by Phil Bildner
“Hey!” Luis shouts to Ben-Ben. “Does he know?”
Ben-Ben gives him a look. “Know what?”
“Know what?” I ask Luis.
Luis waves his glove. “You’ll know soon enough.”
I swallow. “Is it bad?”
“Savage!” Luis laughs. “It’s awesome.”
“I’m sorry, Luis.” I tap his chest with my glove. “I don’t know why I lied about Zoey like that. I hate that I did. I’m sorry.”
36
MOM AND SILAS TIME
I’m sitting at the long table with the bowling alley top in the middle of the Jump & Grind waiting for Mom and Kaila. They’ve been going over the schedule and work orders since closing a half hour ago. I already finished wiping down the tables, sweeping the floor, taking out the trash and recycling, restocking the self-serve station, and boxing up the leftover muffins and scones to take home for breakfast.
I worked the register like I did last Wednesday, but this week, I worked it on my own because Kaila’s stitches are out and she’s back to preparing beverages and making paninis and wraps.
“Thanks for everything,” Kaila says, hugging Mom.
“No, Kaila, thank you,” Mom says. “You have no idea how relieved I am this is working out.”
“It’s working out for me, too,” she says. “See ya tomorrow, Erica.” Kaila heads for the door but stops at my table. “I had fun today, Silas,” she says.
“I know you did.” I flip my hair. “You got to hang with me.”
“Do you hear him?” She looks back at Mom.
“I ignore him when he gets like that.” Mom points at me. “I’ll be there in a minute,” she says. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Where am I going?”
Kaila raps the table. “Later, boss,” she says.
I did have fun working with Kaila today. I thought it would bum me out and feel weird not going to Zoey’s again, but what’s really weird is how normal it feels. I still don’t know if I’ll ever get used to not spending Wednesdays at Zoey’s, but I already know things will feel normal again, just differently normal.
Zoey wasn’t in ELA yesterday or today. I don’t know why she wasn’t, which is weird because before all this happened, I always knew where Zoey was. But not knowing where she’s been these past couple of days has also felt differently normal.
“My turn,” Mom says, dropping her coffee-stained dish towel on the table and sitting down across from me. “It’s Mom and Silas time.”
“What happened to your hand?” I ask.
She looks down. “What happened to it?”
“Your phone’s not attached.”
“You noticed,” she says, smiling. “That makes me happy.”
“Did you have it surgically removed?” I say. “I don’t see any scars.”
“I need to be more present, Silas,” she says. “When I’m with you and your sisters, I need to be more present. I can’t have my phone out all the time like I do. It’s not healthy. I’m missing things, and I’m not one to miss things.” She reaches across the table for my hand. “I’m trying, Silas.”
“I know,” I say.
“It may not look like I am, but I am. I’m always trying.” She squeezes my fingers. “I know I have a lot going on, and Dad has a lot going on, but whatever we have going on is not more important than you.”
“I know,” I say again.
“It’s important that you hear that.” She lets go of my hand and sits up. “Dad and I have been talking, Silas. I think we’ve spoken more this past week than we have in … I don’t know how long. And you know what? It’s been good.”
“Good,” I say.
“It is good.” She folds the dish towel. “We weren’t talking about work or who was picking up or dropping off who. We were just talking.”
“You hardly do anymore,” I say.
“We do need to do a better job of communicating,” she says. “One thing we did communicate is that we’re both worried about you. And we feel helpless about it, and we don’t want to feel helpless. We want—”
“I’m okay, Mom,” I say.
She holds up her hand. “The other day, when you didn’t want to go to practice—believe it or not—I was actually proud of you. I was. It’s not selfish to look out for your own well-being. I was touched that you listened. Self-care should be a priority.” She retucks her hair under her Jump & Grind cap. “I’m glad you didn’t quit baseball, Silas. It would’ve made me sad because … do you know what I like best about the way you play?”
“That I play every play the same way,” I say, nodding. “Like the game is always on the line. You tell me that all the time.”
“I used to tell you that all the time,” she says. “But I haven’t recently. There are a lot of things I haven’t been saying to you recently.” She smiles. “Every time you’re out there, Silas, you’re playing like it could be the very last time you ever get to play. Baseball needs more players like that. The world needs more people like that—people who are passionate and energized. It’s an indescribable feeling for a mother to see such passion and energy in her son. Don’t ever lose that.”
“You be you,” I say softly.
“What’s that?”
“Something Webb always tells me. You be you.”
“Absolutely, Silas. Be authentic. It’s the key to healthy relationships. Be authentic.”
Authentic.
I think about Webb telling me to be authentic during our catch in center field. I think about Kaila telling me that she’s authentic. I think about standing in the middle of Ms. Washington’s class telling everyone about Glenn Burke, and how ever since—despite all that’s happened—how I’ve never felt more authentic.
“You’re not always going to feel like you fit in,” Mom says. “No one does. But always be true to yourself, because if you are, people are going to rise up to you. Mark my words, Silas. The people in your life who choose to get to know you—who really get to know you—are going to be better off for it, so much better off. That’s the type of person you are.”
I stare across the table at Mom. She knows. I can’t know for sure that she does, but she does. I think about all the videos where the kids talk about coming out to their moms, and when they asked them if they knew, they almost always said yes or they had a feeling or they were pretty sure. Mom knows or has a feeling or is pretty sure.
“Make note,” she says, reaching into her pocket and holding up her phone. “This is the first time I’ve had it out.”
“Noted,” I say.
She checks the time. “We do need to get home to Dad and your sisters,” she says. “But before we head out, I have to ask you one more thing.”
“Yeah.” My knees knock against the underside of the table.
She puts down the phone. “I need you to be honest.”
I swallow.
“Is everything okay, Silas?” she asks.
“I think so.”
“Are you sure?” She reaches across the table for my hand again.
“I think so … It’s just … it’s middle school, Mom. I’m trying to figure things out.”
“That is what middle school is all about,” she says. “And high school. And college. And life.”
I’m trying not to cry, and Mom knows I’m trying not to cry because she knows what I look like when I’m trying not to cry.
“If everything wasn’t okay,” she says, “would you tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She squeezes my hand. “I love you, Silas.”
“I love you, too, Mom.”
37
MY SANDLOT
“Bye, Dad,” I say, opening the door before the car completely stops.
“I’ll see you right here after practice, Silas,” he says, leaning across the front seat as I get out.
“Thanks, Dad.” I shut the door.
Jogging up the walkway to the field, I’m thinking I must be the f
irst one here because I don’t hear anyone on the other side of the bleachers. But practice starts at four forty-five, and it’s already four thirty. By now, most the team is usually here, and—
I freeze on the warning track in foul territory and grab the top of my head. “No way!”
The Renegades are here.
“No way!” I say again. “You guys, this is nuts!”
The Renegades are lined up on the field dressed as The Sandlot. But they’re not just dressed as The Sandlot. They’re dressed and posing like the photo from the opening scene of the movie. Theo’s all the way on the left, dressed like Benny, wearing a Dodgers cap, an open flannel shirt, and his baseball glove. Ben-Ben and Luis are in the middle. Ben-Ben’s dressed as Smalls in blue jeans and a white shirt, and Luis is Squints, with his thick glasses, his black cap on backward, and his striped shirt. Luis’s hand is on Kareem’s shoulder. Kareem’s dressed as Ham—white tee, white socks, jean shorts, and a catcher’s mask on his head. His mitt is resting on the knob of his wooden bat. Jason’s Yeah-Yeah, and Carter’s Kenny DeNunez.
“This is nuts!” I’m still holding my head as I walk up. “You guys … how?”
No one answers. They just keep on posing. I look over at Webb by the backstop.
“This wasn’t me,” he says. “I had nothing to do with this.”
“It was Zoey,” Ben-Ben says.
“Zoey and her sister.” Luis rubs the glasses on his shirt like Squints.
“And Malik,” Ben-Ben says.
I let go of my head. “Malik?”
“He was at my house on Monday when Zoey came over.”
“Zoey went to your house? How did Zoey—”
“Her sister brought her,” Ben-Ben says. “She made her.”
“Made her?”
“That’s what she said.” Ben-Ben holds up his hands. “Talk to Zoey.”
“How’d you get all these outfits?” I ask. “And whose idea was it to pose like that?”
“All Malik,” Luis says.
“You guys, this is nuts!”
“The Renegades are back!” Kareem says, holding up the catcher’s mask.
“We are,” I say, nodding. “We need to…” I look at my teammates. I breathe. “I think the Renegades need a handshake.”
I wasn’t planning this. The idea just popped into my mind, and the words flew out of my mouth. But this time, I didn’t want them back.
“What should it be?” Theo asks.
“A double high five,” I say. I breathe again. “One for us and … and one for this guy, Glenn Burke. The guy who invented the high five.”
“Invented?” Theo and Luis say together.
“Yeah,” I say. “Glenn Burke gave the first-ever high five. I did a report on him in ELA. He played for the Los Angeles Dodgers in the 1970s and was their starting center fielder in the World Series one year.”
“Was he any good?” Jason asks.
“He was great,” I say, “but baseball never gave him the chance he deserved.”
“Why haven’t we ever heard of him?” Theo asks.
“That’s … that’s just how it is with some people,” I say. “But it doesn’t have to be.”
“What say you, Renegades?” Webb says, walking over. “Are we talking today or practicing? Luis, why aren’t we stretching yet?”
“You know what number he wore when he played for the Dodgers?” I point to Theo’s jersey by his bag along the jouce. “Three.”
“Savage!” Luis says.
“Benjamin Franklin ‘the Jet’ Rodriguez wore number three when he played for the Los Angeles Dodgers,” I say, “and Glenn Burke wore number three when he played for the Los Angeles Dodgers.”
“Pretty cool,” Ben-Ben says.
“So our team handshake should be a double high five,” I say. “We can have a high-five line before every game.” I start swinging my arms and walking backward. “Two lines facing each other going toward home plate.”
All my teammates—dressed like characters from The Sandlot—line up, and just like that, everything’s like it used to be, but nothing’s like it used to be because nothing will ever be like it used to be.
Me being me.
“Everyone goes down the line and double-high-fives everyone,” I say. “Then, after the last person goes, we all meet at home plate. It’s a high five for the Renegades and a high five for Glenn Burke.”
38
ZOEY ALWAYS
I’m standing outside Zoey’s front door tapping my Wiffle bat against the side of my head. I know I have to go inside, and I will go inside, but I’m still psyching myself.
Grace drove me here, and on our way up the driveway, I told her I needed a second before going in because it was still less than fifteen minutes ago that the bus had dropped me off at home from school and Grace had showed up—unannounced—to tell me she was taking me to see Zoey because what was going on between Zoey and me had gone on long enough.
The front door flies open.
“Are you coming in or not?” Grace says, and when I don’t answer right away, she locks her arm in mine and pulls me in. “Someone’s here to see you,” she announces, dragging me into the kitchen.
“Hi, Silas,” Dolores says. She’s sitting at the kitchen table wearing her work clothes and checking a camera lens. “You’re here to see me?”
“No, not you,” Grace answers. “The moody one outside.”
“Good.” Dolores stands up and kisses my cheek. “I’m shooting a fiftieth anniversary party this evening, and I needed to be out the door five minutes ago.”
“Have fun,” I say.
Grace still has me by the arm, and with her free hand, she slides open the door to the back deck.
Zoey’s sitting cross-legged and barefoot on one of the tan lounge chairs by the wooden planter boxes. She’s got her orange-and-blue FC Cincinnati mini soccer ball in her lap and a large Ball jar of iced tea on the metal end table beside her.
“Sit,” Grace says, unhooking my arm and pointing me to the other chaise lounge. “Talk.”
She heads back in and shuts the sliding door. All of a sudden, Zoey and I are alone.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“What do you mean?” I say.
“I mean, what are you doing here?”
“Grace came to get me, and—”
“Grace drove you here?” she says, more statement than question. “Of course she did.”
“I’m sorry, Zoey,” I say. “I never should have said those things about you. I still can’t believe I did.”
Zoey looks at me but says nothing.
“I’d do anything to take it back,” I say. “I really would. I hope—”
“What’d you bring that for?” She points to the bat across my knees. “In case things went bad?”
“Semaj,” I say, holding it up. “She was in my room when Grace showed up. I saw the way she was looking at my bobbleheads, so I decided to take it with me. My bobbleheads are my bobbleheads.”
Zoey double-dimple smiles, and I can’t begin to explain how great it feels seeing her double-dimple smile. I knew I missed it, but I didn’t realize how much I missed it until now.
“I really am sorry, Zoey,” I say.
“I’m sorry, too,” she says, tossing her soccer ball from hand to hand.
“What do you have to be sorry for?”
“I wasn’t a good friend.”
“You weren’t a good friend? I was the one who lied about how you and I were—”
“No, Silas.” She cuts me off. “I wasn’t a good friend. When you first told me, I made it seem like … like I was okay with it and nothing had changed, but that wasn’t … that wasn’t true.”
“Zoey, you don’t need to—”
“It did change things,” she says. “For me, it did. But it shouldn’t, and I know it shouldn’t, and it won’t, but when you told me, it did. And it has. Is this making any sense?”
I shrug. “Maybe?”
“
It’s different when it’s real, Silas. I know how I’m supposed to react because it’s not supposed to make a difference, and it doesn’t. It really doesn’t. But it does. When you first find out, it does make a difference. When it involves you, it’s … it’s confusing. I know it shouldn’t be, and I don’t want it to be, and…” She covers her mouth. “Grace told me I was being a horrible friend, and she was right.”
“Grace?”
“I didn’t tell her. I kept my promise.”
“But she knows?”
“Remember how I told you she once asked me if you were gay?”
I smile. “Yeah, I think I remember you saying something about that.”
“I thought you would.” She double-dimples again. “Well, on Sunday, after the last Bye Bye Birdie, we were hanging out—and we hadn’t hung out in the longest time because of the show and all—and she started asking what was up between us. So we started talking, and then I asked her if she remembered a while back asking me…” Zoey stops and touches my knee. “I swear, that’s as far as I got. I never finished the sentence. She guessed it.”
I flip my hair. “That sounds like Grace,” I say.
“She went off on me, Silas,” Zoey says. “Like, seriously went off on me. Even after I told her what you did.” She stands up and starts juggling the soccer ball with her bare feet. “Don’t get me wrong, she thought what you did was awful, but she said what I did was even worse. You’re going through like the hardest thing you’ve ever done … and you chose to tell me. You came out to me, Silas. You told me you were gay, and then a few days later, I’m telling you I hated you and never wanted to speak to you again.”
“But only because I—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Zoey says. “I’m your best friend, Silas. What kind of friend does that? I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. Best friends don’t do that. No matter what.”
“Did you ever almost tell anyone about me?”
“Never.”
“Not even Ben-Ben?” I reach for her tea.
“Never.” She catches the ball. “I would never do that to you. I would never do that to anyone.”
