Stealing Bases (3 page)

Is she for real? She’d rather play for us than for a team where playoffs are a shoo-in?
“I didn’t know Beachwood was so pathetic,” I snap.

But she doesn’t hear me. Or at least, she acts like she doesn’t. Instead, she turns around and takes off back to her spot.

When she’s settled, I fire the ball back her way with as much power as I can muster.

Amber catches the ball and immediately starts to set up for her response. No wincing, no hand wringing, no nothing. My pitch—which must have been at least fifty miles per hour—has as little effect on her as a two-year-old carelessly placing a crushed flower into her palm.

I suck in a breath and begin to pray to anyone who will listen.
Please deny the hardship. Please be banned. Please make Amber go away.
And then, because I’m a glutton for punishment, I decide to figure out whether she has any D-I plans. “Any idea which college you want to go to?” I ask.

“I don’t know yet. I’m getting some interest and stuff . . . . ” She gazes up at the cloudless sky. “But honestly, I think I’d love to go to UCLA.” She raises her arm and, in one fluid motion, whips the ball back to me, dragging her leg and touching her shoulder with her bent arm.

I manage to catch the ball, but the force of her throw disrupts my balance, and I take a few steps back.

“How about you?” she asks, like nothing even happened.

“Oh, you know—to be determined.” No way I’m giving Amber the satisfaction of knowing we share the same dream.

I set up on the rubber, wind up, and push off, firing a fast pitch that has been known to make catchers’ hair stand on end.

The ball lands squarely in her glove. “Nice,” she says. “You’re good.” Then she takes a giant step and fires the ball right back at me. I don’t even see the thing coming before it smacks into my glove. My hand throbs in pain. Without thinking, I toss my glove to the ground and shake out my hand.

“Are you okay? I’m so sorry,” she says, rushing toward me.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I answer through gritted teeth. I’ve been nailed before, but I can’t believe I let Amber get one over me like that.

Amber glances around frantically. “I’m so, so sorry. It’s my fault. I should have told you that the pitchers I warm up with usually wear padded gloves,” Amber says, attempting to grab my hand.

I swipe my hand back. “Thanks for the tip,” I say, using my good palm to stretch out my bruised one. There’s no way I’m wearing a padded glove. I’m tougher than that.

“Are you sure you don’t want ice?” Amber asks.

“No, really, I’m okay,” I say, glaring at her.

“Okay, but if you change your mind—”

“I won’t.”

“Oh, okay.” Her eyes search mine, desperate for me to accept her apology. “Seriously, Kylie, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just get back to your side.” I shove my hand into my glove. That must have been the cue Amber was waiting for because she finally jogs back to the other side, still spilling
I’m-sorry
s.

As soon as she makes it to her spot, I wind up and unleash my response.

Amber easily catches my pitch.

Is there anything this girl can’t do?

This time, before she winds up, I take a few steps back into the cage to allow her ball some time to lose some fire.

Smack.

Again, my hand screams for mercy. But I don’t let it show. One time was embarrassing enough.

“What other pitches do you throw?” I ask, eager to give my hand a chance to rest.

“Fastball, curve, screwball, and drop. But my best pitch is the rise,” she says.

Figures.

four

After school the next day, I head to the cafeteria to fill up my water bottle before tryouts. On my way, I try to convince myself that despite what Coach Kate said about this year being a clean slate, and despite Amber’s killer rise ball, my spot is still mine. But no matter how many times I tell myself Coach Kate will stay loyal, I can’t get the what-ifs out of my head.

What if Coach replaces me with Amber? What if she forgets about our history? What if instead of remembering how she approached me as an eighth grader, she decides to go for a pure power pitcher? What if she heard about last season’s basketball drama? What if she ignores her own code of loyalty?

I can’t allow any of that to happen. Between Zachary and Mom, I’ve been rejected enough lately. I don’t think I can handle it if Coach dumps me too.

When I finally reach the caf, I shove my hand into the side of my Under Armour bag and pull out an empty Aquafina bottle—a dig at my dad. (He’d chafe at the plastic.) If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that there’s no way I can handle trying out against Amber without some serious fluids. I quickly fill up my bottle and look up to see Missy standing next to me.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, looking at the pile of magazines hugged tightly to her chest.

“I . . . uh . . . What are
you
doing here?” Her periwinkle eyes bug. “And, uh . . . why are you holding a plastic water bottle?” She glares at me in mock accusation. “Hasn’t your dad taught you anything? I thought he banned plastic.”

“Very funny. Seriously. I thought you’d left already.” I think back to when Missy stopped at my locker after the final bell. I swore she said she was going home.

“I was going to leave, but . . . ” She nervously scans the cafeteria like she’s looking for someone.

I follow her gaze and see Hannah Montgomery roll past us on her skateboard.

“I’m working with Hannah.” Missy lets out a breath. “Remember I told you? For prom. And I joined Ms. Sealer’s Fashion Club.You know, to gain some marketing experience for college. Not only do I get to add an extracurricular to my resume, but I get a cut of Hannah’s profits if she ever makes it big. Smart, huh?”

I give her a look like:
Really? That Hannah?

She whispers, “I know what you’re thinking, but who better to promote than the winner of the Spring Fashion Show?”

“Are you really that desperate for extracurriculars?”

Hannah rolls her skateboard between us, stopping in front of Missy. “Ready Freddy?” She unwraps a Hershey’s Kiss and pops it in her mouth.

“Yeah . . . I’ll be there in just a bit,” Missy says, twisting a strand of platinum blonde hair with the index finger of her unused hand. Turning to me, she silently pleads for me to be nice to her newest meal ticket.

“What’s up, Han?” I ask. “Didn’t know our caf was a skate park.”

“It’s all about the inspiration, Ky. Chocolate and pushing my limits on the board gets me going.” She rolls the skateboard with one foot.

“Oh . . . ” I take a swig from my water bottle to stop myself from laughing.

“I’ll meet you in Ms. Sealer’s room in five,” Hannah says to Missy. Then she rolls out of the cafeteria.

The second Hannah’s out of sight, I let loose with my frustration. “Really, Miss?” I ask.

Missy just shrugs.

“How can you stand it?” I shove the bottle back into my bag.

“Um . . . hello? She won the Spring Fashion Show.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So—and I couldn’t say this to you before because she was around—but I’m just looking for someone to kind of do the work for me, you know?” She smacks her gum.

“Uh-huh.”

“And anyway, I just put in my headphones when she starts her skater babble.” Missy shrugs, motioning to her ears.

“Okay, fair enough.” I raise my eyebrows and throw my bag over my shoulder. “Just as long as you don’t start wearing metal bottle caps around your neck as ‘jewelry,’ we’re good.”

Hannah rolls back into the cafeteria, popping the front end of her board and launching into a perfect ollie. It’s so strange to see someone skateboarding in the cafeteria, I can’t help but stare.

“Forget what I just said,” I say, rolling my eyes.

Missy rests the magazines on a table. “I thought you were going to try to take it down a few notches. Hm?”

“When I’m around my friends, sure. But, you can’t expect me to be good around
Taylor
’s BFF.”

“You? G—”

I cut Missy off. “Sorry, Miss. I gotta go. It’s time for tryouts.”

I start to make my way to the exit when I hear Missy call out, “Wait.”

“Yeah?” I ask, stopping mid-stride.

“What are you going to do about prom?”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“I’m
talking
about revenge. We gotta make Andrew and Zach regret humiliating us last season.”

I glance at the white-and-blue Beachwood clock. “How about we hash this out after you’re done with your new BFF? I’ll meet you at your car after practice.”

“Ugh. Fine. But, seriously, where are my friends when I need them?” She makes a big show of looking around.

I chuckle. “They’re at softball tryouts—where I should be. But don’t worry, I’ll tell them you said hi.”

Before Missy can pull me deeper into her vortex, I jog out of the cafeteria, excited to take the mound again.

There’s no way I’ll lose Missy, my mom, Zachary,
and
softball all in the same year. The world isn’t that cruel.

five

“Bring it together, girls,” Coach Kate calls from the pitcher’s mound after we’ve all had a chance to warm up with our freshmen partners.

Glad to be given a reprieve from Amber duty, I sprint over, quickly finding a spot between Jessica and Nyla. My appearance interrupts a heated discussion about the differences between the SAT and the ACT.

The sun is warm against the back of my heather-gray Beachwood Academy Softball tee, and I’m feeling surprisingly good about my prospects. Knowing that Coach likes a neat appearance, I tuck my tee into my mesh shorts. As I’m about to reach up to adjust my lucky blue-and-white hair ribbons, I feel a tug on my ponytail.

I turn around to see Chloe attempting to maneuver between me and Jessica. “Are these from last year?” she asks, touching my hair.

Doesn’t she get it? Once anyone’s tongue enters the vicinity of Zachary’s mouth, we’re no longer friends. EVER.

“Yeah, Ky. I love the ribbons,” Phoenix adds.

“Thanks, Phoenix.”

“Ky, how’s the rise?” Emily asks as she joins us.

“It’s working . . .” I answer, hoping the panic that I feel doesn’t reach my face.

“What’s up, Nyla?” I ask, turning toward Nyla instead. “Spending all that time in the pitching cage, I’m missing out on my Ny-and-Ky time.”

Nyla laughs. “Yeah. Miss ya too.”

“Speaking of the pitching cage, how’s Amber?” Jessica asks.

“Does she live up to the hype?” Zoe chimes in, having just finished with her partner.

Let’s talk about something else. Anything
, I mentally plead. But no one hears my silent cries.

Abby, who I didn’t even realize was standing there, gets nervous. “Ky? You okay?”

I force myself back to reality. And to Jessica’s question about Amber. “That’s your call,” I say, motioning toward the field like I’m totally in control.

My friends follow my lead, turning to stare at the gaggle of girls. Some nervously tug on their glove strings. Others stare at the grass. And still others dig at the dirt with their feet. Amber is busy chatting with Danielle.

“I already have my own opinion about Amber.”

“Sounds juicy,” Jessica says.

“Oh, it is,” I reply. Then I realize Coach Kate is about to begin her speech.

“Just a reminder that teams will be posted on Wednesday,” she says, flanked by the assistant coaches. “Also, please make sure you have the number we gave out earlier today safety pinned to the back of your T-shirts so we know who you are. For the returning players, this is not necessary since all of you remembered to wear your practice jerseys.” She scans the crowd, looking pleased.

I hope that doesn’t mean I’m not doing enough to distinguish myself
. Quickly, I do my own survey, mentally counting the number of teammates who aren’t tucked. I breathe a sigh of relief. Only three of us remembered.

“Plus, I know who you are already.” Coach grins, locking eyes with me for a split second.

My stomach doesn’t just somersault, it does a round-off back handspring. I look down at my white-and-blue number seven practice jersey. After feeling anxious (to say the least) about Amber, I’m momentarily filled with a sense of ease. Amber’s going to have to do a lot more than pitch to prove she’s ready for varsity softball at Beachwood.

Coach continues, “Today is our first official day of tryouts. To understand what we do here at Beachwood, pay attention to the upperclassmen, as we have specific routines when we arrive at the softball field . . . .”

I take Coach’s endless droning as an opportunity to sneak another peek at Amber. I guess warm-up procedures really float her boat because she’s staring at Coach like she’s two-time Olympic medalist Jessica Mendoza.

I tug at my glove and remind myself of what Coach always says: “Talent alone doesn’t win championships.” But if it did . . . Amber’s not the only one with that particular skill set. I’ve got it too. Enough talent to start as a freshman and sophomore. And certainly enough talent to crush Amber.

Having calmed myself with Coach’s words, I force myself to pay attention.

“I would like to turn everyone’s attention to the outfield fence. Does anyone notice anything worth mentioning?” She points to the fence, and I can’t help but stare at the state-of-the-art scoreboard that sits at the center. The words WELCOME BACK, BEACHWOOD ACADEMY SOFTBALL scroll in red on the bottom.

The group is silent.

Then Nyla pipes up. “I do.”

“Yeah, me too . . . ” Emily announces.

“Yes, Nyla?” Coach Kate’s lips form a straight line.

“The fence is empty.”

“Exactly. The fence is empty. We have no championship or tournament banners.” Coach Kate folds her arms across her chest. “But Wildcats, we’re going to change that this year. We’re going to change that by pushing ourselves like we never have before and by making sure that we have the absolute best talent out here on the softball diamond.”

I swear for a moment Coach Kate glances at Amber. Fire burns in my stomach and I rub my palms against the sides of my matching mesh royal-blue team shorts.

I’m not giving up my position that easily.

“Remember our goal is a winning season—from day one,” she continues. “By the end of the school year, we
will
have a banner hanging from that fence. And I want to reiterate: no one is safe. We’re putting the best team out there regardless of who you are. So fight hard to win your spot!” Coach shouts.

The crowd responds with paralyzed silence.

Coach waits for the nervous looks to peter out. “Today, the assistants and I are going to evaluate you on your fielding. So, infielders, please go with Coach Zimmer. And outfielders, you’re with Coach Dominico. Catchers, please grab your gear and follow Coach Jackie. Pitchers, you’re with me,” Coach says, pointing to the various assigned areas. “Now, let’s get started!” Coach charges toward the pitcher’s mound.

We all immediately stand up, eager to begin the tryouts. Amber somehow manages to come out of nowhere to stand next to me. Her freckled face flushes and she grins. I attempt to grin back, but I suspect I look like I’m in pain. She turns to say something to Danielle, and, overwhelmed by curiosity, I ignore my own friends and peek behind her to see what number she has pinned to her shirt.

Instantly, I regret the decision. There, taunting me, is a big number one.