Pinch Hit (18 page)

Trevor finally took a deep breath on the other end. “I get it.”

Sam said, “And you accept my apology? I really mean it. I feel stupid. Your mom's not bad. She's waving at me right now and grinning like a jack-o'-lantern.”

Trevor laughed like he'd seen that before and seemed to change gears. “It's okay. And don't worry, Wolf won't hurt you. Dolph has him trained like nothing you've ever seen.”

“He knows I'm not you, though, I tell you that.”

“He's smart, that's all,” Trevor said. “Man, this is like eating spaghetti with a spoon. I mean, we're kids. How complicated can our lives be?”

“Like spiderwebs.”

“You're telling me. That Klum? What a jerk.”

“I know.”

“Listen, will you do me a favor?” Trevor asked.

“Of course.”

“If you can find her—your mom—go ahead. But promise me you won't tell her about me, and you have to promise that you won't contact her until you're you again, and I'm me.”

“But once she sees me,” Sam said, “she'll know about you. I look just like you now.”

“She won't bother me if you tell her not to.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because you'll tell her what I said.”

“What did you say?”

“That when she gave me away, she turned her back on me, and no one turns their back on me and gets away with it. Tell her I don't want to see her. Ever. You tell her that. She'll stay away.”

It was Sam's turn to go quiet.

“You there?” Trevor asked.

“Yeah, I'm here. Thanks. I better go. Your mom looks like she really wants to see me—you.”

“Yeah, you better. She doesn't like to wait. Thanks for the advice on the curveball. I can't believe it's as easy as that dot.”

“Some people can't see the dot.”

“I guess I'm a natural baseball player.”

Sam laughed. “And I might be a natural actor. I'm not bad.”

“Okay, good luck.”

“And good luck to you in the game. Just get along with Klum. The real way to get him back is to get into USC Elite. When that happens, he'll get everything he deserves, and trust me. I
will
beat him.”

A fat orange sun crawled up over the lip of the dark blue hills. The last of the birds ended their morning songs and settled in for the coming heat. As Trevor scuffed his feet along the driveway outside the trailer, the smell of the landfill crept through the cool shadows and up his nose. He sniffed and turned away from the sunrise. He thought of his own yard, the smell of cut grass and flowers and the towering trees that shaded them from the sun. Beside the trailer sat a stack of used tires, a broken toilet, and a rusted refrigerator, junk that might have come to life and crept up out of the landfill so that what Trevor saw was almost as nasty as what he smelled.

Trevor shook his head and set out on a mission to retrieve Sam's bat bag from the tiny bedroom. The trailer door opened with a creak, and inside Sam's father emerged from the shower drying his hair. “Already dressed and ready to go?”

Trevor shrugged. “Couldn't sleep.”

“Nervous?” Sam's dad wrinkled his brow. “You never get nervous.”

Trevor turned away. “I want to get there early and work this curveball some more, get my groove back, that's all.”

When Trevor emerged from Sam's bedroom with the bat bag, Sam's dad had two bowls of cereal out on the table and orange juice in paper cups.

“I'm good.”

“You'll be good with breakfast in you.”

“Why do they say that, anyway? Do you really believe it?”

Sam's dad looked up. “You feeling okay?”

“Sure,” Trevor said. He sat down and spooned in a few mouthfuls of cereal, chewing mechanically and forcing himself to swallow.

He set his spoon down and looked at his watch.

“Okay, I get it.” Sam's dad picked up the bowl and tilted it toward his face, finishing it before he got up, took Trevor's bowl, and put them both in the sink. “Let's go.”

Trevor followed him out. They rode to the practice field without talking. When they pulled into the parking lot, Sam's dad said, “Don't forget, after batting practice you're going to ride to the game with Coach Sharp. I'll meet you there.”

Trevor remembered to kiss and hug Sam's dad before jogging off to batting practice. Sam was the first player there, and Coach Sharp seemed happy to pump some curveballs through the pitching machine in the small cage beside the field. Trevor screwed up his face and focused on the pitches, getting into a good groove by the time the other Blue Sox players and assistant coaches showed up.

Coach Sharp checked his watch and called them all together, reminding them that they'd practice batting for an hour before they got into his and his assistants' cars and rode to the game field as a team. Trevor had a thin sweat going by the time they finished. The excitement continued to build, and by the time Trevor climbed into the backseat of Coach Sharp's Tahoe, he couldn't hold still.

“Quit shaking your leg, will you?” Cole Price said, turning around in the front seat. “Your knee is in my back.”

“Sorry.” Trevor grabbed his knee with both hands to stop it.

Coach Sharp played a soul CD from the eighties, stuff Trevor and the rest of the kids never heard of but that Coach Sharp sang along to as if they weren't there. When they pulled off the highway and passed Dodger Stadium, Trevor's nervousness only increased. The memory of his embarrassing experience with the Dodgers a few days ago churned his stomach as they rode to a far corner of Elysian Park. The stands were already filled with spectators. Parents and friends of the Blue Sox players wore blue and red, but plenty of people were there in the purple and white of Palos Verdes, whose team warmed up on the grass.

“Here we go, boys,” Coach Sharp said, putting his truck into park.

They piled out and unloaded their gear in the dugout. Trevor sat there with Frankie and RJ, waiting for Palos Verdes to get off the field. His stomach flopped around in his belly like a walrus. The excitement he had imagined he would feel choked under the grip of jangling nerves.

“They look big,” Frankie said.

“They stink,” RJ said. “They lost ten-to-two to that San Diego Sharks team we beat in the Pasadena tournament by five.”

“Never judge a team by its past performance. On any given day, any team can beat another,” Frankie said. “That's what Dad says, ‘on any given day.'”

“Dad was a lacrosse player.” RJ left the bench as if that were the final and decisive point of the argument.

Trevor warmed up with the team, unable to shake his nerves. During the national anthem, he had to cross his legs, then quickly find a bathroom when it was over. He was horrified upon his return to see that the first two batters had already struck out and he was up.

“Sam, you okay?” Coach Sharp put his hands on Trevor's shoulders.

Trevor could only nod as he scooped up a helmet and Sam's bat from the rack where he'd left it. “Fine.”

“Okay, well, go get him. Watch out for the changeup. He's throwing heat, but we know he's got that pitch.”

Trevor took slow steps toward the plate. The sun, well above the trees, shone bright and hot. Dust swirled on a small breeze along with the smell of hot dogs and cut grass. It was a setting worthy of a sports movie, but none of it held any of the thrill Trevor had imagined it would.

Instead, he had to choke back the acid creeping up into his throat. Instead of the pitcher, all Trevor could think about was how glad he was that if he did lose it, his breakfast wouldn't make too big of a mess because he barely ate.

Gone was the joy of competing and the excitement of the game. Everything was vomit and nerves and trembling muscles.

Trevor swung his bat a few times but felt almost nothing below his elbows, not his hands, not the grip, not the bat. The umpire cleared his throat and told Trevor to get going. Trevor stepped into the box. The pitcher wound up and threw a burner, right down the pipe.

Trevor shut his eyes and swung.

Sam woke up late. He lay still, remembering where was and who he was supposed to be, then stretched and yawned, enjoying it. Trevor's phone blinked a red eye at him from the bedside table, letting Sam know there were messages waiting. He ignored them because he could and stepped into the shower. He whistled to himself as he scrubbed his body and hair, then dried off with a puffy warm towel.

Trees cooled the air, and the hint of a breeze brought the scent of orange trees with it through the open windows. Sam stepped out onto the terrace and looked along the north side of the mansion and out over the lawn, marveling that one family could live in a place big enough for at least a hundred people.

The chop of a helicopter as it cruised over the treetops above dropped a weight in his gut. He was excited because he'd never ridden in a helicopter, and happy it would fly him over the heavy beach traffic to the home in Malibu. But it would also bring him that much closer to his meeting with Trevor's father—due in on their private jet from Australia. That was the good news Trevor's mom had given him yesterday in the garden, and Sam did his best to act excited.

Downstairs, Sam appeared in the breakfast room wearing a Joe Girardi Cubs jersey over a pair of Michael Jordan shorts. Trevor's mom sat not in her robe and turban, but dressed in shorts and a snug jacket that looked like something a band leader would wear. Her hair fell like billowing fog around her face, blond and shiny, and her face had been carefully made up with scarlet lipstick to match her jacket. She was texting as she talked on the phone, and she sipped coffee as she picked over a croissant filled with jam.

The smell of fresh bacon and scrambled eggs cut through the scent of fresh-cut flowers in vases around the room. The thought of food overcame Sam's distress over meeting Trevor's dad. He loaded his plate and sat down across from Trevor's mom. She gave him a quick wave and blew him a kiss, pointing to her phone. Sam nodded that he understood and dug in.

Sunshine, flowers, and rich green bushes and trees glittering with dewdrops filled the big bay window. Below the flowery terraces dancing with little yellow birds, a waterfall gurgled into the pool. Sam couldn't help comparing the sights and smells to his own cramped trailer and landfill. The tinkle of crystal glasses and silver utensils against thin china plates were a world away from the sawing of plastic knives, the tearing of paper plates, and the hollow thump of wax-covered cups set down on a plastic tabletop. Sam ate until he was ready to burst, and Trevor's mom finally got off the phone.

“You ready, angel?”

Sam looked down at himself, wondering if he was dressed right or if there was something he needed to bring. “Sure.”

“Good, come on.”

Sam followed Trevor's mom. They walked back into the house to the elevator and stepped into its spacious wood-paneled car.

“Oh, your father has to leave first thing in the morning, so I don't know if you want to invite a friend for tomorrow, but you can. I've got a party you wouldn't want to go to in the afternoon.”

Sam felt his heart leap. “Can I invite McKenna?”

Trevor's mom put on a big pair of sunglasses and pushed the elevator button before she smiled at him. “McKenna? Of course. She'll have to have someone drive her out. We can't keep your father waiting.”

Up they went, emerging out onto the roof beneath a small pavilion. Across a short stretch of the flat roof, a silver helicopter waited with its blades still. Thomas stood beside it at the top of a set of steps. As they approached, he opened the door. Sam followed Trevor's mom, stepping inside a cabin dressed out in glimmering red-brown wood, leather, and brass. They sat next to each other in comfortable bucket seats. Thomas stepped in and closed the door, speaking in a low voice to the pilots before he sat stiffly in one of the remaining four empty seats.

The engines whirred, and the blade began to chop. Trevor's mom took out her phone and smiled at him. “Got to tweet a bit. Stu was bugging me about that. I'm sure you do yours without thinking.”

Sam nodded and realized that he had neglected Trevor's tweet. He took out Trevor's phone and got onto his page. He felt a thrill scamper up his spine as the helicopter lifted off the roof. The earth below him sank away. The huge mansion, pool, and gardens quickly became a small design, then they surged forward, passing over the hilltops and mansions of the other wildly wealthy people of Bel Air.

Sam quickly typed into the phone:

riding the helicopter to Malibu. Dad is bk from Australia 4 a day at the beach. Life is good;)

Sam read it over and giggled to himself before sending it. Who would believe?

Below, the snarling traffic of LA jammed the highways as the rest of the world tried desperately to get to the waiting ocean and waves. Thomas sat staring straight ahead, the picture of a storefront mannequin. Sam looked at his phone for the time. He knew that right about now, Trevor and his team must be taking the field against Palos Verdes. They could win without Sam, that he knew. He wondered if Trevor would think the deal was worth it. It was hard to imagine how that could be: preferring a Saturday morning ball game to riding in your personal helicopter to Malibu? Sam shook his head.