Stealing Bases (16 page)

thirty-five

Before I even make it to Coach Kate’s office, she stops me dead in my tracks.

“What is this?” She holds out the
Sand Dollar
, pointing to the front-page headline. “Is this some sort of sick joke?”

I feel chills run up my back. “It’s . . .”

Martie walks over and motions for us to take it inside to the offices.

Coach follows her, visibly annoyed. She signals me into the room, slams the door to her office shut, and throws the newspaper onto her desk. It lands next to her #1 COACH coffee mug. “No, ‘It’s not a joke’? Or no, ‘This was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, Coach’?”

Martie sits in a leather chair next to Coach’s desk. She stares at me intently.

“I . . . I . . .”

“You what? Please, don’t tell me that this was your way of getting back at Amber for taking your spot. In fact, Martie and I were just discussing what a long way your attitude has come since basketball season.” Coach Kate lets out a deep breath. “But then today, I read the paper and see you’re up to your old tricks.” She twists her hair into a ponytail in a huff.

Martie adds, “This is completely inexcusable. I’ve already had to take a conference call this morning with the California High School Athletic Association.”

“I didn’t . . . ”

A line forms between Coach Kate’s eyebrows. “I don’t know what you could possibly say right now to make this right. This article is going to kill us. Our season. Our dreams. The future of the Beachwood Softball program. And I cannot believe that you took it upon yourself to humiliate Amber and this program by calling the school newspaper.” Coach Kate snatches the mug from her desk and gulps her coffee.

“I never meant to. . . .”

“We know you sometimes react before you think. But Kylie, this time you went too far,” Martie adds.

“But . . . I didn’t. . . .”

Coach Kate looks at Martie.

“We figured you would deny your involvement,” Martie says.

I look down and contemplate fessing up—anything to help erase the extreme guilt weighing on my chest.

“Although I really want to believe that you had nothing to do with this mess, it’s hard for me to conceive that you wouldn’t be out for blood when it comes to Amber.” Coach rolls back in her chair.

“Coach, I swear I . . .” I meet Coach’s eyes again.

“My first instinct is to expel you from the program immediately.” Coach pauses. “Unfortunately, however, as the source is unnamed, I have no actual proof of your involvement. And, as much as it pains me to say this, I can’t toss a player off the team based on suspicion.”

I look up
.What? She can’t?
My initial urge to fess up flies out of my mind like one of Nyla’s home runs over the complex fence.

Martie holds up the newspaper. “Because of this, the CHSAA is asking us to hand in our books, Amber’s tuition payment information, and even receipts from the bookstores, like we’re criminals. They told me that as of today, Amber’s hardship application has not been approved and that they’re launching a full investigation into her transfer.”

I gulp.
Thanks, Zachary, for the great idea.

Coach Kate takes another long sip from her mug. “And now—I can’t believe I’m going to say this—but since Sophia is absent and I have no one else who can pitch at the varsity level, I have to go against my better judgment and”—she glances at Martie—“let you start you on Thursday.”

What?!?

Coach continues. “Because of this article, you got your way. Congratulations.”

My stomach does somersaults. I should be happy, but it all feels horribly wrong.

“Remember, this is only until Amber’s suspension is revoked. And if we find out you were somehow complicit in this, you’ll be yanked off the team so fast you won’t know what happened. Now, go.” She points to the door.

I nod and slink out of Coach’s office.

thirty-six

Things aren’t much better by the time we take on Oceanview at our complex on Thursday. For the past two days, my teammates have been giving me the silent treatment during practice. And I was “asked” not to come to a meeting held to discuss the CHSAA’s investigation into Amber’s transfer. And to a dinner at Abby’s house held to celebrate our participation in the Desert Invitational tournament. And even to our pre-game meeting.

I launch a warm-up pitch at Zoe before the top of the second inning.

Finally, Nyla breaks the deafening silence behind me. “Play’s at first,” she calls out.

I receive the ball from Zoe. She glares at me and I feel a pain in my chest. Even Zoe, who witnessed everything that happened between me and Zachary, isn’t talking to me.

Coach Kate relays the sign.

Zoe holds down five fingers.

I shake off the rise ball.

I hate that pitch. If I only had Amber’s natural talent with the rise ball—or better yet, if I only worked harder on it—I wouldn’t be in this mess.

Zoe shows me an outside fastball. I wind up and snap my wrist, firing a fastball.

Smack.

“Strike,” the umpire calls out.

A couple of fans clap. The rest sit on the bleachers with their arms tightly crossed. Even the crowd is pissed.

Zoe tosses me the ball and I walk back to the mound. The
K
signs in center field have disappeared since the day the article broke, along with the lacrosse team. Only one lonely sign, SAVE BEACHWOOD SOFTBALL—REINSTATE AMBER MCDONALD, remains.

“Play’s at first,” Nyla repeats.

Zoe gives me the sign for the drop ball.

I set up, push off the rubber, roll my hand over the ball, and short step toward Zoe’s glove.

Dong.

The ball sails out toward center field. Chloe charges forward and catches the ball by the fence. She rolls it toward me as she jogs. I run out toward her with my glove hand up for a slap. She immediately runs the other way.

Just then, Phoenix runs past me.

“Hey, Phoenix!” I say, holding up my hand.

She ducks her head and continues in the opposite direction.

Clearly, no one’s interested in reveling in how well we’re doing.
Or at least not with me.
I jog over to the dugout and find a bunch of my teammates consoling Amber. Their togetherness—which has been nothing short of unstoppable these past two days—stands in direct contrast to how alone I feel.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be back out there in no time,” Chloe says, glaring at me from out of the corner of her eye.

“I heard that Coach might have this mess straightened out by Friday,” Phoenix says, trying to calm Amber down.

“Yeah. Just in time for the Desert Invitational,” Nyla adds.

“Hang in there. We’re going to need you for the tournament,” Danielle says, squeezing Amber’s shoulder.

Once the team has gathered in front of the dugout, Nyla shouts, “Hits on three. One, two . . . ”

I add my hand to the cheer.

Nyla stops counting. She looks at me, then my hand.

I pull it away.

A chorus of “Hits” breaks out, but I’m not among the screaming voices.

One thing’s for sure:
I need to figure out how to make this right.

thirty-seven

A few hours later, my mortification reaches an all-time high when the Beachwood school bus drops me off in front of Zachary’s house. It’s been years since I took the bus, and it’s even more humiliating than I remembered.

I toss my Under Armour bag over my shoulder and drag myself across the aisle, down the three rubber steps, and out the door. Once I reach the street, I take a deep breath and wonder if this is how I’ll spend the rest of high school—in total self-induced purgatory.

I trudge through the wrought-iron fence gate, keeping my back to Zachary’s house. Then I shove my key into the lock and head directly to my room, passing Kibbles along the way. As I’m about to fall onto my duvet, I notice a huge box sitting there.

What the?

Kibbles, who followed me into my room, barks at me to open it.

I tear open the package and find myself face-to-face with a long, black Marc Jacobs garment bag. I quickly pull out the garment bag, accidentally sending a small white envelope fluttering to my bed. KYLIE is written on it in calligraphy. I rip it open. My mother’s handwriting stares out at me.

I toss the note on my dresser.
She didn’t forget!

Then I take a deep breath and unzip the bag. Inside I find a long ebony strapless gown. I pull it out and admire the open back. As I turn the dress this way and that, the silver shimmery accents glisten.
It’s beautiful. . . .

I strip off my softball uniform and step into the silk fabric. The dress is smooth against my skin. Looking up at myself in the mirror, I tug on my hair band. My hair falls across my shoulders in soft honey-blonde waves.

Kibbles sits at attention by the mirror, watching me.

I smile at her, thinking that if dogs could talk, she’d tell me how awesome I look.

And yet, despite how perfect it all is, something about this dress just seems wrong.

I pick up my mom’s note and think about how prom was supposed to go—with my mom, with Zachary, with my friends. Naturally, that’s when my dad peeks his head into my room.

“Hey, cupcake,” he says. Then he takes a good look at me. “Sweetie, you look stunning. Where’d you get the gown?”

“Mom,” I tersely reply.

“Oh. So that’s what was in that box.” He slowly walks around my room, glancing at my pictures. “Nice one of you and Missy,” he says, pointing at a picture taken after we won the basketball championship.

“Yeah, it’s okay.” I place the torn box on the ground. Kibbles takes this opportunity to snatch it with her mouth, even though it’s larger than she is, and run out of the room.

My dad and I stew in silence. But then, after a while, I have to say something. “So, uh, shouldn’t you be getting back to Bridget?”

Dad removes the photo from the wall. “No, that’s okay. She’s not here.” He pauses, staring intently at the photo. “I think I may have sprung her on you too quick . . . or maybe not quick enough. I don’t know. I was never good with these things. Your mother . . .”

“Yes?” I take the photo from him and place it back where it belongs—on the collage I made in honor of our three-peat. I’m surprised that as I’m doing this, he doesn’t say anything in response. It doesn’t take long for me to realize that, once again, I’m going to have to be the one who breaks the silence. “Yes, Dad? What about Mom?”

“Oh, it’s just that I know things haven’t been easy for you since she left for New York.” He pauses, taking a deep cleansing breath.

I stare at his yoga tee.

“And I know that I probably only added to the severity of the situation by moving out of the house, refusing to use most of the money from your mom, and setting up residence here.” Again, he pauses. “Plus, there’s the whole Bridget thing. . . .”

I move my gaze to my dad’s tired eyes. “Honestly, Dad, the Bridget thing is really only the tip of the iceberg.”

“Still, it must be hard for you.” He puts his hand on my shoulder.

At that moment, I break.

I shake his hand off me. “Yeah, Dad, it is. But it’s not nearly as hard as you pushing Mom away or you deciding to be all high and mighty about our finances or—”

Dad cuts me off. “Kylie, I’m sorry for all of that.”

“Let me finish, Dad. Did you think that maybe moving into my ex-boyfriend’s guesthouse might be the worst thing you could do for me?”

“Yeah, of course I figured it’d be challenging. But—”

“But you didn’t think that was enough of a reason to stay in our house a bit longer?”

“I thought our not being there would make it easier to sell. Besides which, there were all those memories of your mother. . . .”

“See! That’s exactly what I’m talking about! You thought it was hard to deal with
memories
of Mom. But I have to deal with living twenty feet from Zachary! Not to mention being ripped away from the house I grew up in!”

“I know I’ve made some mistakes in my life, Kylie. And I guess I figured that you and Zach have always been friends. . . .”

“But have you looked around? We’re not exactly friends anymore.” I take enough steps away so that my bed is between us.

“I knew you were going through a rough patch . . . . ”

“It’s more than a rough patch.”

“I guess I didn’t really understood that.”

“Of course you didn’t understand it! You weren’t looking! Mom would have looked . . . .” My voice trails off. “At least, she would have before. And don’t you dare go saying that—”

“You’re right. She would have.”

“What?” My mouth drops.
Did my dad actually say something good about my mom?

“I said that you’re absolutely right. Before she took this job, she would have noticed. And I was too caught up in my own stuff to really see what was happening with you.”

I look up at my dad. His eyes are red.

“But I won’t make that mistake again.”

“Yeah? Really?” I ask. My voice is tinged with sarcasm. “How are you going to manage that?”

“Kylie, you’re my only daughter. I want to know what’s going on in your life.”

“Let’s just say: a lot.”

“Cupcake, please. I want to help.” He grabs my hand from across the bed.

I look down at his hand in mine and the words tumble out before I can stop them. “Well, for starters, Zachary and I are done for good.”

“So that’s why you’ve been so mopey lately. . . . I should have known.”

“Dad, that’s only the beginning. There’s tons more where that came from.”

“Okay, so tell me.”

“I’m sure you don’t really want to hear it.”

“No, I do—”

“And besides, don’t you have a yoga class to get to? Or some sun salutations to do with
Bridget
?” I infuse her name with every ounce of annoyance I possess.

“Sweetie, none of that matters. Bridget is great, sure. And I find yoga enormously relaxing. But at the end of the day, you’re the one I care about. You’re the one who I want to be there for. Who I should have always been there for. I . . .” He stops short when a tear escapes down his cheek.

Finally, I decide to confess. “I lost my starting spot on the softball team, Dad.”

“What!? That’s impossible. You’re . . .”

“Save it. It happened. That’s why I didn’t want you coming to my games. And I made a complete mess of things afterward. With my teammates, with my friends, with my coaches . . .”

“Honey, I’m sure it can’t be that bad . . . .”

“Dad. It’s bad.”

“Well, they’ll have to forgive you eventually. You’ve known all of them for years.”

“And what if they don’t?”

“They will.”

“Your saying that isn’t exactly much comfort. How do you know?”

“I know because we’re having this conversation.” Another tear escapes. This time, it trails down his other cheek.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, wiping away a tear of my own.

“Well, we’re talking. For once. And we haven’t talked like this in so, so long.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, I’ve been busy.”

“No, honey, don’t go down that road. Don’t pull away. What I’m saying is that you’re opening up to me. And for you to do that, you must have forgiven me. At least at some level, deep down. And if you could forgive me for turning your life inside out . . . Well, there’s no way that what you did to your friends was nearly as bad as what I did to you.” He sits down on my bed, his head in his hands.

Still in my dress, I scooch next to him, placing one hand on his shoulder. “Dad, you didn’t mean to do anything to me.”

He looks up. “That doesn’t matter. I’m your father, and I should start acting like one.” He puts his arms around me, bringing me in for a warm embrace. And then he just holds me there, making all the pain wash away.

“I love you, Kylie,” he says, squeezing me tighter.

My reply escapes before I can even stop to think. “I love you too, Dad.”

And in that moment, I realize: I do love him, yoga shorts and all.

I always have.