Stealing Bases

by Nicole Leigh Shepherd

  “Hey, you said it yourself, we’re just friends. That means we’re not exclusive. And anyway you agreed with me. Remember? I said I wish I met you when we were older? I’m still young. You can’t expect me to just be with one girl at seventeen.”

  “Not exclusive?! And too young?!” I scream back at him, feeling everyone’s eyes on us. The pool is eerily silent and calm.

  “Plus, I thought if I hooked up with Amy, I’d mess with her game.” Zachary winks. “I was doing it for you.”

  “Her name is Amber, you moron!” I scream.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Zachary sips from his red cup.

  “You’re no better than your dad!” I shout.

  Zachary lowers the cup. “You’re not seriously going to go there.”

  “Stay away from me. Don’t call me. Don’t come crying to me about your family. Don’t even look at me. I hate you!” I scream. Then I turn around and push my way through the crowd, fighting to hold back the tears.

  I wade as fast as I can to the side of the pool, use the concrete ledge to climb out, and stomp toward the chairs. I grab my bag, throw on my dress, and bend down to snatch up my sandals. I stomp across the concrete to the beat of Timbaland’s “Morning After Dark,” which is now pumping full blast from the speakers.

  How could I be so stupid? Tears burn like fire in my eyes.

  “Wait,” someone yells from behind me.

  I charge past my stunned friends, my vision so blurred with tears that I can barely make out their faces.

  “Kylie, what happened?” Missy yells as I pass. “Where are you going?”

  Phoenix cuts in front of me. “Is it true? Did you catch Amber with Zach?”

  I push past her.

  “Ky!” I hear Chloe from behind me.

  I increase my speed.

  Naturally, that’s when I feel a tap on my arm. Amber stands drenched in front of me.

  “Kylie, I’m so sorry,” she shouts over the music, standing in a tie-dyed two-piece. Her red hair is piled high on top of her head.

  I attempt to jockey past her, making sure I bump hard into her right shoulder.

  “It wasn’t anything, I swear,” she continues, jogging next to me. “I swear I didn’t do anything. We’re teammates. The perfect pitching partners. I would never mess up our friendship.”

  I stop mid-stride. “Our friendship? Seriously? When have we ever been friends?”

  “Kylie . . .” Amber begs, looking as if I just told her there’s no such thing as Santa Claus.

  “Just shut up, okay? And get the hell away from me!” I take off as fast as I can toward the beach, leaving Amber standing there, wet and shivering.

  thirty-three

  But strangely enough, telling Amber off isn’t any kind of vindication. I fall onto the dry sand, the granules sticking to me. The tears I’d been trying to keep at bay stream down even more forcefully now. And with my clothes soaked—I didn’t exactly have the opportunity to dry off—I’m freezing. I wrap my arms tight around my chest and use my bag as a blanket, laying it on top of me. My body shivers to the beats still pumping from Vi’s party in the far-off distance.

  I pull out my cell and scroll through my contacts. Finding the name of the one person whose voice I need to hear, I push “send.”

  Please answer. Please. Please. Just this one time.

  One, two, three . . .

  “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.”

  Beep.

  “Mom, I really need to talk to you. Please call me when you get this. Things aren’t working out for me in California anymore and my life is completely falling apart. Not that you would know. I really need you. And you never call me back. Plus, you blew me off for work. Again. Like you always do. Why do I even bother with you? Beats me. Call me. If you care.”

  I hang up and toss the phone into my borrowed bag. Then I stand up and take a step toward the ocean. Zachary and Amber’s faces flash before me. I feel for my heart charm and pull, yanking it until the chain pops. Finally, I squeeze the charm in my palm and launch it into the crashing wave.

  I’m done.

  Okay, so maybe I picked the wrong time to declare my freedom. Or at least I didn’t reason out all the details.

  What was I thinking? Ditching the party, totally soaked? Running off without a ride?

  I refuse to go back to find Missy. It doesn’t matter that I’m chauffeur-dependent. There’s no way I’m showing my face at that party again.

  I resolve not to freak out. I throw Missy’s bag over my shoulder and begin the trek toward my house. When I reach the sidewalk, an Audi slows down, pulling up beside me.

  I don’t let myself get nervous: I’m still in Vi’s gated neighborhood. This person has to know me.

  The passenger window rolls down and two hazel eyes peek out. I spot a pink-eraser topped pencil tucked above an ear. Not exactly a scary sight.

  “Hey, look who it is. Kylie Collins, the ex-pitcher . . .” Rob Hamilton taunts. His squeaky voice is like nails on a chalkboard.

  Then he reaches over and pulls out his silver voice recorder. “How does it feel to watch Amber steal your spot and your boyfriend?”

  “Rob, I’m not in the mood.”

  “Come on, Collins, give the people what they want. A front-page story.”

  At that moment, I break.

  “You want a story, Hamilton?” I pull on the door handle, taking a seat on the passenger side. “Tonight I’ll give you a story that you’ll never forget.”

  thirty-four

  SOFTBALL SHAKE-UP AT BEACHWOOD ACADEMY

  Junior Amber McDonald was poised to be the biggest star California high school softball has seen in recent years. But then, in a shocking move that rocked California softball, McDonald transferred midseason to Beachwood Academy from Southern California Upper Crest.“During our first practice, she told me that she transferred because of a divorce,” an unnamed teammate tells the Sand Dollar. “But I’m not buying it.”Last season, McDonald led the Upper Crest Cardinals to an impressive 18–2 record, shattering records by collecting six no-hitters, striking out two hundred, and walking only twelve.“She’s claiming the divorce was a hardship,” the source adds. “And that it forced her to attend Beachwood. But don’t you think it’s a little convenient? There she was at Upper Crest, winning nearly every game. And suddenly, she decides to come to Beachwood, where we haven’t won a championship in forever. She thinks we’re pathetic. There must be something in it for her.”

  “Kylie, I’m home!” my dad calls out.

  I jump out of my seat and slam my laptop closed, expecting to see a mob of B-Dub students holding torches and screaming, “Get Kylie!” It’s been thirty-six hours since I gave Rob my so-called story, and I’m surprised that no one’s barged through my door. (But just to be careful, I’ve closed all the blinds and turned off all modes of communication. I can’t risk anyone sneaking a peek. Especially Zachary.)

  Dad walks in through the kitchen door as I gather all of my belongings for school. He drops his blue yoga mat and squats to pet Kibbles, who greets him with licks. A woman, also in yoga attire, follows close behind. In one hand, she holds a black leather briefcase.

  “Why is it so dark in here?” my dad asks, pulling up the blinds.

  Clearly, he hasn’t picked up on the fact that I’ve been hiding away since the night of the party. I ignore his question and offer up one of my own. “Who’s that?” I point to the woman behind him. She smoothes out her chestnut ponytail.

  My dad’s shoulders relax. “Kylie, this is Bridget Fleishman from Calm Seas Realty. She also attends the yoga classes.”

  Yeah, I bet. If by classes, he means one-on-one sessions.

  She holds out her thin hand. “Nice to meet you, Kylie.” A whiff of perfume fills the kitchen air.

  “What are you doing here?” I reply.

 
; “Kylie, that’s no way to treat a guest,” my father answers. Then he turns to little miss hot pants. “I apologize for my daughter’s behavior.”

  “That’s all right,” Bridget replies. Her cloyingly sweet smile gets under my skin. She puts one hand on my dad’s shoulder. “It must be hard for her, realizing that her house has been sold.”

  “Wait, what?! Our house has been sold?” I yell back. “What about Mom? Doesn’t she get a say?”

  “Your mother and I made this decision together,” my dad answers, looking at me pityingly.

  “Does that mean . . . ?”

  “Yes, it does. We’ll be moving again as soon as possible. Probably to a smaller, less expensive house farther inland.”

  Well, at least I don’t have to live near Zachary anymore.

  “How soon is soon?” I ask.

  “Your father got an offer about two weeks ago and we just went into escrow.”

  “Huh?”

  “Settlement. The period after which the house is officially sold,” Bridget explains with a self-satisfied grin.

  I glare at her. “So, wait. Let me get this straight. You two knew about this two weeks ago, and you’re just telling me now?”

  “It’s complicated. We didn’t want to tell you anything till we were sure,” my dad replies.

  “We?”

  “Your father and I are together, Kylie,” Twiggy says. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  I turn to my dad. “So that’s something else that you didn’t tell me!”

  My dad looks guilty. “It all happened so fast, and I didn’t want to tell you until everything with the house was worked out.”

  “So you’re saying that this random woman knows more about my life than I do!?”

  “Kylie, you know that’s not true. And besides, she’s . . . uh. . .”

  “I’m not a random woman,” Bridget replies. This time her saccharine smile sends me over the edge.

  “I can’t take this anymore!” I scream. I grab my school stuff in a huff and stomp out of the house, slamming the door behind me. It’s not until I step outside that I brace for the inevitable onslaught at school.

  I stand at my locker before homeroom, scanning the hallways like a warrior scouting out his enemy. What was I thinking the night of the party? Why would I spill to Rob Hamilton, of all people? Sure, Amber deserved it—she stole my spot and was about to suck face with my boyfriend. But . . .

  “Hey, Ky.” Jessica meets me in front of my locker. “Are you okay? I saw you at the party with Zach. . . .”

  “Oh.That.You know how Zachary and I are. It was nothing,” I say, diverting my eyes from hers. “What’s up with you? What are you reading?” I look at her books to see if a newspaper is peeking out among the notebooks.

  “Huh?”

  “You know, reading? I’m dying to read a good story. Maybe in the Sand Dollar?”

  “Oh . . . Yeah, I heard there was supposed to be some big story this morning, but I haven’t checked it out yet.” She grabs my hand. “But forget about the Sand Dollar. Can you believe that our tournament is on Saturday? Followed by prom!”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty unbelievable. . . .”

  “Hannah and Missy finished my dress last night. You should see it! It’s amazing!”

  I sigh as I shut my locker. “I can’t wait to be totally and completely awed,” I say. Jessica doesn’t deserve any of the Kylie wrath.

  “What does your dress look like?” she asks, walking beside me as I make my way to homeroom.

  “I . . . uh . . . I . . . didn’t get one yet,” I say, still surveying the hallway. “Because I’m not—”

  “What?! The prom is like less than a week away! What are you going to do?” Jessica screeches.

  I shrug. As I’m about to tell Jessica that I’ve decided not to go to prom since I don’t have a date, I hear deep heaving sobs.

  “I can’t believe someone would do this to me!” Amber shouts. Phoenix, Chloe, Nyla, Emily, and her buddy Danielle surround her.

  Jessica takes off to join the sob fest.

  “Did you see this?” Phoenix’s eyes are the size of drink coasters. She holds up the latest copy of the Sand Dollar.

  I shrug. “What?”

  Nyla points to the front-page article. The headline “Softball Shake-up at Beachwood” stares back at me.

  “It’s horrible. Some unnamed teammate”—Sophia finger quotes—“said all these terrible things about Amber.”

  “Seriously?” I divert my eyes to the concrete floor.

  “Seriously.” Phoenix lowers the paper. Looking over her shoulder at Amber sobbing, she moves closer to me. “Did you do it?”

  “What? That’s a ridiculous thing to say. Of course I didn’t do it!” I take off toward Amber and attempt to get involved with the group hug.

  “Amber, I just heard. . . . I’m so sorry. . . .” I awkwardly tap her on the back of her long-sleeved ASA tournament tee.

  Danielle steps in front of her before Amber can even move. She crosses her arms in front of her matching tee. “Do you honestly think anyone here doesn’t know that you did this?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, biting my bottom lip.

  “Save it. Everyone knows you’re pissed at Amber because she stole your spot and you caught her with Zach. And everyone knows that you’re the most vindictive, horrible, ruthless girl when it comes to your boyfriend. Go away and spread your jealous rage somewhere else.” She stands with her lips pursed.

  Chloe steps in front of the group and stares at me. “Just go,” she says.

  Amber lets out another wail.

  And, of course, that’s when the loudspeaker announces, “Kylie Collins, please report to Coach Kate’s office immediately.”

  thirty-five

  Before I even make it to Coach Kate’s office, she stops me dead in my tracks.

  “What is this?” She holds out the Sand Dollar, pointing to the front-page headline. “Is this some sort of sick joke?”

  I feel chills run up my back. “It’s . . .”

  Martie walks over and motions for us to take it inside to the offices.

  Coach follows her, visibly annoyed. She signals me into the room, slams the door to her office shut, and throws the newspaper onto her desk. It lands next to her #1 COACH coffee mug. “No, ‘It’s not a joke’? Or no, ‘This was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, Coach’?”

  Martie sits in a leather chair next to Coach’s desk. She stares at me intently.

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “You what? Please, don’t tell me that this was your way of getting back at Amber for taking your spot. In fact, Martie and I were just discussing what a long way your attitude has come since basketball season.” Coach Kate lets out a deep breath. “But then today, I read the paper and see you’re up to your old tricks.” She twists her hair into a ponytail in a huff.

  Martie adds, “This is completely inexcusable. I’ve already had to take a conference call this morning with the California High School Athletic Association.”

  “I didn’t . . . ”

  A line forms between Coach Kate’s eyebrows. “I don’t know what you could possibly say right now to make this right. This article is going to kill us. Our season. Our dreams. The future of the Beachwood Softball program. And I cannot believe that you took it upon yourself to humiliate Amber and this program by calling the school newspaper.” Coach Kate snatches the mug from her desk and gulps her coffee.

  “I never meant to. . . .”

  “We know you sometimes react before you think. But Kylie, this time you went too far,” Martie adds.

  “But . . . I didn’t. . . .”

  Coach Kate looks at Martie.

  “We figured you would deny your involvement,” Martie says.

  I look down and contemplate fessing up—anything to help erase the extreme guilt weighing on my chest.

  “Although I really want to believe that you had nothing to do with this me
ss, it’s hard for me to conceive that you wouldn’t be out for blood when it comes to Amber.” Coach rolls back in her chair.

  “Coach, I swear I . . .” I meet Coach’s eyes again.

  “My first instinct is to expel you from the program immediately.” Coach pauses. “Unfortunately, however, as the source is unnamed, I have no actual proof of your involvement. And, as much as it pains me to say this, I can’t toss a player off the team based on suspicion.”

  I look up.What? She can’t? My initial urge to fess up flies out of my mind like one of Nyla’s home runs over the complex fence.

  Martie holds up the newspaper. “Because of this, the CHSAA is asking us to hand in our books, Amber’s tuition payment information, and even receipts from the bookstores, like we’re criminals. They told me that as of today, Amber’s hardship application has not been approved and that they’re launching a full investigation into her transfer.”

  I gulp. Thanks, Zachary, for the great idea.

  Coach Kate takes another long sip from her mug. “And now—I can’t believe I’m going to say this—but since Sophia is absent and I have no one else who can pitch at the varsity level, I have to go against my better judgment and”—she glances at Martie—“let you start you on Thursday.”

  What?!?

  Coach continues. “Because of this article, you got your way. Congratulations.”

  My stomach does somersaults. I should be happy, but it all feels horribly wrong.

  “Remember, this is only until Amber’s suspension is revoked. And if we find out you were somehow complicit in this, you’ll be yanked off the team so fast you won’t know what happened. Now, go.” She points to the door.

  I nod and slink out of Coach’s office.

  thirty-six

  Things aren’t much better by the time we take on Oceanview at our complex on Thursday. For the past two days, my teammates have been giving me the silent treatment during practice. And I was “asked” not to come to a meeting held to discuss the CHSAA’s investigation into Amber’s transfer. And to a dinner at Abby’s house held to celebrate our participation in the Desert Invitational tournament. And even to our pre-game meeting.