Stealing Bases

by Nicole Leigh Shepherd

  “Yeah. It’s sick,” Hannah says. Her soda tab bracelets clang against the desk.

  “I’ve been dying to see this dress. . . .” Missy exhales, frantically paging through the magazine. “I think it’s just the perfect inspiration for the marketing campaign.”

  “Uh—excuse me,” I butt in. I can’t let Hannah get any ideas about staying put. “Looks like we’re full. Mrs. Cunningham said three today.” I reach over and pull Phoenix’s desk closer toward mine.

  “Shhh . . . Ky,” Missy whispers. “Maybe if we don’t say anything, Mrs. Cunningham will make an exception.”

  Before I can open my mouth, I’m distracted by the sound of a scrunched-up paper ball being deflected by a pre-calc textbook. Judging by the look of it, the ball was on its way toward us before Amber’s BFF Danielle stopped it with her book. Great, now I owe her one.

  “Nice try, Nick,” she says. She lowers her book and continues to work with Sophia.

  “Wow. Do you ride the pine with Kylie too, Danielle? With that kind of talent on the bench, I can’t imagine what’s on the field.” Nick chuckles. “Maybe you guys will win one more game than last year. That would make you like four and fourteen, right?”

  Danielle pipes up. “I don’t know how you people stand each other. Your whole group is so immature.” She looks at Missy, Nick, Andrew, and Brett, her eyes landing on me.

  “And tie-dyed socks are just the model of maturity?” I say to Danielle. I pick the paper ball up off the floor and toss it back at Nick.

  Nick ducks and the paper ball nails Andrew in the head. They both crack up.

  “Deserved.” Missy pops her head up from the magazine.

  “What did I do?” Andrew holds up his hands.

  “Wait,” Hannah says. She jumps up on top of my desk like it’s a skateboard.

  “What the . . .” I’m face-to-face with Hannah’s hot pink Chucks.

  “See that?” She points to the black-and-white The Wisdom of Albert Einstein poster hanging above the whiteboard.

  Missy and I, stunned silent by Hannah’s eccentric behavior, can’t help but look up at the poster. For once, we’re both thinking the same thing: What could Hannah possibly see in that poster of Einstein, besides wild eyes and frizzy hair?

  “Yeah?” I ask, shocked that Mrs. Cunningham hasn’t looked up from grading papers to put an end to Hannah’s spectacle.

  “It’s perfect!” she shouts, pointing at the poster. She jumps down off the desk. “It’s exactly what I needed to finish Eva’s dress. The whites and the black . . .” She gazes off.

  “Uh . . . We’re in class . . .” I begin to say.

  “Psst . . . Ky,” Brett Davidson whispers behind me.

  I roll my eyes at Hannah and turn around to enjoy some eye candy.

  He moves his long dark bangs away from his eyes and looks up at me sheepishly.

  In that second, I feel a little bad for ignoring Brett lately—I of all people should recognize when someone is just trying to save face in front of their friends. “Brett , I’m . . .”

  “No, Ky, me first.” He pauses. “I was wondering if you’ve . . .”

  Two beeps silence the class.

  “Hello?” A voice from the main office echoes through the wall speaker, interrupting the chaos.

  “Yes!” Mrs. Cunningham jumps up from her spot at the desk.

  “Could you please send Kylie Collins to Coach Kate’s office?”

  “Sure!” Mrs. Cunningham scans the room. “Kylie. Kylie Collins?”

  “Maybe you’ll actually play a few innings today,” Nick says to me as I stand up. “JV, that is.”

  I glance at Nick. “The day I’ll play JV softball is the day you’ll actually get a girlfriend.”

  Brett and Andrew chime in, “Aww, man! Good one.”

  I concentrate on Brett. “Talk later?”

  “Definitely.” His dark eyes hold on to mine. He nods and leans back on his chair.

  As I slowly begin the walk toward Coach Kate’s office, I wonder what Brett could have had to say to me that was so important. But then, as I hit the phys ed hallway and walk past the trophy case filled with accolades from every sport except softball, my thoughts turn to Coach Kate: Why on earth is she calling me into her office? It’s probably not to tell me that she’s sorry for completely ruining my life.

  I pick up the pace and make the right toward Coach’s office. When I reach her door, I suck in my breath and attempt to calm the butterflies. Nick’s voice echoes in my head. Could he be right? Is this about demoting me to JV? That’d be even worse than warming the bench.

  I console myself by thinking about what a jerk Nick is—he doesn’t know anything. Then I steady my nerves and tap on Coach Kate’s wooden door.

  “Come in,” she yells from inside. As I walk toward her, the Frap I just devoured swishes around in my stomach. I look over at Martie’s door at the other end of the hallway. How is it that just three short months ago I was inside her office hashing out the Taylor Thomas and Zachary Murphy mess, and now here I am again? Well, not in Martie’s office per se, but in a similarly hellish situation.

  I peek inside Coach’s office. She’s scanning our local newspaper, the Beachwood Sun, and furiously scribbling on a pad of paper. Her platinum hair is tight at the base of her neck.

  “Kylie,” she says, glancing up. “Thanks for coming. Have a seat.” She motions to the gray fabric chairs in front of her desk.

  “Hey, Coach,” I answer, nervously sliding into the chair closest to the door. “Anything good?” I nod at the newspaper in an attempt to stall for time.

  “Just looking through the stats from the weekend. Seeing how the other teams in our conference are stacking up. Eyeing Santo Bay. You know the drill.”

  I nod. I do. It’s something I also do obsessively.

  Coach leans back on her leather chair. “I called you in this afternoon to tell you that Amber is home with strep throat. You’ll be starting today.”

  “What?” I hold on to the sides of the chair like it might take off and fly around the office.

  Coach sits up suddenly. Then she leans in close, as if she’s just now decided it’s time for us to have an overdue heart-to-heart. “Look, I know this season has been extremely difficult for you, Kylie. It’s not easy to watch someone take your position away. A position that you worked really hard to win.”

  For a second, I feel bad for all the horrible things I’ve said about Coach Kate. She’s not really a spineless freak. She’s just doing what’s best for the team. And pretty soon, she’ll realize that what’s best for the team is . . . ME.

  “Thanks, Coach,” I say, standing up.

  “It’ll be nice to see you take the mound again.” She stands up with me. “I’ll see you in a few.”

  Yup, you will, I think. And when you do, you’ll have no choice but to give me my spot back. I calmly walk out of her office. Then I release the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Normal. Everything is going back to normal. I reach up and grab my heart charm, rubbing the white gold between my index finger and thumb.

  eighteen

  About three hours later, at the top of the seventh inning, the infielders—including Phoenix, Nyla, Abby, Jessica, and ME—gather at the mound and shout, “Beachwood!”

  “Academy!” the outfield echoes, and disperses to their positions.

  “Nice work.” Nyla gently taps me on the back with her glove.

  “Kylie’s back!” Abby shouts.

  Jessica adds, “Kylie’s not just back. Kylie’s a beast!”

  “I know! Talk about devouring the competition!” Phoenix yells.

  I burst into a huge grin at that one. It feels so good to be back inside our complex with the girls—and not as a stupid, insignificant onlooker.

  “Balls in,” the umpire calls from his spot behind home plate.

  Nyla hands me the ball and smacks my leather glove. “Go get ’em, Killer Ky.”

  I smile even wider. “Killer Ky” is the und
erstatement of the century. Bel Air hasn’t scored in six innings. Meanwhile, our team is up by two, and I’ve earned five strikeouts and no walks. We’re in the perfect position to continue our winning streak—if we win today, we’re undefeated with five wins. And that moves us into serious consideration for the Desert Invitational and that much closer to saving the softball program.

  I tuck my glove in between my knees and shove my shiny white number seven home jersey into my matching shorts. Then I reach down and pull up my socks. When I’m finished, I fill a little dirt into a small hole that’s appeared in front of the rubber from Bel Air’s pitcher. Although I’ve never been one to manicure my mound, it seems to work for Amber, so I continue to smooth out the rest.

  “First batter,” Coach Kate yells from the dugout. “Nyla, your way twice.”

  “Batter up!” the umpire shouts as Zoe settles in behind the plate. Since Emily sprained her wrist, Zoe took over her spot at catcher and has been doing amazing.

  “Go, Kylie!” Zachary shouts from the stands.

  I feel an extra little spring to my step. As much as I love Zoe, I secretly suspect that Zachary is only here to watch me. Not that I would ever tell her that . . .

  My self-congratulatory moment ends as soon as I see Bel Air’s number fourteen set up at the left side of the plate. It’s time to focus.

  “Watch the drag,” I shout at my teammates, turning around so that all of them can hear me. I spot the four K signs hanging in center field to mark my strikeouts—five if you include the giant blue K painted on Brandon’s chest. (Apparently, the lacrosse guys didn’t have enough poster board for all of my strikeouts.) The smile on my face grows to enormous proportions—Amber isn’t the only one who gets the star treatment.

  As I turn to face the Bel Air batter, I can feel Jessica to my left and Phoenix to my right inching toward the batter’s box. They have the right idea—the last thing we need is a batter on. I set up on the rubber and take a deep breath. Zoe gives me the first sign—a fastball, tight and inside. I glance toward first base and make eye contact with Jessica. She reads my expression and inches up even closer. Confident that my teammates are in position, I feel for the C-grip, wind up, take a huge step, and snap the ball hard.

  Fourteen explodes out of the batter’s box, dragging her bat through the strike zone.

  Dong.

  The ball hits the inside of the bat and rolls slowly toward Jessica, who’s in front of the bag. She picks it up bare-handed and fires it to first. Abby sprints from second to the bag and covers first just in time.

  Instantly, the crowd erupts.

  From the dugout, our subs Sophia and Chloe look on in awe. Danielle just glares.

  “Out,” the field umpire shouts.

  I pump my fist. There’s no way Amber’s coming back after this performance.

  “One out,” Nyla yells, holding up one finger as she receives the ball from the infield toss around. She jogs it to me, drops it into my glove, and slaps hands.

  I look around the field, glancing over at the stands. Zachary’s still seated at the top of the bleachers, smiling at me. To his far left, Hannah and Missy wave at me, and Taylor gives me a thumbs-up.

  I can do this. Just two more outs and I have a future in softball—at Beachwood AND maybe even at UCLA.

  Bel Air’s second batter digs in. I recognize her immediately. Two innings ago, she launched my fastball hard toward left field.

  Zoe gives me the sign. Fastball outside. I shake her off. She gives me another—changeup. Perfect.

  With my hand hidden inside my glove, I bend my fingers and grip the knuckle change. Then I wind up and fire. The ball barely makes it over the plate.

  The batter is miles ahead of it. So much so, she could have swung twice.

  “Strike one,” the umpire calls.

  Again the crowd erupts.

  Zoe fires the ball back to me. Then she sets up inside and gives me the screwball sign. Ahh, too easy.

  I rearrange the dirt (Amber’s strategy seems to be working) and set up. I move my thumb to the bottom of the C-grip, wind up, stride to the left, and twist my wrist, peeling the ball into a perfect right tight spiral.

  The Bel Air batter half swings and jams herself.

  Dong.

  The ball ricochets off the inside of her bat, so close it almost hits the grip, and rolls to a stop a foot in front of Zoe. She rips the catcher’s mask off her face and fires the ball to Jessica at first.

  “Out!”

  “One more out, B-Dub!” the crowd shouts.

  My teammates once again toss the ball around the horn. When the infield is finished, Nyla hands me the ball and yells, “Two down. Go to first!” Then she returns to her position at short.

  Number twenty-three digs into the batter’s box. She’s the only one who has two hits off me today.

  “Your way, Nyla and Phoenix!” Coach Kate calls out from the dugout.

  Our bench begins to yell, “Hey, batter take a hike! ’Cause Kylie’s gonna pitch a strike!”

  Unlike my ASA team, Beachwood Softball hasn’t sung dugout cheers since long before I joined. And I’m loving every minute of it.

  Zoe shows four fingers. Another screwball. I definitely want to end this game the way I’ve been winning it, with my go-to pitch. Amber might have the rise, but she doesn’t have my screwball.

  I wind up and release the ball.

  Number twenty-three doesn’t move. The pitch cuts right at the perfect time.

  “Strike,” the umpire shouts.

  “Woot!” The stands burst into cheers.

  “Kylie is a friend of mine. She can strike you out anytime!” the bench cheers.

  I puff out my chest and dig my royal-blue spike into the mound. I set my feet on the rubber. Fastball outside. I shake it off. Zoe gives another sign for a curve. I shake her off once again.

  Twenty-three holds up her back hand in the stop position and steps out of the batter’s box.

  “Time,” the umpire calls.

  I step off the rubber and wait for twenty-three to dig in again. I hate it when batters call time to slow down the pace of the game. So stupid.

  Once the batter digs in again, Zoe shows two fingers. I shake her off. She knows I want to throw the screwball. She shows me four fingers.

  I wind up and throw the screwball again.

  Twenty-three isn’t fooled. She makes contact, but fouls the ball over our dugout.

  “Foul ball,” the umpire yells. “No balls and two strikes.”

  “Straighten it out!” the other team shouts.They stand in a row at their dugout fence, knowing this is their last chance.

  “Put her away, Kylie,” Coach Kate screams from our dugout.

  Bel Air’s dugout roars.

  Zoe gives me a screwball sign, but I shake her off this time. Number twenty-three is on to me. She holds out five fingers. The rise ball. I freeze.

  If I throw the rise ball and blow it, I’m sure Coach will reinstate Amber. But if I shake Zoe’s sign, Coach will know my rise is still weak and might go with Amber anyway.

  I stare at Zoe’s fingers, trying to will myself into action. She gives me the sign again.

  I can’t help myself. I shake her off.

  “Time,” Zoe says to the umpire. She removes her mask and jogs to the mound. “What’s up?”

  “Change,” I say into my glove so the Bel Air batter doesn’t read my lips.

  “She’s expecting that.” Zoe holds her catcher’s mitt in front of her face. “You’ve been messing with batters all day with the change.”

  “Then screwball it is, freshman,” I say to Zoe.

  “Your call.” Zoe shrugs.

  Zoe turns around and jogs back to position. She maneuvers into her squat. Then she gives me four fingers.

  I wind up and fire.

  I thought twenty-three was smarter than the rest, but I gave her way too much credit. I let go of the pitch too soon and she chases a high ball out of the strike zone.

  “Strik
e three.” The umpire punches the air.

  The complex explodes into cheers.

  Nyla smacks me on the back.

  Jessica follows. “Way to go, Ky!”

  “Yeah, Ky. Nice job!” Abby beams.

  “You rock,” Phoenix adds on her way by.

  I stand on the mound for a minute and let it all soak in. Then I scan the crowd. Zachary is on his feet cheering. Taylor, Missy, and Hannah are literally jumping up and down. My teammates continue to scream my name. At last, everything is back to normal.

  Ignoring the roar of the complex, I close my eyes and picture myself two years from now: I’m standing on the mound at UCLA’s Easton Stadium wearing a crisp white, pale blue, and pale yellow short uniform. Just like now, the crowd is on their feet. I’ve just struck out the side. And Amber is a distant memory . . .

  nineteen

  A half hour later, I’m still floating. Seriously. My feet are literally ten feet off the ground.

  I duck into the team room to call my mom to share news of the amazing game when Nyla smacks me on my back again, landing right on my number seven jersey.

  “Wow! Kylie! Way to go,” Emily shouts, her wrist in an Ace bandage.

  “Amazing game!” Zoe adds.

  Chloe and Sophia look like they’re about to say something too when Coach Kate walks in, followed by Assistant Coach Jackie. “Nice screwball today,” she says. Mimicking Nyla, she pats me on the back.

  I’m golden. My spot is mine again.

  “Okay, everyone, grab a seat on the benches,” Coach Kate announces. She rests the score book up against the whiteboard as Jessica runs in, looking harried.

  Guess she got caught talking to Colin.

  We find our spots on the vertically aligned wooden benches. Nyla and Phoenix shove next to me. The rest of the team files behind us. Without turning around, I feel more than see my other teammates trying to grab my attention. (Meanwhile, Danielle sits as far away as possible.)

  But before I can even say “thanks” (to everyone but Danielle, of course), Coach launches into her speech. “As many of you know, we’re gearing up for the annual Desert Invitational tournament. And with another win today that places us at the number two seed, behind Santo Bay. There’s no way the Board of Trustees will demote us to club status with this effort! Beachwood Academy Softball will have a long life as an interscholastic sport if we keep up our intensity.”