But it’s Tate.
“I missed you today at church,” he says.
“I’m spending some time with my mom.”
We chitchat until he asks, “Have you talked to Drew lately? He stopped answering my texts and emails.” Tate sounds so sad.
“I messed up bad,” I say, and explain everything that happened with Brian, Will, and Drew.
“You didn’t mess up bad. Sometimes things happen,” he replies. “People make mistakes.”
“I don’t understand why Drew’s acting like this. Why won’t he talk to you?”
Tate says, “It’s a hard thing—explaining to everyone who you really are. I’ve only told a couple of people.” We stay silent for a bit before he speaks again. “Frankly, I think it’s kinda hot you seduced an older man. Can I have one, please?”
I giggle, then go quiet. I stare down at the blue gown on the book cover and think about how much I want to wear my white dress. Maybe this is a chance for me to do what Mom said. Take care of myself. Do something for me.
“Hey, Tate?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you go to prom with me?”
Since Mom’s still at the florist, I root around in the basement for more romance novels or a deck of cards, to play a game of Solitaire. It’s Thursday of Spring Break, and nobody except for Dad and Tate has called. I’m so bored, I might borrow Mom’s bike and try to find a movie theater. The nearest one is probably twenty miles away. I drag my finger over piles of board games and nonfiction books and baskets of linens. That’s when I see it.
Mom’s glove.
Her old softball mitt is sitting on a shelf next to a dusty vase. I hesitantly pick up the glove and slip my hand inside. I hunt around for a softball and find one behind a box of CDs. I pull a deep breath and start pounding the ball into the glove, loving the release, loving the energy whipping through my muscles. I rush up the stairs, taking two at a time, and jog out into the front yard. Giving Mom’s tulip beds a wide berth, I throw the ball up into the air as high as it will go, then catch it. I do this over and over again. It never gets old.
Mom’s car pulls into the driveway right when the sun begins to set.
“You didn’t happen to bring your glove?” Mom asks as she steps out of the car.
“No.”
She slides her tote bag onto her shoulder and comes to give me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I’ve missed her doing that so much. “That’s too bad. We could’ve played catch.”
“Next time.” I smile at her, but it’s a pained smile. I wish I hadn’t quit the team last year. I wish I hadn’t let my former friends influence everything I did. I wish I had understood that people will always interpret my actions in different ways.
“There are public batting cages not too far from here,” Mom says, pulling her glove off my hand. She slips her hand into it and pounds a fist against the pocket. “You pay for rounds of balls. It’s fun—I go there sometimes.”
“By yourself?”
“Yup.” She beams. “Sometimes I even bat on the Major League Baseball setting. The balls come at you at 90 miles per hour.”
My mouth falls open. “How many have you hit? Balls going at 90 miles per hour, I mean.”
“A couple.” She laughs softly and brushes her hair over her shoulder. “I usually out-bat the men who go there. It makes them all upset. And then they hit on me.”
I grin. “Let’s go.”
“Let me change into sweats.”
We hit ten rounds of balls apiece, blowing way too much money. I even try the MLB setting, but I only manage a foul-tip. I’m proud of it, though, considering how rusty I am.
Then Mom and I go out to this healthy buffet she likes, where we build giant salads full of tomatoes and squash and avocado to take home to eat in front of the TV. And for the first time in over a year, I watch a Braves game.
Dear Lord,
On Monday morning, when I get back to school, I’m going to talk to Coach Burns and Dr. Salter. I want to see if they’ll give me another chance to play softball this year. I pray you’ll be there with me when I ask. I know that being on a team means acting like a team player, which I haven’t been this year. I’m the last person who deserves to play softball. But I want to. I want to try. And I hope I can help the team win some games.
Thanks for the great Spring Break.
Written on March 19 while overlooking the Great Smoky Mountains. Burned using a candle.
the prom decisional
2 days until i turn 18
Dr. Salter and Coach Burns had the team take a vote.
Fourteen girls voted yes to letting me back on the team, while eight said no.
Now when I show up at softball practice, I don’t pay one lick of attention to Laura. I bat, I run, I field the ball. I dive when I have to, jump when I have to, take risks when I have to. I cheer for my teammates during games. I chew my gum and smile and enjoy the bright sky.
Rumors about Brian and me haven’t stopped, but I try my best to ignore them. I really try. But I cried myself to sleep one night after hearing Jake Sanders and Paul wondering aloud if Brian and I had ever had sex in the equipment shed. I cried again after I saw Will talking to Kate Kelly. I know he didn’t see me, but I saw him, leaning against his locker, smiling down at her. I wish he would smile at me like that again.
I cried because, even though things were over between us before we got caught, Brian left without saying good-bye.
But I love this game, and I’m ashamed I ran away from it.
I didn’t get a dinosaur invitation to Bo’s party.
I didn’t figure I would, but deep down I hoped. Still, I ride my bike over to Walmart, where I buy a package of baseball cards, some of those capsules that expand into animals in the bathtub, and a new Matchbox car. It’s not much, and Will will probably think it’s way over the top and that I’m trying to get his attention in any way, but that’s not true. I like Bo, and I have a feeling that no one but my parents will notice my eighteenth birthday next week, and I don’t want Bo to ever feel that way.
When you turn eighteen, you’re supposed to go buy a lottery ticket. You’re supposed to buy cigarettes, even if you don’t smoke. Go clubbing with girlfriends in Nashville. Instead, I’ll probably have a quiet dinner at home with Mom, Dad, and Ryan. And that’s fine.
But as much as I want to take Mom’s advice and do things for me and only me, I’m still lonely. I still need friends. When I go to college in the fall, I’ll definitely be more social, but I will remain guarded. Was my connection with Brian real? Did we truly like each other? Does he miss me? I don’t know if I’ll ever get the cojones to reach out to anyone again, but if I care enough about the person to risk it, I’m open to the idea, and that’s gotta count for something.
I pack the gifts in a bag and write To Bo, from Parker Shelton on it, then I ride my bike out to Whitfield Farms, loving the smell of cut grass floating on the warm spring air.
I pass a bunch of hay bales, then I stop at their mailbox, prop my bike up with one foot, and slip the gift bag inside. I stare at their house, remembering the Sunday lunch I had with them and the time Will had me over to baby-sit Bo. I softly touch the spot on my neck that he rubbed. My mind wanders to the time I nearly let him kiss me in the equipment shed, where everything fell apart, but I snuff it out of my mind. I jerk my head from side to side, telling myself to get over it.
I’ve tried. He’s gone. That’s it.
I take a final glance at the farm and say good-bye to Will Whitfield, then I pedal home.
Friday’s practice ends.
I hop on my bike and speed down the four-lane toward my house. The sky is edging into twilight. When it’s safe, I hold both arms out like I’m flying. The warm wind rushes over my body, and I’m smiling.
I pedal past Dairy Queen and get a major hankering for a Dilly Bar. I do a U-turn and thrust my arms out again, pretending I’m a bird. I’ve really lost it, but I don’t care. It feels good.
I lock my bike and head inside, where I find Will and Drew slumped in a booth, their trays piled high with food. They see me and stare. Will stops chewing. Drew doesn’t bite into the hot dog he’s holding. They look shocked. Probably because I’ve voluntarily chosen a fast-food restaurant. My first instinct is to rush to my bike and peel out of here, but I want that Dilly Bar. I haven’t had one in a couple years, and my taste buds are begging for the chocolate.
Heading to the counter, I avoid their faces. I don’t even glance back at them while I’m waiting for my order to come up. I smile to myself, glad that even with all the weird stuff that happened between Will and Drew, they’re still hanging out together.
When the ice cream is in my hand, I peel back the paper wrapper and bite into the chocolate shell. It cracks, and vanilla ice cream flows onto my tongue. Don’t groan, don’t groan, I tell myself. But I can’t hold back my smile.
On my way out, I sneak a peek at Will and Drew. Drew’s focused on his hot dog, but Will is watching me, one side of his mouth lifted into a subtle smile. He quickly averts his eyes and sinks his teeth into his burger.
That sucks, but I’ve got my ice cream and my bike and I’m heading home to my family. Maybe Dad will want to take a walk with me.
I stand on the third base line with my hand pressed over my heart. The national anthem is playing before the announcer reads the Prom Decisional lineup.
Coach Burns hasn’t let me start very many games this season since I hadn’t paid my dues and all, but he told me I’m definitely starting today.
Coach Burns never looks me in the eye.
The anthem ends, and the announcer says, “Thank you all for coming to the sixth annual Prom Decisional!” The crowd claps and whistles. The smell of popcorn wafts through the air. “It’s also Senior Night here at Hundred Oaks. Coach Burns asks that parents of seniors join the players on the field.”
Players who aren’t seniors go sit in the dugouts, and this horribly cheesy instrumental music spills from the loudspeakers. Mom and Dad stand up from their seats in the bleachers and make their way onto the field. Brother John and Mrs. Martin move to stand next to Laura, ignoring my family. Ms. Bates joins Drew, while Mr. and Mrs. Whitfield, carrying Bo, smile and wave at me on their way to stand with Will. I guess they didn’t hear the rumors about me.
Dad squeezes my neck, and Mom holds my hand. The announcer calls each senior’s name, and Dr. Salter shakes our hands and gives each of us a little bouquet of roses. I invited Theresa to come, to stand next to Mom, but she graciously declined. And truth be told, that relieved me a bit. But I’m glad I asked her. I know Mom was glad too.
The bright lights shine down as we take the field. The boys are batting first. Sam steps up to home plate, taking a few practice swings. I bend over onto my knees, focusing on him, chewing my gum. Laura winds up and pitches a strong fastball right down the center. Sam watches it go by.
“Come on, Laura!” Jordan yells from the stands. “Strike him out!”
Sam smirks and takes another practice swing. JJ punches Jordan in the shoulder, and she shoves him. I stare Sam down. This time he swings and flies out to center field.
