Stealing Bases (7 page)

I freeze, noticing that my hand has made its way to my heart pendant. Then I glare at her. She looks down and plays with her smoothie straw.

“Did something happen with Zach?” she whispers. This time she doesn’t look up.

My teammates are stunned silent. Suddenly, the only sounds are the waves crashing against the sand and the squeak of Taylor’s plastic straw.

Then Missy pipes up. “What are you talking about, Tay? Kylie hasn’t spoken to Zach since their latest split.” Missy nervously looks at me.

I glance at Zoe, silently begging her not to rat me out. Her eyes bug.

“Yeah, Kylie’s over Zach,” Tamika adds.

“They’re done. . . . History,” Jessica chimes in.

“Kylie?” Taylor asks. “Is that true?”

“Yeah, Ky. Is it?” Missy scooches closer to me from across the circle.

I survey my teammates, desperate for a way out of the conversation. But the more I try to come up with something, anything, to say, the more I realize there can only be one response. “Taylor’s right. Zachary asked me to the prom.”

thireteen

My teammates glance at one another frantically and then burst into a frenzy.

“Don’t worry, girls. It’s just an invite. Kylie would never go with Zach,” Missy insists. “She’s smarter than that.”

“I’m sure she told him where to shove his invitation,” Tamika adds.

“Yeah, Kylie would never give Zach a chance after the basketball season. I mean, what he did was . . .” Jessica pauses, scraping the bottom of her cup with her spoon. “Unforgivable.”

I watch as my basketball buds chat about me like I’m not even there.
What do they know about Zachary and me?

Eventually, I can’t take it any longer. “Uh, hello. Earth to everyone, but we’re talking about
my
life.
My
decision.”

“You did tell him no, right?” Missy eyes me suspiciously.

“I didn’t tell him yes, if that’s what you want to know.” I stand up, adjusting my jacket. Then I shove my napkins into my empty yogurt cup.

“Well, you’ll show him when you get crowned prom princess,” Abby says, smiling.

“Ooh, that’ll be good,” Missy agrees. “Win the crown, and then, while you’re up on the stage, pick the hottest guy on the court—well, not Andrew—but the hottest guy, and hook up with him right there. In front of Zach.”

“Ooh, what about Brett Davidson?” Eva suggests.

This sends the girls into a heated convo (again, about me!) and me into another mental freefall. I collapse back down. Prom princess. That’s something that could turn this terrible year around. My mom would be so proud. Maybe she’d even come back home. Plus, Zachary would realize what he lost. And everyone would know that I’m more than just a washed-up benchwarmer.

“If you could have any guy at Beachwood, who would it be, Ky?” Jessica asks, interrupting my thoughts.

The answer pops into my head before I can stop it. But I can’t exactly tell them that Zachary Murphy is my dream guy after they just spent the last few minutes plotting how to avenge my shattered pride. I decide to bounce.

“I’m out of here, chickies,” I announce, standing up again.

“Wait. What? Where are you going?” Missy asks.

“Home.” I shrug, dusting the sand off my shorts and bare legs.

“But . . .” Missy’s face drops.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get a cab.” I begin the trek toward the street, crossing over the bike path. Before getting too far, I remember the cup I’m clutching. I walk back to throw it away in the trash can at the edge of the beach, when I overhear Missy say, “I love Kylie and all, but I just don’t get her anymore. I mean, why would she even talk to Zach after everything that happened? She can have any guy at Beachwood.”

“I know,” Tamika adds.

“It’s so messed up. I don’t get her either,” Jessica says, pausing. “After everything he put her through . . .”

“I’m so worried about her.” Missy shakes her head. “She’s just going through so much. With the move and her parents’ divorce. Why would she add Zach?”

My heart stops, and I begin to tiptoe away, glad no one’s noticed that I’ve overhead their conversation. Then I break into a run. I smile as I sprint effortlessly down the bike path. But then, once I’m out of earshot, it occurs to me. Their conversation is still going on. Without me. And in that moment, reality hits me: I really am a benchwarmer, watching the world go by.

fourteen

I make it to the Shangri-La Hotel, when I realize that hailing a cab in LA is really as hard as people say. I decide to take a seat on a bench outside the hotel in the hopes that a cab will appear with some tourists in tow.
Not all of them are smart enough to rent a car, right?

Fortunately, my strategy pays off. Just a few seconds later, a cab pulls up and an elderly couple emerges. I swiftly slide into the backseat.

“Where to?” the driver asks.

I hesitate and then give him Zachary’s address. He nods at me in the rearview mirror and flips on the meter. I relax against the black leather and gaze out the window. Staring out, I spot a little girl with pigtails clutching a kite. Her parents stroll behind her, arms intertwined.

I’ll never have that again
, I think. An intact family. Two proud parents. A tribe. A tear forms in the corner of my eye and I wipe it before it can slip down my cheek.

I pull my phone out from my jacket pocket and scroll through to my mom’s number.

Please. Please. Please pick up. I really need to talk to you right now.

“You have reached the voice mailbox of Catherine Collins. Please leave your name and a detailed message and I will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you for calling and have a nice day.”

Figures.

“Mom, it’s Kylie. I really need to talk to you tonight. Please call me back as soon as you get this message. Please.”

I press “end” and notice that the cabdriver is looking at me strangely through his rearview mirror. I turn my head and take a few deep breaths. No more tears.

A few minutes later, the cab pulls up in front of the Murphy’s mansion. I pay and climb out.

Trekking along the side of the house and through the wrought-iron gate, I sneak a quick peek at Zachary’s window. Dark—figures. He’s probably out with Vi. Traitor.

I let out a sigh and attempt to compose myself as I trudge through the wildflowers, past the cherry trees, through the garden, and across the gazebo. My dad bursts through the front door as soon as he spots me. His eyes are wide. “What are you doing? Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“Peachy.” I shove past him and into our shack.

“I saw a cab drop you off. I thought you were with Missy,” he says, his voice full of tension.

“I was. I decided to come home early.”

“You could have called me. I would have picked you up.”

“What, and interrupt yoga?”

“You know I don’t host any yoga classes on Saturday nights. And besides, a cab is a waste of money.” He follows me into the living room.

I swing around to face him, stopping in front of the bamboo side table. “It’s not my fault we can’t afford anything. I’m not the one who screwed up their marriage. You are.”

His expression pains. “Kylie, I know you’re under a lot of stress, but you’re being unfair.”

“Really? I’m the one being unfair? I’m not the person who refuses to use Mom’s alimony for anything but necessary expenses.”

“Ky, you know we still set aside money for your education.”

“Thanks, Dad. That’s swell of you. Really.” I run my hand along the side table and spot my Under Armour softball bag lying beneath it. I quickly grab it and am about to begin the two-second walk to my room when my dad brings up the only topic that could make this worse.

“Your first game is right around the corner. I can’t wait to see you play,” he says, holding up a printout of my softball schedule.

“Where did you get that?” I ask. I feel my face burn.

“I printed it off your school website. Why?”

“Why . . .” I pause, searching for any excuse for why my dad shouldn’t come to my games. I refuse to tell him that I lost the starting position. “Because you shouldn’t assume that I’d want you to come to my games in the first place.”

“Ky . . . I understand if you’re mad at me, but your mother and I used to always see you play. . . .”

“Exactly. You and
my mother
. But I don’t see her here, do you? So, why don’t we just make a clean break of it?” I lean over and pull out an empty plastic water bottle out of my bag. “Oops . . .” I wiggle it in front of my dad.

His face turns red.

“Oh no . . .” I toss the bottle on the Greenwood flooring. “Call the police! It’s a plastic water bottle! Oh my God, I’m littering. Lock me up!”

“Oh, Kylie, I just don’t know what to say to you anymore.” My dad picks the water bottle off the ground.

“Nothing,” I reply. “Just don’t say anything at all.” Then I stomp toward my room.

fifteen

Two and a half weeks later, I’ve pitched a total of zero innings. In fact, my butt is so warm from riding the pine that someone could roast marshmallows right off it. So much for being the backup.

“I still can’t believe the junior prom is the same day as the Desert Invitational. What are you going to do?” Sophia, our third string pitcher, asks from her perch on the bench next to me.

“It’s not really on my mind right now,” I say grumpily as Chloe walks by me and sits on the other side of Sophia.

“Okay . . . So, what are you doing after today’s game against Edgewater?” Sophia asks, her eyes wide.

“Huh?” I look her way.

“You know . . .” She stares at her hands. “Are you hanging out afterward?”

“I’m just worried about softball right now. Not thinking about later. But thanks for asking.”

Whatever.

I stand up and find a spot at the end of the bench as far away from Chloe and Sophia as possible. I know Sophia means well, but I just don’t want Coach thinking I’m comfortable on the bench.

I stare out at the field. Phoenix and Nyla look bored—with Amber’s amazing strikeout record, they’ve hardly had to do anything this whole game. Meanwhile, Amber drags dirt until the mound, the one that used to be mine, is perfect. Then she settles into her spot on the white rubber, takes a deep breath, winds up, and launches the ball. It smacks into Emily’s glove with blazing speed.

“Strike,” the umpire shouts.

The crowd—mostly parents and a few stragglers from other practices—explodes with cheers. A couple of guys from the lacrosse team, who just finished their practice at the field adjacent to ours, begin to chant Amber’s name from center field.

Edgewater’s number two steps out of the batter’s box and glances at her coach, who waves off the signs. So much for signs, when Amber has struck out the other side three times.

Emily tosses the ball back to Amber and she begins to manicure her—
the
—mound again.

“No balls, one strike,” the umpire announces.

Amber sets up, nods, and fires once more. A puff of chalk dust rises from Emily’s glove.

The batter swings, but she’s miles behind the pitch.

“Strike!” the umpire shouts again.

Whistles and cheers ring out from the crowd. A couple of B-Dubbers have even constructed blue
K
signs to mark Amber’s strikeouts. Eight are hanging on the center-field fence, not too far from where Chloe is standing.
They never did that for me.

“Psst . . .” someone whispers into the dugout. I ignore it, figuring it’s a freshman parent trying to sneak a snack in.

“Ky . . .” the person whispers.

I look over at the side opening of the dugout and spot Zachary behind the fence. He waves me over.

I stand up lazily and mosey over toward him. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” I say.

“That should be you out there.” Zachary points toward Amber.

I know. It should.
I fight the urge to tell him how much I needed to hear that. “Yup. Sure,” I say, feigning indifference.

“No really, Ky. I mean it.”

“Whatever. What do you want?” I straighten up, watching Zachary’s gaze hang on Amber a little too long for my comfort.

“Why do you always think I want something? Maybe I’m just here to cheer on my girl.”

“Who? Amber?” I sneer.

He finally turns his gaze back to me. “Redheads don’t really do it for me. I’m all about blondes.” He reaches into the dugout and touches my hair.

I swat his hand away.

“Did you think any more about the prom?” Zachary looks down at me with his big chocolate eyes.

“Maybe,” I say, remaining intentionally evasive. “Look, I got to get back to the bench. I have a lot of watching to do.” I glance over at the coaches to see if they’ve noticed that their second string is chatting with a boy instead of focusing on the game.

They haven’t. They’re too busy writing down Amber’s stats.

“You know I’m not going to take no for an answer.” He grins.

“Well, you should have thought of that before you starting shoving your tongue down every B-Dub girl’s throat,” I sternly whisper. Amber’s BFF, Danielle, glances at me from her spot on the bench. Her blue sparkly headband (Amber’s sporting the same one today) glimmers from the afternoon sun.

I roll my eyes at her. She promptly returns the favor.

Whatever.

Then I continue in a whisper. “I’ll never, ever, ever give you another chance. You’re the one who screwed this up.”

“Okay. Okay.” Zachary holds up his hand in an attempt to get me to calm down. “I get it. You’re mad. Then how about we just hang out as friends after your game. You look like you could use some Zach magic to cheer you up.”

“No, I . . .”

“Not taking no for an answer. What time should I come over? I don’t need much notice. I can be at your house in . . .” He smiles and pretends like he’s trying to figure out a time. “Five seconds.”

Oh for God’s . . .

The crowd erupts as Amber sends another Edgewater girl back to the bench in defeat.

That’s when I hear Coach Kate’s voice rise above the din. “Wow! Did you see that rise ball? I haven’t seen a pitcher throw a rise ball that hard since college!” Coach Kate proudly says to Coach Jackie.

Coach Jackie beams and nods. “Me either. Since senior year at UCLA.”

My eyes begin to water.

I try to push the tears away and look at Zachary. “Fine. Just today. As friends. And don’t you dare think it’s anything more.”

Zachary’s face lights up just as my teammates jog in from the field, having successfully shut out the other team for another half inning.

“The guesthouse is still off-limits,” I say, knowing if I keep giving in to him, that rule will bend like the rest.

“How about our spot?” Zachary asks, grinning.

“Fine.”

“You know you love me.”

The problem is I do
.