She looks down and spots a blotch of yogurt on her cashmere.
“Ew!” She digs into her bag and pulls out a tissue.
I roll my eyes and spoon a brownie into my mouth.
“Beach?” Jessica suggests, pointing her plastic spoon south toward the surf.
“Ugh . . . we’ll never find parking, and it’s a ten minute walk,” Missy whines, desperately trying to erase the soon-to-be stain.
“Someone hasn’t worked out since basketball,” I say, bumping into Missy. She deserves it.
Missy hip checks me back. “Someone is an Oscar the Grouch today.”
She’s got me there.
Once we reach the beach, the cool ocean wind whips our napkins, sending Eva’s sailing across the sand. She takes off after it, grabbing it before it soars into the surf. Taylor arrives a few seconds later.
The fog has lifted from earlier, but with the sun setting, it leaves a sharp chill in the air. I pull my Beachwood Softball warm-up jacket tight around my chest and, as I do so, my stomach sinks. I guess this will be the last jacket I ever get with the P for pitcher on the sleeve.
I’m about to share this great revelation with Missy when I realize that she’s already taken a seat on the semi-deserted beach and is busy flipping through the prom issue of Seventeen with her new BFF, Hannah. Disgruntled, I spoon another scoop of Pinkberry into my mouth and squeeze in next to Jessica.
As Missy turns the pages, I catch sight of a prom ad from out of the corner of my eye. The photo is difficult to miss—the guy pictured looks just like Zachary, dimple and all. Immediately, my mind flips back to the unanswered invite. What am I going to do about the prom?
“Is that the dress you’re using as inspiration?” Abby asks, looking at the ad over Hannah’s shoulder. She tucks a piece of dirty blonde hair behind her ear.
“Maybe . . .” Missy says, smiling at Hannah.
I take another spoonful and almost choke on my yogurt. Missy is being so super-sweet to Hannah. If she thinks I believe for one second that she’s not loving every minute of this . . .
“I can’t wait to see my sketch,” Jessica says, clutching her white dish of pomegranate with toasted almonds.
“Or what about when Colin sees you in it . . . ?” Taylor chimes in.
The prom talk continues, but I force myself to tune it out. Naturally, this only manages to make my thoughts return to Zachary. What if I refuse his invitation and he goes with someone else? Would it be worse than if I say yes and he thinks that means that I forgive him? Maybe if I just go with him as friends . . .
Finally, I just can’t take it anymore. “Seriously? You guys are really letting Hannah design your prom dresses?”
Hannah grins proudly.
I shoot her a death stare.
“So, Kylie, are you in?” Jessica asks, elbowing me. “You should see the stuff Hannah is working on—it’s amazing.”
I scan my teammates. “For the last time, I’m good. Missy and I always shop together with our moms for our big day dresses. We’ve been doing it since like preschool graduation.” I glance at Missy.
She looks down.
What I really want to say is I can’t believe my teammates would trust someone who thinks that sewing mini Care Bears onto bags is fashion. (Not to mention the truth: that dress shopping is my mom’s thing.)
Hannah nudges Missy with the magazine.
“What?” I say, annoyed that Hannah now thinks it’s her responsibility to tell Missy when to talk.
Missy looks at Hannah out of the corner of her eye. “It’s nothing,” she says.
“No, what?” I ask, demanding an answer.
Again, they look at each other. And that’s when it dawns on me: I know that look. People used to have it all the time when talking about Zachary. They know something that I don’t.
Missy comes over to sit next to me. “Ky—please don’t take this the wrong way—I actually have to wear a dress from our line. You know, to show off my marketing materials on my college app. So, I’m working on it with Hannah.”
“What?!?”
“Before you freak, it’s for college. I have to.” She tugs at my jacket. “It’s not like I want to.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.” I lean in and whisper, “You know you’re going to look like a freak, right?”
“Ky, will you just trust me that I know what I’m doing?” Missy asks, her voice rising. Then she gets up and walks back over to Hannah, the magazine still in hand. “What cut are we going with for Tamika’s neckline again?” she asks.
“AV-neckline,” Hannah answers.
“Right. AV-neckline,” Missy repeats, flipping through the magazine.
She’s sucking Hannah for everything she can.
Tamika moves her arms like she’s dancing. “I’m going to look so fine for senior prom this year and I didn’t even have to worry about shopping.”
“How do you know what to make?” Zoe asks Hannah.
“It’s sketchy.” She lets out a loud laugh. “Get it? Sketchy.” She cracks herself up. “No, seriously. Somehow the ideas come to me and then one day it just meshes.” Hannah shrugs her shoulders.
“So, is Vi letting you design her dress too?” I cut in.
Hannah breaks out in another fit of giggles. “Do skateboards fly?”
The group snickers.
“She’s like you,” Hannah says, lifting her nose in the air.
“And how’s that?” I ask, daring Hannah to call me a snob.
She looks like she’s about to take the bait when Jessica changes the topic. “So, what does Taylor’s dress look like?” she asks.
“At first I was going with all white, but now I’m thinking a gray or a silver,” Hannah says, crunching down on her Fruity Pebbles.
“But I totally trust Hannah.” Taylor beams. “She’ll know what works for me.”
I roll my eyes. It’s getting way too thick. I jokingly attempt to gag myself with my spoon. Abby and Zoe giggle.
Taylor, on the other hand, doesn’t laugh. (Not that I’d expect her to.) But then she surprises me by slowly looking up at me, a newfound awareness in her eyes. “What’s the deal, Ky? You seem so down. This isn’t just about softball is it?”
I freeze, noticing that my hand has made its way to my heart pendant. Then I glare at her. She looks down and plays with her smoothie straw.
“Did something happen with Zach?” she whispers. This time she doesn’t look up.
My teammates are stunned silent. Suddenly, the only sounds are the waves crashing against the sand and the squeak of Taylor’s plastic straw.
Then Missy pipes up. “What are you talking about, Tay? Kylie hasn’t spoken to Zach since their latest split.” Missy nervously looks at me.
I glance at Zoe, silently begging her not to rat me out. Her eyes bug.
“Yeah, Kylie’s over Zach,” Tamika adds.
“They’re done. . . . History,” Jessica chimes in.
“Kylie?” Taylor asks. “Is that true?”
“Yeah, Ky. Is it?” Missy scooches closer to me from across the circle.
I survey my teammates, desperate for a way out of the conversation. But the more I try to come up with something, anything, to say, the more I realize there can only be one response. “Taylor’s right. Zachary asked me to the prom.”
thireteen
My teammates glance at one another frantically and then burst into a frenzy.
“Don’t worry, girls. It’s just an invite. Kylie would never go with Zach,” Missy insists. “She’s smarter than that.”
“I’m sure she told him where to shove his invitation,” Tamika adds.
“Yeah, Kylie would never give Zach a chance after the basketball season. I mean, what he did was . . .” Jessica pauses, scraping the bottom of her cup with her spoon. “Unforgivable.”
I watch as my basketball buds chat about me like I’m not even there. What do they know about Zachary and me?
Eventually, I can’t take it any longer. “Uh
, hello. Earth to everyone, but we’re talking about my life. My decision.”
“You did tell him no, right?” Missy eyes me suspiciously.
“I didn’t tell him yes, if that’s what you want to know.” I stand up, adjusting my jacket. Then I shove my napkins into my empty yogurt cup.
“Well, you’ll show him when you get crowned prom princess,” Abby says, smiling.
“Ooh, that’ll be good,” Missy agrees. “Win the crown, and then, while you’re up on the stage, pick the hottest guy on the court—well, not Andrew—but the hottest guy, and hook up with him right there. In front of Zach.”
“Ooh, what about Brett Davidson?” Eva suggests.
This sends the girls into a heated convo (again, about me!) and me into another mental freefall. I collapse back down. Prom princess. That’s something that could turn this terrible year around. My mom would be so proud. Maybe she’d even come back home. Plus, Zachary would realize what he lost. And everyone would know that I’m more than just a washed-up benchwarmer.
“If you could have any guy at Beachwood, who would it be, Ky?” Jessica asks, interrupting my thoughts.
The answer pops into my head before I can stop it. But I can’t exactly tell them that Zachary Murphy is my dream guy after they just spent the last few minutes plotting how to avenge my shattered pride. I decide to bounce.
“I’m out of here, chickies,” I announce, standing up again.
“Wait. What? Where are you going?” Missy asks.
“Home.” I shrug, dusting the sand off my shorts and bare legs.
“But . . .” Missy’s face drops.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get a cab.” I begin the trek toward the street, crossing over the bike path. Before getting too far, I remember the cup I’m clutching. I walk back to throw it away in the trash can at the edge of the beach, when I overhear Missy say, “I love Kylie and all, but I just don’t get her anymore. I mean, why would she even talk to Zach after everything that happened? She can have any guy at Beachwood.”
“I know,” Tamika adds.
“It’s so messed up. I don’t get her either,” Jessica says, pausing. “After everything he put her through . . .”
“I’m so worried about her.” Missy shakes her head. “She’s just going through so much. With the move and her parents’ divorce. Why would she add Zach?”
My heart stops, and I begin to tiptoe away, glad no one’s noticed that I’ve overhead their conversation. Then I break into a run. I smile as I sprint effortlessly down the bike path. But then, once I’m out of earshot, it occurs to me. Their conversation is still going on. Without me. And in that moment, reality hits me: I really am a benchwarmer, watching the world go by.
fourteen
I make it to the Shangri-La Hotel, when I realize that hailing a cab in LA is really as hard as people say. I decide to take a seat on a bench outside the hotel in the hopes that a cab will appear with some tourists in tow. Not all of them are smart enough to rent a car, right?
Fortunately, my strategy pays off. Just a few seconds later, a cab pulls up and an elderly couple emerges. I swiftly slide into the backseat.
“Where to?” the driver asks.
I hesitate and then give him Zachary’s address. He nods at me in the rearview mirror and flips on the meter. I relax against the black leather and gaze out the window. Staring out, I spot a little girl with pigtails clutching a kite. Her parents stroll behind her, arms intertwined.
I’ll never have that again, I think. An intact family. Two proud parents. A tribe. A tear forms in the corner of my eye and I wipe it before it can slip down my cheek.
I pull my phone out from my jacket pocket and scroll through to my mom’s number.
Please. Please. Please pick up. I really need to talk to you right now.
“You have reached the voice mailbox of Catherine Collins. Please leave your name and a detailed message and I will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you for calling and have a nice day.”
Figures.
“Mom, it’s Kylie. I really need to talk to you tonight. Please call me back as soon as you get this message. Please.”
I press “end” and notice that the cabdriver is looking at me strangely through his rearview mirror. I turn my head and take a few deep breaths. No more tears.
A few minutes later, the cab pulls up in front of the Murphy’s mansion. I pay and climb out.
Trekking along the side of the house and through the wrought-iron gate, I sneak a quick peek at Zachary’s window. Dark—figures. He’s probably out with Vi. Traitor.
I let out a sigh and attempt to compose myself as I trudge through the wildflowers, past the cherry trees, through the garden, and across the gazebo. My dad bursts through the front door as soon as he spots me. His eyes are wide. “What are you doing? Are you okay? Did something happen?”
“Peachy.” I shove past him and into our shack.
“I saw a cab drop you off. I thought you were with Missy,” he says, his voice full of tension.
“I was. I decided to come home early.”
“You could have called me. I would have picked you up.”
“What, and interrupt yoga?”
“You know I don’t host any yoga classes on Saturday nights. And besides, a cab is a waste of money.” He follows me into the living room.
I swing around to face him, stopping in front of the bamboo side table. “It’s not my fault we can’t afford anything. I’m not the one who screwed up their marriage. You are.”
His expression pains. “Kylie, I know you’re under a lot of stress, but you’re being unfair.”
“Really? I’m the one being unfair? I’m not the person who refuses to use Mom’s alimony for anything but necessary expenses.”
“Ky, you know we still set aside money for your education.”
“Thanks, Dad. That’s swell of you. Really.” I run my hand along the side table and spot my Under Armour softball bag lying beneath it. I quickly grab it and am about to begin the two-second walk to my room when my dad brings up the only topic that could make this worse.
“Your first game is right around the corner. I can’t wait to see you play,” he says, holding up a printout of my softball schedule.
“Where did you get that?” I ask. I feel my face burn.
“I printed it off your school website. Why?”
“Why . . .” I pause, searching for any excuse for why my dad shouldn’t come to my games. I refuse to tell him that I lost the starting position. “Because you shouldn’t assume that I’d want you to come to my games in the first place.”
“Ky . . . I understand if you’re mad at me, but your mother and I used to always see you play. . . .”
“Exactly. You and my mother. But I don’t see her here, do you? So, why don’t we just make a clean break of it?” I lean over and pull out an empty plastic water bottle out of my bag. “Oops . . .” I wiggle it in front of my dad.
His face turns red.
“Oh no . . .” I toss the bottle on the Greenwood flooring. “Call the police! It’s a plastic water bottle! Oh my God, I’m littering. Lock me up!”
“Oh, Kylie, I just don’t know what to say to you anymore.” My dad picks the water bottle off the ground.
“Nothing,” I reply. “Just don’t say anything at all.” Then I stomp toward my room.
fifteen
Two and a half weeks later, I’ve pitched a total of zero innings. In fact, my butt is so warm from riding the pine that someone could roast marshmallows right off it. So much for being the backup.
“I still can’t believe the junior prom is the same day as the Desert Invitational. What are you going to do?” Sophia, our third string pitcher, asks from her perch on the bench next to me.
“It’s not really on my mind right now,” I say grumpily as Chloe walks by me and sits on the other side of Sophia.
“Okay . . . So, what are you doing after today’s game against Edgewater?” Sophia asks, her eyes wide.
/> “Huh?” I look her way.
“You know . . .” She stares at her hands. “Are you hanging out afterward?”
“I’m just worried about softball right now. Not thinking about later. But thanks for asking.”
Whatever.
I stand up and find a spot at the end of the bench as far away from Chloe and Sophia as possible. I know Sophia means well, but I just don’t want Coach thinking I’m comfortable on the bench.
I stare out at the field. Phoenix and Nyla look bored—with Amber’s amazing strikeout record, they’ve hardly had to do anything this whole game. Meanwhile, Amber drags dirt until the mound, the one that used to be mine, is perfect. Then she settles into her spot on the white rubber, takes a deep breath, winds up, and launches the ball. It smacks into Emily’s glove with blazing speed.
“Strike,” the umpire shouts.
The crowd—mostly parents and a few stragglers from other practices—explodes with cheers. A couple of guys from the lacrosse team, who just finished their practice at the field adjacent to ours, begin to chant Amber’s name from center field.
Edgewater’s number two steps out of the batter’s box and glances at her coach, who waves off the signs. So much for signs, when Amber has struck out the other side three times.
Emily tosses the ball back to Amber and she begins to manicure her—the—mound again.
“No balls, one strike,” the umpire announces.
Amber sets up, nods, and fires once more. A puff of chalk dust rises from Emily’s glove.
The batter swings, but she’s miles behind the pitch.
“Strike!” the umpire shouts again.
Whistles and cheers ring out from the crowd. A couple of B-Dubbers have even constructed blue K signs to mark Amber’s strikeouts. Eight are hanging on the center-field fence, not too far from where Chloe is standing. They never did that for me.
“Psst . . .” someone whispers into the dugout. I ignore it, figuring it’s a freshman parent trying to sneak a snack in.
“Ky . . .” the person whispers.
I look over at the side opening of the dugout and spot Zachary behind the fence. He waves me over.
Stealing Bases Page 7
