Stealing Third
Authors: Marta Brown
Stealing Third
By Marta Brown
Copyright © 2014
by Marta Brown
All Rights Reserved
Published by VP Publishing House
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Milan
Zeremski
Kindle Edition
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in or introduced into any
information storage and retrieval system whether electronic or mechanical
without the express written permission of the author or publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. All references to real people,
events, establishments, organizations, or locals are intended for authenticity
to advance the fictional narrative. All characters and events are fictitious.
Any and all similarities to real persons, living or dead are coincidental and are
not attended by the author.
To perfect summer nights in the outfield
Emily
I
run the straight iron over my freshly dyed locks—pleased with the results—and
gear up for the blow back because it’s going to be huge.
“Well,
are you gonna come out and show me, or what?” Kaitlin says from the other side
of the bathroom door, where the sound of her popping her gum is only slightly
drowned out by her over-exaggerated huffs of boredom.
“Yeah,
give me one more sec.”
To
add the finishing touches to my new look, I rim my eyes with a thick black kohl
pencil, and then dab my lips with a clear coat of high shine gloss as the
remains of the fire engine red rinse swirls down the drain.
“So?”
I swing open the bathroom door and step into Kaitlin’s bedroom. “What’da
think?” I ask before doing a quick spin so she can see the bottom three inches
of my brown hair, now a bright shade of red, from all angles.
I
smile when her mouth drops open. “Your mother is going to flip.”
That’s
the idea. And with just the right dress, so will my dad.
“The
way I see it, she should be glad I waited until after graduation.” I flop onto
Kaitlin’s bed and grab my cell phone. “And it’s not like she’ll have to look at
it for long…unless I pull this off.” Which I need to do.
“Em,
are you sure about this?” Kaitlin closes the magazine sitting in her lap, her
face neutral, but her voice full of doubt. “I mean—you love camp. I know you
do. And what about Lucy? And Todd? Last summer you said—”
“I
know what I said.” I roll onto my back and stare at the translucent, neon green
glow-in-the dark stars stuck to her popcorn ceiling.
My
best friend’s right. I’ve always loved camp. But she also knows why I can’t go
this year.
Rolling
back onto my stomach, I blow the strand of hair falling into my eyes away
before swiping my phone to launch the web. I have to do this. It’s the only
way.
As
the camp’s website loads on my phone painstakingly slow, I try to ignore the
onslaught of pictures splashed across the home page, but fail when a shot of me
and Lucy—decked out for Color War and covered in mud—crosses the tiny screen.
“Camp
Champ, forever,” Kaitlin says, leaning over my shoulder and reading the camp’s
motto in the only way Kaitlin can. Dramatic. “Making athletes and memories to
last a lifetime.”
“Not
if I can do anything about it,” I say with a laugh, but it comes out shaky as
my nerves start to spike.
Here
goes nothing.
I
dial the number, and then clear my throat while the phone rings. Please get
voicemail. Please get voicemail.
“You’ve
reached the office of Gale and Walter Robbins, owners of Camp Champ,” they say
in unison. I take a deep breath. Yes.
“We’re
away from our desks, busy getting ready for our summer campers to arrive,”
Gale’s chipper voice continues, this time solo. “Please leave a message and
your call will be returned in a timely manner. Go CCF!”
This.
Is. It.
I
inhale at the sound of the beep. “Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Robbins. Pam
Evers, here,” I say, as Kaitlin pushes off the bed and onto her knees. She
clamps both hands over her mouth to stop from laughing at the impression of my
mother—which is pretty spot on. It should be, considering how many times this
year I’ve pulled it off to ditch school. I twist around to face away from her,
so I don’t crack, too.
“Regretfully,
I’m calling to inform you there has been a small family emergency that,
unfortunately, will keep my daughter, Emily Evers, from attending camp this
year.”
There
I did it. I take a small breath to help calm my nerves as my heart beats out of
control. “I do hope you have a fantastic summer, and please, don’t worry about
returning my call. I’m sure you are quite busy preparing for camp to begin
tomorrow. Thank you and goodbye,” I finish in a rush before quickly hitting
‘end call’ on the phone’s screen.
With
shaking hands, I toss the phone on a stack of colorful floor pillows at the end
of Kaitlin’s bed and squeal.
“Omg.
I cannot believe you just did that.”
I
suck in a few deep breaths, replaying every word and inflection over again in
my head, hoping it was good enough. “Do you think they’ll buy it?”
“Are
you kidding? You sounded so much like your mom it’s freaky. Nice touch telling
them not to bother calling you back.”
“Right?”
Smiling, I take one of the magazines scattered across Kat’s bed and flip it
open, only to close it a second later, unable to focus on anything besides
getting my heart rate to return to normal.
It’s
done. No camp this year…or any other year for that matter. I feel a small pang
of sadness wash over me and my smile drops.
No
more camp. Ever.
Kaitlin
pops her gum, startling me out of my head. “So, how are you going to explain to
the ‘rents why you’re not leaving for camp in the morning?”
“Don’t
know. Figure I’ll play it by ear.” I shrug. “What I do know is this should buy
me at least a week of fights—maybe two.”
“Em,”
Kaitlin says, sitting back on the bed, this time with concern not only in her
tone but on her face. “Listen, I know better than anyone how bad it sucks when
parents fight. But aren’t you worried all of your games are hurting more than
they’re helping?”
I
get it. It seems crazy, but it’s working. I know it is.
“But,
Kat, it’s my family.” I frown. What else can I say? I’d do anything to keep us
together.
“Yeah,
I know what you mean,” Kaitlin says flatly, and I know she does. “I would have
done anything to stop my parents from splitting up, too.”
“If
you weren’t eight at the time.” I scoot over and nudge her with my shoulder. “Not
much you could have done.”
“You’re
right.” Kaitlin gives me a nudge back, putting on a small smile. “Definitely
couldn’t have masterminded the whole good-girl-gone-bad act, that’s for sure,”
she says, lightening the moment.
“It
hasn’t been all that bad—you know—being bad.” I laugh thinking about all the
crazy stunts I’ve pulled with my best friend over the last year, despite the
reasons behind them. “We’ve had some fun, right?”
“Without
a doubt.” Kat gives me a knowing smile. “And speaking of fun, you up for a
party later? It’s up on campus at a major hottie house.”
“Um…Yes.
Yes. And Yes,” I say, getting up and grabbing my bag.
Kaitlin
bounces on her bed, clapping. “I was hoping you would say that!”
I
laugh. “Was there really any doubt?”
“Nope.”
I
snatch my phone from the floor and glance at the clock. “Ugh. I better get
going.” I toss it in my bag, and then give Kat a quick hug goodbye. “Pick me up
at nine?”
“Yep.”
Kat pops her gum again as she flips back open the half read copy of Seventeen
magazine in her lap, and puts in her ear buds.
I
give myself one last glance in the mirror on the back of Kat’s door. I kinda
like the red. Too bad it’s not permanent. But my parents don’t need to know
that.
“Oh,
and, Em?” Kat calls as I’m walking out.
“Yeah?”
“Happy
Birthday.”
I
smile at my best friend. It will be if this works.
…
As
I step through the front door, I can hear Mom banging around in the kitchen
louder than normal. The smell of pork chops wafts through the house, and for a
moment I feel bad for all the grief I’m about to cause since it smells like
she’s been busy cooking my birthday dinner all day. I comb my fingers through
the ends of my freshly dyed hair, plaster on a confident smile, and prepare to
take the heat.
“Emily?
Is that you?”
When
I round the corner into the kitchen, Mom is behind the island, wearing her
‘kiss the cook’ apron. A smudge of flour coats her cheek as she mashes a bowl
of potatoes with more force than I’ve ever seen her use.
“Yum,
smells good.” I grab a baby carrot from a platter of veggies and cheese sitting
on the counter and hop up on a stool at the opposite end of the island.
Ceasing
the relentless mashing, her nostrils flare as she takes in my new look and I’m
kinda surprised at how angry she seems. I mean, I knew she was gonna flip about
my hair, but I wasn’t expecting her to be furious. It’s not like I did it
before senior pictures or something, which I’d considered.
“Emily
Elizabeth Evers,” she says through gritted teeth. “I’d say I can’t believe you
did that to your hair, but right now, young lady, nothing you do seems to shock
me anymore.”
“Chill,
Mom.” I roll my eyes. “It’s just hair.”
She
tosses the masher down on the counter. “It’s not the hair I’m angry about,
Emily. It’s the constant lying and deceiving. I’m not sure what has gotten into
you lately, but when your father gets home, we are going to have a serious
talk.”
Perfect.
“And,
don’t worry. I explained to Mr. Robbins when he returned
my
call to
discuss the deposit we put down for camp this year that the ‘family emergency’
will not, in fact, keep you from attending camp this summer.”
Oh.
Not.
So. Perfect.
2
Tyler
I
flip shut the small blue test booklet I’ve been filling with as much knowledge
on human physiology and muscle anatomy as I can for the last ninety minutes,
and take a much needed breath, hoping it’s all coherent. And correct.
The
incessant ticking of the industrial clock hanging on the wall above my head
makes me anxious and unsure of myself. Tick, tick, tick. Did I finish too
quickly? Tick, tick, tick. Did I mix up the anterior talofibular with the
calcaneofibular ligaments? Tick, tick, tick. Did I…
Damn
it. I whip open my exam and search the section on the muscular makeup of the
feet and ankles to double check, not willing to risk making even the slightest
mistake that might affect my chances for med school.
“Pencils
down,” Professor Baulker, a round, balding man, says from behind the podium at
the front of the jam-packed auditorium. A choir of moans and sighs echo
throughout the room as I close my exam again. Crap. I hope I was right.
“You
in the back,” the professor barks at a student behind me still furiously
writing, his pencil screeching across the paper. “I said pencils down.”
With
a whimper, his pencil drops to his desk, followed by a loud thud, which I
assume was his head. Staring at my exam—still wondering if I screwed up or
not—I know exactly how he feels.
“That’s
better.” Gathering his notes from the podium, the professor stuffs them in his
leather briefcase, looking as ready to be done with this class as the students
shuffling in their seats. “If you will, please pass your final exams to the
front of the class where my TA will collect them.” He gestures to a frail,
overworked-looking grad student in the front row. “And while I know you are all
pre-med, let’s not work on our doctor’s signatures just yet. Please ensure your
names and your student identification numbers are legible.”
Before
handing my exam forward, I glance at my name, written in clear, albeit slightly
exaggerated cursive, all thanks to years of practicing my ‘autograph’ in middle
school when I dreamed of being a major league baseball player. I laugh at the
memory.
“Now
class, while I imagine each of you is anxious to bid higher learning goodbye
for the summer, let me remind you of one very important thing.” Professor
Baulker pauses, waiting for the class to give him our full attention, the way
he does during his lectures.
I
scramble to find a piece of paper in my bag to take notes, and I’m not the only
one. The girl sitting next to me whips out her laptop and starts to boot it up.
The
professor’s deep throaty laugh drowns out the noise of notebooks opening—both
paper and electronic. It’s the first time during the entire semester he’s ever
laughed. And it’s weird.
“Relax,
relax,” he says, resting his hands on the podium. “It’s not as if this will be
on an examination anytime soon.”
Oh.
That’s right. I shove the black and white composition notebook back in my bag
and take a deep breath. Summer break cannot come quick enough. My nerves are
fried.
He
waits until the class settles again before resuming his familiar stoic manner. “Now,
let me be clear. If you thought
this
year was difficult, I would
strongly advise you to reevaluate your choice in majors. Pre-med is not for the
faint of heart. Literally or figuratively.” I shift in my seat as a nervous
laughter makes its way across the room. Although, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t
actually trying to be funny.
“So,
while your non-pre-med friends are gallivanting about and killing brain cells
this summer, I hope you have heeded the advice of your advisors, and will be
busy shadowing in the field to help fulfill the necessary volunteer hours
you’ll need for med school. And please, if nothing else, do not let all you’ve
learned this year fade away, lest you forget, you will desperately need this
knowledge when preparing for the MCATS next year.”
Lest
you forget? Yeah, right. Just the thought of taking the MCATS next year makes
me break out in stress induced hives. And considering every professor I’ve had
this week has taken the time to reiterate the hell junior year will be leading
up to the all important test, it’s kind of impossible
to
forget.
“That
is all class. Enjoy your summer break.” And with that, Professor Baulker picks
up his briefcase and hobbles out of the room, seemingly unaware of how many
summer breaks he’s just ruined with his little end of the year speech. Mine
included. Next year is going to suck.
Ugh.
I need to talk to Coach.
…
The
locker room is extra rank when I lug open the door. The thick stale air—a
combination of hot steam from the showers and a large canvas cart filled with
dirty team jerseys lingering in the hallway—hits me in the gut harder than one
of Pete’s knuckle balls gone astray.
The
typically raucous locker room is quiet and empty, but since it’s almost eight
at night on the last day of classes, I’m not surprised. I’m also not surprised
Coach is still here. He’s always here.
Taking
a deep breath, I ready myself to tell him I won’t be able to juggle my classes,
job shadow, and prepare for the MCATS all while playing ball for him next year
as I step into his office and shut the door behind me.
Something’s
got to give, and the only thing, by my estimation, that’s not going to lead to
an actual career has got to go. Baseball.
“Hi
ya, kid,” Coach says, hanging up the phone and giving me a huge grin.
I
flop down in the ancient blue pleather chair held together by strips of duct
tape that sits directly in front of his desk and begin to scratch at my arm.
Stress induced hives are real. “Hi, Coach.”
“How
about that? You’re exactly the guy I wanted to see.” Coach leans back in his
chair and kicks up his feet, resting them on the edge of his desk. “I have
something serious to talk to you about, young man.”
Me?
Something serious? Crap. Maybe he already knows I have to quit the team. My
mind scrambles. But how? Then, like a ninety mile an hour fastball to the face,
it hits me. I told Pete.
“So,
um…you talked to Pete?” I ask, trying to feel out exactly what he knows, and
how mad he is.
“Pete?
Not yet, but I got good news for him, too.”
Good
news? Too?
“Sorry?”
I shift in my seat, unsure where Coach is going with this, since it’s obviously
not about me quitting the team, otherwise, he’d be a little less chippy. “Good
news?”
“Hell
yeah, good news.” Coach claps his hands. “I just got off the phone with one of
my friends in the league, and off the record, he told me there’s a lot of
chatter about you and Mickelson going up.”
Going
up? Like the big leagues?
Not
sure I’ve heard him right, I shake my head like a cartoon character that’s just
had an anvil dropped on him, earning myself a rowdy laugh from Coach.
“Now,
don’t start counting the money yet, kid. It’s just the minors looking to call
you up right now, but I never doubted you and Mickleson have what it takes to
go all the way,” he says with a smile that reads pride in every crease.
“Are…are
you serious?” I stammer.
“As
a heart attack, kid.”
I
stand up from the squeaky chair and shake Coach’s hand across the desk
scattered with playbooks, stat sheets, and batting averages. “Play next season
as well as you did this last and you’re a lock. Proud of you, kid.”
“Thanks,
Coach. I won’t let you down.” I turn to walk out of his office, wanting to get
home to tell Pete the news when it hits me. Next season. The MCATS. The reason
I was here in the first place.
I
stop dead in my tracks, and turn back around to face him.
“Something
wrong, Tyler?” Coach makes his way to the front of his desk before leaning
against it with his arms crossed.
Yes.
I mean no, not really. I don’t know. My mind swirls, less sure of the correct
answer than I was on the test I just finished.
“Uh…no,
sir,” I falter. “I just…thanks, again.”
“Don’t
thank me, you worked hard and deserve this opportunity.” He smiles. “Now, go on
and get outta here, it’s summer vacation, after all.”
Giving
Coach a head nod, my mind starts to calculate the pros and cons of this
potential opportunity like I calculate the dilution of stock solution in my
Organic Chemistry lab. Very carefully.
The
minors? Or med school?
“Oh,
and Tyler?” Coach says, interrupting my thoughts. “Don’t go getting into too
much trouble this summer with the beer and the babes. I need you in top form
next season. Mickelson, too.”
Beer
and babes? More like baseball, bug spray, and bruises.
“Don’t
worry, Coach, I’ll stay outta trouble.”
