Stealing Parker (3 page)

“Parker Shelton? Is that you?”

I glance up to find a clearly pregnant Coach Lynn standing before me.

“It’s me,” I reply, deadpan, turning my focus to stats. Drew is the next batter up; I write down his name.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“She’s our new manager.”

I jerk my head up. Brian’s hovering beside my former softball coach.

“Manager?” Coach Lynn exclaims. “You told me you’d rather burn in hell than have anything to do with softball ever again. You’re willing to manage, but you won’t play for me?” She touches her swollen stomach, looking upset. She must be six months along by now.

Brian furrows his eyebrows at me. He tucks his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt and chomps his gum.

I twirl my pencil.

“Well?” Coach Lynn presses.

I shrug. I’ve got nothing to say to her.

“You threw away your chance to play in college, Parker. You’re about to graduate. I know you love softball.”

“She played for you?” Brian asks.

“She was on my varsity squad her freshman and sophomore years. Could’ve been the best third baseman Hundred Oaks has ever seen.”

“Varsity? As a freshman?” Brian blurts.

I lick my lips and glance at his face, then clear my throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to pay attention to practice.” I watch as Drew scoops at a low pitch and misses it. “Stats are very important to Coach Hoffman’s decision-making process.”

“Decision-making process,” Coach Lynn repeats.

“That’s right,” Brian says. The look on his face shocks me. His dark eyes are questioning, pissed. Wary. He crosses his arms and heads out to center field, to talk to Sam.

“I’d love to have you on the team,” Coach Lynn says, rubbing her belly. “Just say the word. You don’t have to manage the boys’ team if you want to be around the game again.”

I shake my head. “That’s not it.”

I’ve never told Coach Lynn why I quit after the first practice last season. Softball was something Mom and I shared, and simply slipping a glove on my hand reminded me of how she left. It hurt like hell, but I thought I could handle playing again. But after everything went down with Laura, it sent me over the edge, and I quit. Coach Lynn’s tried, unsuccessfully, to get me back. But she doesn’t know how it felt, how my own team made fun of me. What happens in the locker room stays in the locker room.

“Our practice starts right after the boys are done,” Coach Lynn says. “I’d love to see you there.” She waddles off toward the left field equipment shed, where I see my former teammates gathering. That’s when Laura and Allie James pass by the fence. Laura has broad shoulders and blonde hair and is much shorter than me or Allie, who’s a tall, bony first baseman.

“I can’t believe they let
her
be manager,” Laura says loudly. “It can’t be good for the team’s image.”

“I wish I got to spend time with all those boys,” Allie replies quietly, sounding wistful. They sashay toward the equipment shed.

Laura was the worst after Mom left, after I screamed that her dad was being a jerk and not a very good Christian. She was captain junior year and said, “Don’t stare at the other girls in the locker room. I won’t stand for it.” Why would I want to follow a leader like that?

Some other girls on the team taunted me too, asking questions like, “How do lesbians have sex anyway?” and “You’re not gay, right? ’Cause that would just be weird.”

Allie took a step back and bit her lip. She looked sympathetic, but ultimately kept hanging out with Laura because her mom worried I’d be a bad influence on her daughter. I never bothered to reach out to Allie after that. I mean, why? So my heart could be broken again?

Still, watching my team pull bats and catching equipment and helmets out of the shed nearly brings me to tears. I don’t need them, I tell myself. I’ve got Drew. The person who didn’t judge me.

Brian comes back over, squats beside me, and studies my scorekeeping. “Did you already know how to take stats?”

“Yeah,” I mumble, fumbling with my pencil.

His brow wrinkles. “I don’t appreciate it when people waste my time.”

Then he’s gone.

Practice ends, and after pouring the water onto the grass and storing the coolers in the shed, I go meet Drew in the parking lot. He’s standing with Sam, who’s gesturing wildly.

“I don’t know why Dr. Salter has to approve our prom theme this year,” Sam exclaims. “How was I supposed to know that when I suggested a pajama party prom last year a bunch of guys would show up only in their underwear?”

Drew’s cracking up. “Um, you wore snakeskin boxers that sparkle, dude.”

“Fancy, weren’t they?” Sam laughs. “I wear the cutest underpants.”

I preferred Chase Neal’s puppy dog boxers. I really like animals.

“So if we win the Prom Decisional, what theme will we suggest?” Drew asks Sam.

“I’m thinking we should tell Dr. Salter we want an Ancient Rome theme. We can all show up in togas!”

I smile, tucking my hands in my pockets. Sam’s nice and funny, but I don’t know him like I know Drew. I usually keep to myself when he hangs out with his friends. And that’s fine. I prefer to keep most people at bay.

“I’m glad you’re not on the softball team,” Sam says to me. “It’d be a lot harder to beat y’all if you were playing.”

Every April, the Hundred Oaks softball team plays the baseball team, and whoever wins gets to pick the prom theme. The softball team won my freshman and sophomore years, but lost junior year. A lot of the guys were glad I didn’t play. They got their Underpants Prom, after all.

Prom is on May first, but I’m not sure if I’m going. Aside from all the wild underwear, last year wasn’t much fun considering Drew and Amy were suctioned together at the mouth the entire time, and my date, He Who Shall Not Be Named (okay, okay—it was Charlie McIntosh), kept trying to feel me up in the middle of the gym. Gross. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind going to prom this year if I thought it would be a good time with a guy I really like and trust. A man like Lord Devereaux, the hero in this romance novel I’m reading right now. He’s a pioneer of women’s rights and gives loans to poor people, all while lusting after Princess Penelope.

God only knows why, but Corndog rides a lawnmower up to me. He pats the seat behind his butt. “Your chariot awaits, Parker.”

I avoid his eyes and check my phone. I’m supposed to go shopping with Drew this afternoon and don’t have time for another Corndog lecture about how I screw over his friends. As if I don’t feel bad enough about my life already.

“Dude, why are you riding a lawnmower?” Sam asks.

“Dad caught me drinking again and took away my truck,” Corndog pouts.

“Bullshit,” Sam says, folding his arms across his chest, laughing. “You never party.”

“Fine, fine,” Corndog replies, chuckling. “I’ve been way bored since grades don’t matter anymore and I wanted to see how long it’d take me to get here riding this thing. I’ve been tweaking the engine to make it go faster.”

I smile a little. Since I was named valedictorian, I’ve been bored too. Like me, Corndog’s always loved science. We partnered on projects together until Laura started liking him in middle school.

“It seems like walking would be faster than a lawnmower,” I say.

“But it’s not nearly as cool!” Corndog retorts.

“Henry! Would you get your ass over here!” Jordan Woods calls from beside Sam’s truck. He’s letting her drive his truck now? Must be real serious.

“Gotta jet. The ole ball and chain needs me,” Sam says. His grin is so bright. He jogs to his truck and pulls her into a passionate kiss.

“Get a room!” Corndog yells at them, then focuses on us.

“We’re going shopping at Cool Springs,” Drew says, pointing at me with his thumb. “You in?”

“I can’t,” Corndog replies, glancing at my face. “Dad needs my help today. But thanks for the invite.” He tools off on his lawnmower. Wow, it does go fast.

“Corndog’s dad had to let their farmhand go,” Drew whispers. “I guess money is super tight and demand for their milk and eggs is down.”

“That’s sad,” I say, watching Corndog disappear onto the highway toward the countryside.

“I’m worried about him,” Drew says before he and I climb into the bug. He checks his hair in the rearview mirror. “Harry Potter movie marathon tonight?”

I buckle my seatbelt. “You don’t have plans with Amy?”

He stops combing his hair. Hesitates. “I broke up with her last night.”

I cover my mouth with a hand. “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m just moving on, all right?”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine, fine.” He blushes. “I just want to watch Harry Potter.”

“I’m in,” I reply.

“Great.” He claps his hands together once, looking away from the mirror. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

I fiddle with a tangle of hair. Corndog must’ve known about the breakup before I did and thought Drew did it because he likes me. But I don’t think that’s possible. Drew and I spend hours lying in bed together, chatting and watching TV and reading. I’ve never felt that electric charge between us, telling me he wants to make a move. Drew’s the friend who stuck by me through everything. I’m scared for him. I’m scared, that, if what I suspect is true, he’ll face the same narrow-mindedness I did.

“What do you want to talk—”

“You wouldn’t believe what Steven Reed did at the party I was at last night,” Drew interrupts.

“What?”

“You know how he broke his leg ice skating last month and how he has to wear a walking cast?”

“Yeah…”

“So he was like completely trashed out at Miller’s, and he was stumbling along the road, pretending to hitchhike. And he fell into a ditch, and he was so drunk he started screaming about how he’d broken his leg. And Marie Baird had to convince him that his leg was already broken.”

We laugh as Drew turns the ignition. I watch out the window as Brian climbs into his red Ford F150. Our eyes meet, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. What went wrong? Just an hour ago we were joking around. Is he really that mad about the stats? About me wasting his time? Why didn’t I tell him the truth?

I wave as his truck pulls away. He doesn’t wave back. And that feeling of belonging, of having someone who understands where I’ve been, fades.

Brian’s left blinker turns on.

“Follow him!” I exclaim.

Drew gapes as we pull out of the parking lot. He doesn’t question me. He peels out onto the four-lane, heading into town, trailing behind Brian’s truck. Good friends don’t question stalkerish tendencies, and well, Drew’s a great friend.

“Don’t stay right behind him,” I squeal.

“He doesn’t know it’s us.”

“Okay, one, he has a rearview mirror. And two, how many people have red VW bugs around here?”

Drew lets off the accelerator and swerves into the left lane. I slap a hand on the window as Brian takes the next right, and we keep on going straight.

“Drew! You lost him!”

“You told me not to stay right behind him!” He clutches the wheel.

“I didn’t mean lose him altogether.” I throw my hands up in the air.

“I’m sorry,” Drew says, giving me a weird look. He narrows his eyes.

I rub his shoulder. “It’s fine…How about Jiffy Burger for lunch?”

His face lights up, and he steps on the gas.

I can’t eat the food at JB—too many carbs—but their French fries and cherry Sun Drop make my friend happy. And that’s enough for me.

•••

After lunch and shopping with Drew, I find Dad passed out on the couch with his Bible splayed open across his chest. Piles of architecture and floor plan magazines lay haphazardly on the coffee table, alongside a cup of tea.

It’s only 5:00 p.m., but he’s snoring up a storm. At forty-two years old, he has a full head of brown hair the color of dark chocolate, and only a few wrinkles. He’s very handsome, but you can’t tell for the sadness. I press a kiss to his forehead. His eyelids flutter open.

“I’ll start dinner in a bit,” he says, but I tell him not to worry. I’ll take care of it. He whispers he loves me.

“Love you too,” I mumble back, but he’s falling asleep again already. I can hear music, the beat thumping against the walls of Ryan’s room. The drums make the floor vibrate. I slowly walk down the dark hallway past prints of the Beijing National Stadium and the Kansas City Public Library to my room and set my shopping bags on the rug. A knock sounds on my door.

“Come in.”

Ryan pokes his head in. His brown hair sticks up every which way and one eye is squinty. “Can you help me with my laundry, Park?”

I sit down on my bed and open my laptop. “Give me a few, ’kay?”

“Sure. Thanks.” Ryan shuts the door, leaving me alone.

“You’re welcome,” I mutter. “It’s nice to see you. I’m great, thanks. Laura said mean things about me at practice. The chemistry test yesterday was a real bitch, but I studied hard so I hope I get an A. Thanks for asking, Ryan.” I stare at my duvet as I say this, feeling like a crazy loser. I wish my brother would tell me he’s proud of me, but I doubt he’ll ever care about anyone trying to be their best again.

In high school, Ryan was a perfectionist. Woke up every day at 6:00 a.m. Mom would cook him breakfast and iron the button-down shirts he used to wear, while he went over his homework again. Like me, he made straight As, but he exceeded my accomplishments in so many ways. He was student council president. Lots of girls wanted to date him. He ran the yearbook staff. He played shortstop for the Raiders and was elected homecoming king. He ruled high school, but he couldn’t wait for college. He couldn’t wait to leave behind the people who didn’t take school seriously, the people who partied on weekends and didn’t give a crap about their SAT scores. He couldn’t wait to study premed at Vanderbilt.

He started falling apart the middle of freshman year, after Mom left, after learning that even at a prestigious college, not everyone was focused like he was. It’s like the minute our family disintegrated he finally figured out that reality didn’t match his dreams.

My cell rings. The caller ID says it’s Mom. I let it go to voice mail, then play it on speaker. I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my shins while I listen.

“Parker…it’s me. Mom. I’d love to chat with you, you know, whenever you have a chance. Your dad told me about Vanderbilt. Congratulations! I’m so proud of you. Theresa and I are doing well. We just got a new puppy. She’s a labradoodle! That means she’s half Labrador, half poodle. I think we’re going to call her Annie. I know how much you love that musical…Okay, well, I’ll call again soon. I love you.”
Beep
.

I save the message. Just like all the others. I lie down on my bed and focus on the ceiling. Try to shove the loneliness out of my mind. I’ve always wanted a puppy, but Dad and Ryan are allergic. And now Mom has one—without me.

Sometimes I catch Dad staring at a picture of him and Mom that he keeps in his wallet. Dad says he’s forgiven her, but does that mean I have to?

I’ve only seen her twice in the past year. I miss her, and I want her in my life, but I can’t bring myself to tell her. I’m ashamed I never call her. But if people hear about me hanging out with my mom again, I’m afraid it’ll wreck my life even more. She ruined my family.

Why did God let this happen to me?

•••

A few hours later, I go down the street to Drew’s double-wide trailer, walk inside without knocking, and head to his room.

His buddies on the football team love calling him Double-wide Drew, insinuating that he is well-endowed. It makes Drew laugh. Double-wides are a luxury, you see. My family’s lucky enough to have a three-bedroom house, but it’s smack dab behind a laundromat and a fried chicken joint, so you can only imagine the smell. A mix of fabric softener and grease. But besides the terrible odor and the fact we are definitely not in the ritzy section of Franklin where people have swimming pools shaped like guitars, the location rocks. It’s only three minutes by bike from school, and I love riding my bike everywhere it can take me.

I knock softly, push Drew’s door open, and find him sitting at his desk, typing on his laptop, which is surrounded by his bobble-head collection. He’s the only person I know who loves writing in his spare time. When he goes to Middle Tennessee State next year, he’s going to study journalism so he can be a sports reporter one day. As much as he loves playing football and baseball, he’ll never be good enough to get a scholarship. It’s a sore subject because he’s worked so hard for so long and could really use the money.

It’s only Drew and his mom—his dad left before he was born, and his mom waitresses at Cracker Barrel like sixty hours a week to make ends meet. I cook dinner for Dad and Ryan every night, so I usually end up making Drew a plate too. I set a bowl of steamed rice and chicken on his bedside table.

“Yo, Drewsky,” I say, tiptoeing around sports magazines and several days’ worth of discarded newspapers.

He turns and smiles wide, standing up. “Harry Potter movie marathon time!” he says, hugging me. He’s wearing a thin gray sweater layered on top of T-shirts. He has the right body to play both running back and second base, short and stocky, but somehow he’s rocking the skinny jeans. He’s fixed his hair again and doesn’t smell like boy (like socks). He smells like lemons.

Everyone is used to Drew dressing up and always looking like a million bucks, because he wants to stand on the Titans sidelines and report for ESPN someday. But I feel like it might be more than that. And I don’t want people to judge him like they’ve judged me. I can only hope that his friends would support him more than mine supported me. Corndog’s a good friend to him.

I’m not sure why Corndog’s comment about me messing around with his friends bothered me so much today, but it did. I mean, I thought guys like one-night flings. Right? I’ve only made out with, I dunno, four guys on the basketball team? And how many on the baseball team? Two? I can’t believe Paul Briggs announced that I put out, right in front of Brian. What must he think of me?

I slip my boots off while Drew inhales the rice and chicken, because he’s always hungry. He turns on
Harry
Potter
and
the
Sorcerer’s Stone
and flips off the lights. He grabs the big bowl of popcorn he popped and then we stretch out on the bed. I’ve been saving my calories all day for this popcorn.