Throw Like a Girl

by Sarah Henning

Which is exactly what I must have looked like out there with my fist cocked back the instant before it connected with Stacey’s nose.

  “Coach Rodinsky-Simpson, would you leave me alone with Miss Rodinsky?”

  Miss Rodinsky. Just hours ago, at the assembly to see us off to this game, Principal Meyer shook my hand and called me Liv. As if what was going on here weren’t already blaringly obvious, those two little words confirm it.

  I really want Danielle to stay. As a family member, not my coach, but I know that’s not going to happen. I’m in deep shit with her, too, and when she doesn’t protest, I know it’s more than her being a good employee to the man who runs the school where she’s not just a coach but also an English teacher—she knows her presence will soften whatever is coming next. And if anyone subscribes to the tough-love approach, it’s my older sister. Which, ironically, is why I love her so much.

  “I’ll be right outside,” Danielle says as she steps out of the room, leaving the door ajar. I’m left alone under the sodium lights with the head of our school.

  I’ve seen this movie before. I know what he’s going to say. I know it, but I still don’t believe it.

  I’m the best in my grade.

  I’m the star athlete.

  I’m the anointed queen of next year’s junior class.

  But none of that matters right now.

  All that matters is that I go to a private school, broke its private rules, and now I’m about to be privately kicked out on my ass.

  “Miss Rodinsky, though I do believe what happened tonight to be out of line with the exemplary character you’ve demonstrated over the past two years at Windsor Prep,” he says, pausing, and my heart drops fifty feet before he begins speaking again, “that does not change the zero tolerance policy for violence to which we adhere.”

  Zero tolerance. Words I haven’t had directed toward me in my entire rule-abiding life.

  Principal Meyer pauses again, and his weary eyes are on my face, willing me to return in kind. He’s not going to move on with my fate without looking me in the eye. I wish I were cowardly enough to look down forever so it won’t happen, but instead, my eyes flash up to meet his.

  “In accordance with our policy, I’m sorry to say that you are suspended for the rest of the school year.”

  I blink at him.

  Suspended. Not expelled. Just out. For the rest of the school year—only three days, for the remainder of finals.

  I’m not sure if that suspension will keep me from the state championship tomorrow night, but still, my hopeful heart rises back up to its rightful place and my gut reaction is to smile in relief. But he draws in a deep breath and I realize he’s not done. I wait for it, nails digging hard into my clenched palms, even though I have no idea what else there could be to say. He’s already said the worst thing.

  Or so I think.

  “Suspension aside, there is also the matter of your scholarship—”

  My heart drops all the way through the bathroom tile to freaking China. I think I’m literally shriveling up to die as my mind races through what this means.

  I am at Windsor Prep on scholarship—one deemed “academic,” but everyone knows it should be described as “athletic,” if only that weren’t technically illegal.

  There’s no way in hell my parents could afford the $15,000 yearly tuition without it. My dad’s a detective and my mom had to quit her job last year when her cancer came back. We even put our house on the market with plans to move in with Danielle and Heather because we can’t pay for both our mortgage and Mom’s mastectomy that’s happening next week to save her from her own boobs, even with insurance.

  I swallow.

  I haven’t so much as blinked at my scholarship documents since I signed them in eighth grade, continuing the very short tradition Danielle started of Rodinsky women leaving public school behind for Windsor Prep.

  I have no idea what it says other than that my parents don’t have to pay a dime for me to walk the expensively adorned halls I all but own.

  “Under the terms of your scholarship, suspension voids the contract.”

  Stars float in front of my eyes. Principal Meyer’s pruney face hovers, framed by their light, floating in the abyss. My educational abyss, apparently.

  Owned. The halls I all but owned.

  “This means if you would like to return to Windsor Prep next year, you will have to do so as a nonscholarship student.”

  3

  SOMEHOW I FIGURED THAT IF I WERE TO HIT THE BOTTOM of my own personal barrel at sixteen, it would’ve been in the dead of a Kansas winter. Snow blowing, skies as gray as my mood, maybe a patch of black ice at the ready to land me on my ass physically as well as metaphorically.

  Instead, it’s 98 degrees outside in August and approximately 410 degrees in my stomach as it stutters and flips under the withering stare of Coach Kitt.

  We’re in her office at Northland—my new school.

  Aka the place housing my now-ex-boyfriend (Jake, who broke up with me a hot minute after I punched his ex) and about fifteen hundred kids I don’t know because I grew up across town before we moved in with my sister. My time in public school—elementary or middle—wasn’t with a single person at Northland.

  All this, plus the woman holding my softball dreams in the palm of her manicured hand, because of course my parents couldn’t pay for me to stay at Windsor Prep.

  In fact, even if they could have, they wouldn’t have, because they were so pissed at me for getting in a fight. In front of everybody. Over something that they think had to have been stupid mean-girl stuff.

  I still haven’t told anyone what Stacey said, and I probably never will. The point is that I lost control. Even though I was in the right, how I handled it was so, so wrong.

  And now, because I’m the luckiest girl in the world, my sister’s house sits just inside the boundary for Northland. Two blocks over and I’d be enrolling as a junior at Central. They have a horrible softball team there, but at least I’d get to be a star. Here, I may not even get to play.

  Not if Coach Kitt’s face is any indication.

  She actually hasn’t said anything to me yet, and it’s been five minutes since I walked into her office this afternoon—with less than a week to go before my first day of school. And so I glance at the personal photos over her toned shoulder—snapshots that include a husband and what looks to be a boy in a Northland letter jacket.

  When I can’t take the silence anymore, I start to talk again, even though I’ve already said varying versions of: I’m sorry. I apologize. I want to be on your team this year. I can add value. I can be a good teammate. I promise I won’t send another Tiger to see a plastic surgeon.

  What I don’t say and won’t say: I need to be on your team to make sure I get a college scholarship.

  I clear my throat. “Coach, if you need a reference, I’d be happy to put you in touch with my club coach, or Chad with the Junior Olympic te—”

  Coach Kitt holds up a hand. “Olive, I believe you’re not only genuine in your remorse but that you’re a genuinely talented player. My team would benefit from having you.”

  I take what feels like my first breath since I stepped into her office.

  Junior year is crucial for a would-be college softball player. Senior year is a wash—all the scholarships have already been awarded and accepted before seniors even step on the field. Meaning that even with the attention I’ve already gotten, I can’t fade away or my future will, too. And just like a Windsor Prep education, college isn’t possible without a scholarship.

  “Now, though you have impressive talents and are possibly the best third baseman I’ve personally seen play in Kansas City—”

  “Thank you.”

  She doesn’t even acknowledge the fact that I spoke. “—a successful team is made up of more than just talented players. A successful team is a careful balance of talent, drive, personality, and unity.”

  I nod because I know all of this. If a team doesn’t mes
h well, it can suffer, no matter how good the players are.

  “And, honestly, at this juncture, my opinion is that you’re not a good fit for my team.”

  “I—”

  “That opinion may change by tryouts in February. But that’s not a guarantee. I have to do what’s best for my team. We were third place at state last season.” This is a fact I know well, because we placed second, losing in the title game, with my suspended ass riding the bench.

  “And I only lost one senior,” she continues. One senior—Stacey. Gone to Arizona State. Good freaking riddance. “The group of girls we have this year is a terrific balance of talent and teamwork, and I want to nurture that, not upset it.”

  I swallow again. “And you think I might upset it.”

  “Yes.”

  “What can I do to—”

  “To make me think otherwise?” She says it with a perfectly arched brow, red lips pursed at the question mark.

  I nod.

  “Show me you can be a teammate.”

  I’m not sure how I can demonstrate to her my stellar teammate chops without a team to be on.

  To my surprise, Coach Kitt picks up on my confusion and helps me out. “Are you going out for any fall sports?”

  I blink at her. In my world, there is no other sport to play but softball. My little brother, Ryan, plays soccer, but I never did. For girls, it’s a spring sport, anyway, so it doesn’t matter. In fall, the options are slim—cross-country, volleyball, golf—and I’m not really cut out for any of them. Maybe cross-country. Maybe. I can run and I’m fast, but it’s basically a group of individuals competing together. Not exactly the best showcase for teamwork.

  Coach is waiting for me to answer, patience wearing so thin I think she regrets throwing me a bone at all.

  “Cross-country?” I suggest weakly.

  I know she sees the same holes I do. And I hope she realizes why that’s my answer—that there is nothing more Olive Rodinsky would like to do than play softball. Even cross-country would be a means to an end, a way to stay in shape for the main event in the spring.

  “Consider it,” she says. “And maybe a winter sport, too. Basketball, not swimming, if you have a choice.”

  I nod. I better start shooting hoops with Ryan the second I get home. The kid’s got a nice jumper and I hope to God my little brother has learned a thing or two about coaching from Danielle.

  There’s shuffling outside Coach Kitt’s door, cleats on linoleum. Her eyes fly up, and I know it’s time for me to leave. I’m dismissed. Students she actually believes in are waiting for her.

  4

  I WANT TO RUN AWAY FROM THIS PLACE, TO RUN BACK to Danielle’s house, fall into bed, and fold into the fetal position with my sorrows. But I can’t go anywhere. No, I have to be a good sister to Ryan.

  Ry is trying to make the soccer team and, therefore, is participating in his third “optional” two-a-day workout before official tryouts on Friday. He walked to practice Monday with a buddy from down the street before delayed onset muscle soreness (aka DOMS) smacked them both so hard in the butt that they begged me for a ride today.

  So I drove them, using it as an excuse to get to the batting cages early in the morning and to the track for laps in the afternoon. But when I saw Coach Kitt walk in the building as we were parking, I delayed my run for a chance to plead my case.

  A lot of good that did me.

  Still, I have my shoes, music, and water. And I have an hour. Plus, there’s no chance of running into Jake here because his butt is all the way over on a practice field, separated from the track by a fence. If only juniors and seniors were separated by a magical fence once classes start. So, track time. Again, probably a good thing to do given the conversation I just had.

  Cross-country stardom, here I come. Or maybe just Katy Perry’s “Roar” on repeat for six miles. Or however far a cross-country race is.

  I’d better look into that.

  Turns out DOMS is the least of Ryan’s problems.

  “Coach is gonna cut me” is the first thing out of his mouth after his workout.

  Jesse, Ry’s bud from down the street, agrees with a “Dude. Parsons totally hates Ry. How many extra laps did you have to run today?”

  “Ten. Or maybe twelve.”

  “Duuuude.”

  I nod in sympathy. “Duuuude. That sucks.”

  Ryan shrugs, and I notice he has a football wedged in the crook of one arm. At fourteen, he’s all angles and sinew, even though he can down ten slices of Bruno’s deep-dish pepperoni without swallowing. Two years older, I’m (barely) an inch taller at five foot ten, and probably ten to twenty pounds heavier—puberty, softball, and estrogen keeping me from the same geometric fate.

  “I’ve got a backup plan. Get in the end zone, Liv.” He hoists the football over his head and jogs onto the turf with way more energy than he should have after a second two-hour practice and the (supposed) inability to walk this morning. He turns around, jogging backward, smile wide and bright and exactly like Mom’s, pre-chemo. “The football team is down a kicker. And I can kick.”

  Suddenly, I wish I’d taken up soccer. There are female kickers in both high school and college. If I’d spent the same amount of time on the soccer field that I had on the softball field, I might have a decent fall sport to play.

  I also might not have punched a first baseman at state.

  It might have been a midfielder instead.

  Or maybe all the soccer players in Kansas City are smart enough to know that gay people aren’t pedophiles. How is that stereotype even still a thing these days?

  I scowl. Stupid-ass Stacey Sanderson.

  Though, if I took up football, I most definitely wouldn’t be able to avoid Jake, even on the C team.

  “Heads up, Liv!”

  My frown immediately opens into a soundless “Oh, shit!” as I throw my hands up in time to avoid a football to the eye that had just started to look truly normal a few weeks ago.

  I catch the ball and immediately chuck it right at Ry’s head. I’ve watched enough Chiefs games with Dad to know he’s got some major technique issues. “That was a freaking line drive, dummy. To make a field goal, you’ve got to kick up. Not out.”

  “Hey, at least I got the distance.”

  He drops the ball to Jesse, who balances the point in the turf, finger holding the tip in place. Ryan takes a few steps backward and smacks another one low—it’s slightly higher, but still dings into the goalpost and comes to a thud in the turf.

  I throw it back to him. He kicks it low.

  I throw it to him again. This one is waaaaay high and doesn’t have the distance.

  Again. The ensuing kick glances off the left post, bouncing out.

  Once more, but Ryan’s so frustrated he spikes the ball and whiffs at it. Kicking it down to the twenty-yard line all the way at the other end. When he retrieves it, his face is all scrunched up like he’s a four-year-old about to have a fit.

  “Ry, just kick the ball,” I say. “Who cares if it isn’t the same motion? Don’t overthink it. You kick a ball every day.”

  Ryan gives me a choice finger and lines up a kick. Takes a step back. Lets it rip.

  Straight through the uprights.

  I catch it and hold it over my head. “FINALLY.”

  I spiral the ball back at him, laughing. The pointy end smacks him right in the chest. “Jeez, Liv,” he shouts. “Take it easy on the man boobs.”

  I grab the dormant soccer ball and chuck it at Ry, too. Jesse is inherently lucky that I’m not violent with people I’m not related to. Well, except for the one time it hurt me the most.

  And, just like that, I’m done.

  I sigh. “Ry, time to go home.”

  We walk in the front door to the sweet-and-sour aroma of chicken pad Thai and the sizzle of Heather’s wok. It’s been a favorite this summer—cheap enough to feed six mouths, tasty enough to keep everyone satisfied. My sister’s wife has plenty of ideas for feeding us, having been the olde
st of seven, and she’s mega-cheerful about it all. I wouldn’t say cramming her in-laws into her starter home was a dream come true, but feeding us sure is.

  Ryan takes a deep whiff of tamarind and lemongrass, smiles conspiratorially at me, and whisper-shouts, “Caaaaaaaaarbs” before literally running to the kitchen.

  “Whoa there! Shoes!” Mom snaps as he rushes past her spot on the couch. Mom may be on the downside of recovering from a mastectomy, but she’s not about to let Ryan track turf dirt into our newly adopted house.

  Ryan shuffles back, head hanging dramatically as I slip off Danielle’s hand-me-down Nike Frees. “It’s a compliment to Heather’s cooking that I forgot the rules.”

  “No one believes that, Ry,” Danielle yells from the kitchen where she’s playing sous chef. “You’d eat those shoes of yours if we had enough barbecue sauce.”

  We all laugh, but I’m shocked when Dad’s baritone joins us from the half flight of stairs that leads to our bedrooms. “Ryan, don’t listen to them. I got the same crap from my sisters and I turned out just fine.” Dad is never home from work this early. But now he jogs down the stairs, changed out of his detective gear and into ancient basketball shorts and a Royals T-shirt.

  “Dad, you’re here!” I say as he plops on the couch next to Mom and grabs the remote. “Uh, why?”

  “Nice to see you too, Livvie. No case tonight, but there is a Royals game. Plus, you know, I like hanging out with you people when work doesn’t get in the way.” He suddenly, dramatically, shrinks back from my sweaty self. “Man alive, did you run six miles through an onion field?”

  “Hey! I don’t smell as bad as Ryan.”

  “Do too!” Ryan shouts from the kitchen, mouth full.

  “You both stink,” Danielle says, before adding, “Liv, come here.”

  I pad to the kitchen. Ryan’s standing over the wok with a fork, testing noodles, while Heather’s chopping peanuts for the final touch. Danielle finishes setting out silverware and yanks me out the sliding glass door and onto the deck.

  The sun out here is unrelenting, even in the evening, cutting a laser-beam path through the trees. “Did you talk to Coach Kitt?”