of saw horses supporting a plywood board littered with tools.
And there were wood scraps all over the yard, odds and ends cut from what Becky recognized as the old crate Dad had never thrown out from the peaches Mother had bought at Cripple Creek Orchards, the pallet that the refrigerator had been delivered on, a section of weather-spotted fence left by the previous owners, and the length of thick piping Dad had brought home from work weeks ago and discarded.
They were making a bird house. Joey sensed her presence and saw her through the window. He waved. So did her father. And she saw something on his face that was new and fragile, almost like he didn’t trust it.
It looked like a sense of peace.
After Becky had showered, they ate. It was a combination of enchiladas, burritos, and a couple of casseroles with fancy foreign names Becky couldn’t even hope to remember. They ate in the living room, and during refill trips for iced tea and seconds and thirds, Becky got little whispered updates: Justin claiming Shane couldn’t make it because of a biology project he was behind on, Beth saying that they’d brought house-warming presents her mother had driven over in their mini-van, Jill telling her how proud they were of her pitching—they’d only watched the Hatcher at-bat and then left.
Piercing Becky’s ears came next, and Jill put in her red ruby hoops. Justin, Joey, and Dad retired to the porch to discuss some creative game programming, and Beth soothed Mother in the living room with her gentle guitar playing. Fluffy busied himself with a gimp necklace he was crafting, and Becky sat at the edge of the couch with her knees drawn up to her chest. It was all just too weird, too “Brady Bunch,” too ‘normal’ to be believed. This was the Michigan household…so dysfunctional she didn’t even celebrate her birthday anymore, not really.
Dad would forget and Ma would nag, and then he’d get drunk and Becky would cry. Her fifteenth was coming up this Sunday, and she hadn’t even mentioned it, kind of forming the hope that both her parents might forget it this year with the recent move and everything.
Five minutes later, they all re-gathered for some of Beth’s secret recipe hot chocolate, and Becky almost dropped her cup when Jill asked her father straight out whether he’d considered getting the birthmark under his jaw removed.
More amazingly, he responded with, “It’s a part of me, Jill, honey. Some things are just meant to stick with you.”
There was a sadness there that Becky couldn’t quite place, but the thing that was really so surprising was the gentle certainty in his tone, like he knew himself and was comfortable in his own skin. Heck, of all the people Becky knew, her father was the least satisfied, the most closed-off, the most clueless when it came to his own path in life. Rarely did he call anyone “honey,” and this sudden attempt at becoming Mr. Philosophical-Dad, well, it just didn’t fit. Brett Michigan was more of a here-and-now guy, a “Where’s the remote and my sandwich” kind of guy.
Joey made a joke, and Becky was so lost in thought she missed it, except for the tail end being about a guy at a bus stop with a parrot on his shoulder. And, as if miracles would never cease, Dad ruffled Joey’s hair and gave him a fist-bump. Beth played a couple of songs by John Denver that both her parents sang along with, horribly off-key, arms around each other like they’d just fallen in love all over again, and Justin and Fluffy cleaned up. Beth’s mother showed up sometime later in the driveway and beeped, and everyone gathered in the doorway to take turns giving goodbye hugs to the Michigans.
Becky felt like she was on another planet.
Mother took Beth’s number and promised to text her about a cashier’s job. Joey agreed to come over on Sunday and help Dad clean out the rest of the shed and figure ways to manufacture more lawn art.
Becky went off to her room and curled up on her bed. Her feelings were jumbled, like static, and she didn’t know what to make of them. Everything was out of joint, and she was off at the edge of things. And she couldn’t help being mad at herself for being uncomfortable about it. Everyone was happy now, right? There was a soft knock, and it was Dad in the doorway, ducking his head so he could fit under the archway.
“Hi,” Becky said quietly. He put his fist to his lips and coughed gently.
“I uh…didn’t have a drink tonight, Miss Rebecca. Not one drop.” He unconsciously reached back and rubbed that German flip of a cowlick at the back of his head. “And I like your friends. They’re nice.”
Becky sat up. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him, she really, really did, but for a moment she just sat there with her mouth slightly ajar. Finally what came out was simply,
“Thanks.”
It was all she could manage without getting emotional for all the wrong reasons. Sure, it was nice that he’d stayed sober tonight, but he clearly liked Joey better.
He dropped his glance, backed his head out, and closed the door gently. Becky just sat there for a minute, looking off to the side at nothing. Her father had just tried to reach out, and she’d dismissed him as if she was a polite Principal briefly looking up from her paperwork. But Dad’s doorway statement had seemed so much like an admission to a superior or something!
Becky’s eyes brimmed up with tears. She was the one who really needed the comfort here, not the other way around, and she felt totally selfish and guilty about it. And she didn’t quite understand how it could have possibly worked out this way. She had just experienced the greatest day of her life at school, being popular, and now she felt utterly alone.
Something moved at the corner of her vision, and she pulled the pillow to her chest, eyes wide, heart racing.
There was a face in the window, and it looked like a pitted, grinning pterodactyl, wings spread and pointed. But it must have been the wind pushing clouds across the light of the moon, because in a bare wink, it changed.
Becky threw the pillow aside and ran to the window.
It was Danny out there, hands spread and pressed to the outer panes, a smile dancing in the light of his eyes.
Chapter Eighteen
The windows had the old-fashioned crankshafts, and Becky used both hands. The thing opened outward, so Danny had to step back a pace. He was wearing jeans with holes in the knees, white threads banded across, and another tournament jersey, this one saying ‘Audabon Invitational’ in Old Englishy black font.
“Where were you today?” Becky whispered, immediately regretting the fact that her first words sounded like an accusation. Still, she had spent the last few hours in a state of frustration, and there was an after-taste, certainly. He put his hands in his pockets and gave a little nod.
“You were good.”
“You saw?”
“Of course.”
Becky gave her hair a toss off the shoulder.
“Where were you sitting?” He looked off to the side.
“In the back, at the top of the bleachers. By the fire extinguisher.”
“You must not have been able to see much,” she muttered.
“I saw enough.”
“Yeah?”
He came forward into the light framed by the window.
“Yeah. When you got hit by Hatcher’s underthrow, you won over most of the females, and by the time you had a second strike on him, more than half the guys in that room wished they were you. Your fastball is coming along, but you’re not bending your back enough on your splitter. And Finley came too close to guessing ‘slurve’ on his out-pitch. You telegraphed it.”
“How?”
“Front shoulder. Wasn’t quite parallel. Looked like a tip that you were gonna hang something big and sweeping.”
“I never hang my breaking stuff.”
“Amen.”
“I love you too.”
His eyes actually twinkled.
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“I love you more. And I think about you night and day, honest.”
“Amen,” Becky said, amazed at her casual sarcasm. She gripped the frame, drew up her knee, and rested it on the window ledge.
“What are you doing,” Danny said.
“I’m coming out there.”
“No,” he said. “Not yet. Not here.”
“Why?” He looked one way off to the side and then the other.
“Because.”
“Because why?” His gaze drifted to hers.
“I’ll tell you later, when you meet me.”
“Where?”
“At the ball field.”
“What ball field?”
His face was so dead serious, it looked carved in stone.
“The field behind Rutledge. The varsity field, back by the woods.”
Becky didn’t even hesitate for a moment.
“What time?”
He smiled.
“Midnight, silly.”
“Why midnight?” she said, matching his tone.
“New day, technically,” he said.
“What’s that mean?”
“What’s anything mean?”
They both laughed, but it was short. This was big time. Becky was going to sneak out of the house and meet a boy by the woods in the dark at midnight. She was young, but not that young. She knew what this meant, what could…happen, possibly.
“Why Rutledge?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “It’s far. I mean, I have a back yard right here, where we could…talk.”
He came right up to the window frame, such a portrait, so beautiful. She drew near, hands pressed to the border windows, and she let her face come so close she could taste his breath, sweet and dark.
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