See No Color (19 page)

• • •

The sky was clear blue over I-94, and I could see for miles on all sides. It was mid-afternoon, and I only had a few hours left on the road. I actually almost regretted it. It had been so long since I had been on a road trip, and I had forgotten how nice it was to just take off and go, even if you had a destination.

Your father wanted you, he always wanted you.
Even though I was alone, I reflexively lowered my glance so that no one could see the tears gathering in my eyes.
Mom and Dad love me, but they don't know what to do with me. And I don't know what to do with them.
I stiffened and gripped the steering wheel tighter. And out of nowhere, the thought came:
Baseball is not the only thing in the world. The world is large. There are more uses than that for my body.
I passed a car on the left, and then signaled to come back over to the right lane.

The first thing I'd do, I decided, when I got home, was call Reggie and tell him everything. I wanted to see his face change from disbelief to worry to excitement as I told him about eating dinner with Keith, about how he hadn't had any say in my adoption, about how I thought I would visit them again, even though I knew I would probably never feel completely comfortable around them—especially because I wasn't a Christian. I wanted to apologize for not telling him everything before and explain that I was scared, that I had always been scared. I decided I would begin my journey back home by finally telling him the truth: I was starting to love him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

W
hen I entered the house, Dad was bent over the table, poring over papers and playbooks scattered everywhere. I stood—watching him—really noticing him. It felt like I was watching a complete stranger. He didn't notice me standing there till the door shut behind me.

“Hey you,” he said, turning toward me. His eyes brightened and he set down the pen. “How was it?”

For the first time, I really saw my father. His hair was graying on the sides and his hairline receded more each season. Purple bags hung under his eyes and the lines around them were growing deeper. I wondered how my father could have gotten so old without me even noticing.

“Milwaukee was fine,” I lied, dropping my duffel onto the floor. “Good.” I scanned his face for any sign that he knew I was lying, but I could find nothing. That was one thing I had always been thankful for: reading Dad was as natural and easy to me as breathing.

“We hit the Afro Fest and the Celtic Fest,” I said, picking two of Milwaukee's festivals at random. I had no idea if they were actually held that weekend, but the city had so many festivals every season no one could keep track anyway.

“Food any good at either of them?” he asked.

I shrugged. “It was okay. We mostly ate at those high-end restaurants that Mrs. Adams likes.” Mrs. Adams, my friend's mother, did have extravagant taste in food and was constantly arguing with my friend over whether she could have a corn dog or a portobello mushroom panini for lunch.

Dad stood up and walked toward me. I wasn't sure why. “Well, I have to admit that I'm glad to hear it. I'm going to need you as fresh and healthy as possible for Tuesday's game, and you'll need plenty of good food in your system for that.” Tuesday: The quarterfinals, the first day of the state tournament. I had almost forgotten on the ride home.

Dad wrapped his arms around me suddenly and caught me in a suffocating hug. My breath was caught in my throat.
Dad, I just got back from Detroit. I was visiting my father.

“I know this has been a hard few months for you, what with your slump, and this business about your birth father and everything,” he whispered in my ear. “But we'll make it through together. We always do.” He squeezed me hard, and I thought my ribcage might snap. He pulled back suddenly and held my shoulders in his hands. “Right?”

I could feel his hands shake—ever so slightly—on my shoulders, and I saw a deep sadness inside his eyes. It wasn't a statement, like usual. I couldn't remember the last time he really asked me something like that.
Now's your chance to tell him. Tell him.

I turned away and picked up my bag. “You sure you want to play me?” I tried to breathe deep, but my stomach was tightening, my windpipe thick. I didn't even know if I wanted to play. It would be beautiful to prove them all wrong, that I was still the same nationally-ranked center fielder, but at the same time, I realized that how they saw me was not nearly as important to me as it had been even just a few days before.

Sonny Rollins' slippery saxophone trickled out of the speakers. Dad had it on low, always had it on low when he was working. He only played Sonny or Miles, he said, to keep him cool while he wrestled with the frustration of plays and paperwork and strategy.

Dad's brow furrowed. “Alex, of course I'm going to play you. You thought—” He cocked his head to the side and put his hand on my shoulder again.

I watched my purple Converse and imagined I had X-ray vision and could see my toes squirming inside them.

“I mean, I know … Like I said, it's been a difficult season for you, but that doesn't mean you're not still one of my top boys…”

I winced as he fumbled for words. Last year I
was
the top boy.

Dad took his hand from my shoulder and dropped it to his side. “You're going to go out there on Friday, and you're going to kick some ass. I don't want to see anything drop in that you can lay out for, I want to see you get on base five times and score four. I don't want anyone in that stadium to have any doubt that you're Terry Kirtridge's daughter.”

I had heard the speech, or one like it, a million times before, and it had made me want to go out there and do everything he said, to get what he wanted, to get what I wanted. At the same time, I wondered why he couldn't just accept that I played my best.

I raised my head slowly and tried to smile. Sonny Rollins was pushing out “Autumn Leaves,” my favorite track.

Dad turned away, taking my half-smile as enough, I guess, and walked back to the table. “I got so much work to do between now and then. I'm going through all of Eau Claire's games from the last three seasons, looking for holes. Called some other coaches for gossip. Seems like their slugging second baseman is actually a defensive liability. Hard slides rattle him and they've had more than a few easy double plays turn into runs. And his hitting goes to hell when he makes errors. So if we can figure out how to rattle him, we just might be able to take advantage of that…” He sat down, picked up a paper, and was lost in his scribbling a minute later.

I turned and started walking toward the stairs. I thought about this poor second baseman, the star hitter, the defensive liability, the one easily rattled by a hard slide. Who was he really? I was exhausted and needed to lay out my plan to reveal all to Reggie.

“Oh yeah,” Dad said suddenly, breaking from his reverie. “I almost forgot—Reggie called for you.”

My legs froze in place. I had told him I would call him myself—why in the world would he call the house? How did he even get the number?

“He said to call him right when you got back, that it was really important.”

My stomach flipped, and I gripped my duffel strap tighter.
He got to you first
. I turned around.

Dad tapped his pen against the side of his head. “That's that kid from the Midwest Championship, right?”

I nodded.

“From East, right?”

I nodded again.

Dad shook his head. “Helluva pitcher. Could really be something some day if he trained with us.”

I somehow squeaked out a “Yeah.”

“I said he should come by sometime to just throw around with us, that we'd love to see him again.”

Shit
. “You did?”

Dad nodded. “Had a nice little chat with him, actually. He said that you and him have been hanging out a lot lately. Actually called you his girlfriend.” He looked a little embarrassed, and there was no mistaking the surprise in his voice.

I put my hand over my mouth but it was too late—I hiccupped.

“I told him he should come over for dinner sometime, that we would love to meet him.” Dad laughed. “We were talking about how you really don't know somebody until you know their family.” He fiddled with his pen. “I hope you don't mind, but I actually invited him and his family out with ours for a picnic sometime next weekend, after the big game's over, when we've won and everything's quiet again. I hope that's okay.” He looked up at me again, hesitantly.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“I didn't tell my parents about my first girlfriend either. It's … something you kind of want to keep to yourself,” he said. Was he trying to get me to talk more about it with him? I couldn't think of anything I was more uninterested in at that particular moment.

My face was getting redder by the minute. I wondered if he would follow me if I just bolted from the room.

“But Reggie said you two have been going out for a month now so … it'd be great to get to know him a little better.”

I hiccupped again. Sonny Rollins had nothing more to say with his saxophone; the CD had stopped.

“Is that okay, Alex?” Dad was gnawing on his bottom lip, and he tapped his pen on the table. Each tap felt like a pin in my retina. I blinked.

“Yeah, that's cool,” I said.

• • •

I met Reggie at dusk, when the heat was beginning to settle back into the ground. You could see dark clouds on the horizon, but they looked far away. “How was Milwaukee?” he asked, kicking a stone in his path. We were in Bayard Park, but we weren't running this time, just walking leisurely.

There was something in his tone—a sneer perhaps—that made me feel small. I wanted to reach out and hold his hand, I wanted to ask him to touch me, but I knew that he wouldn't. Something was different; his irritation was palpable.

“It was fine.”
He's not Dad. You can tell him. You decided to tell him.
He had just gotten his hair cut again, and, studying his profile, he looked bigger than the last time I had seen him. If we faced each other, mound to plate again, I knew he would have the advantage over me. He was stronger, and I didn't like that. But I needed him.

“Yeah, your dad said you always have a great time out there with your friend and her mom, hitting all the big stores and expensive restaurants and everything,” he continued. “He said you guys go out there every year.”

I took a deep breath.
Tell him where you really were.
The air was heavy with rain.
He won't want you if he knows how you've lied to him in the past. He won't even believe the truth.
“Yeah, it's kind of like this girls' getaway weekend thing. Ever since we were kids, Mrs. Adams wanted us to feel like we were—”

Reggie interrupted me. “Your dad also said you've been training really hard for the game on Friday. He said that he's going to start you in center and that they'll never know what hit them when this skinny girl shows them how state titles are won.” His voice was getting louder and louder, and there was no mistaking the anger that threatened to overwhelm it.

I stopped right there in the middle of the path.
I love you.
“Reggie—”

“Which got me to thinking,” he said, turning around to face me. “Why am I having to hear all this from your dad and not you? Why didn't you answer my texts and calls this weekend? I called your house because I was worried something happened and then I find out you went to Milwaukee?” He took a step toward me.

I blinked.
Because I fucked up.
“I've just been—”

Reggie stopped in front of me, so his face was just inches from mine. He pursed his lips and when he released them, it took all my willpower not to cover them with my own.

“Don't!” he said. “Alex … How come your father seemed genuinely
interested
in meeting me and getting to know me when I called you my girlfriend? How come he didn't seem angry at all, like you said he would? Remember, a month ago, when I kept asking why you were embarrassed to let me meet your family, and you said he would freak out if he knew you had a boyfriend? Remember that? Or have you just been too busy in Milwaukee or getting ready to win state to notice that just about everything you've told me about yourself is a lie?” He was yelling so loud that I had to step away.

He shook his head and then smiled wryly. “Although I guess I have no one else to blame but myself. After all, you made up that crap about your mom the first day I met you—why would anyone think that you wouldn't just keep on doing it? I'm just stupid enough to believe all of it…”

I was suddenly conscious that tears were streaming down my face.
This isn't happening
. “No, no,” I said, wrapping my arms around his tall, angular frame. I searched my mind desperately for the words that would calm him down, the words that would make him stay. “I wasn't lying! I just … okay, I assumed, based on everything else I've seen my dad react to. He's so protective of me, you wouldn't believe it. And anything that could distract me or take me away from the game, he doesn't like at all, makes me try to get rid of. So I just thought…” I looked up at him, to see if my words were having any effect, but his expression was as cloudy as ever.
Why are you doing it again? Tell him the truth!

Reggie pushed me away. And when he spoke, his tone was matter-of-fact; completely devoid of emotion. “You can't keep it up,” he said. “It's too much to keep telling all these stories all the time. I don't even know how you can keep all of them straight.” He shook his head. Then he walked right past me, back the way he had come, back toward his house.

I ran after him and grabbed his arm. “Please…” I said, wincing at how desperate my voice sounded in my ears.
I need you.
Why couldn't I say it? “It's got nothing to do with you. I…” I sighed. “I didn't want you to meet my family, okay? That's the truth. I thought you wouldn't like me anymore. Because when I'm around you, I really
feel
black, I really
am
black. But not when I'm with them, I don't know how to say it…” I tried to wipe away the tears, but they were coming too fast.