The Boyfriend League (9 page)

S
aturday night, against the Plano Blue Sox, I finally, finally got to watch Jason pitch. I felt the same high I'd experienced the first time my dad took me to watch Roger Clemens play. Okay, maybe I was actually a little more excited about watching Jason pitch. I loved his windup and concentration. I loved the way, before each pitch, he lifted his cap off his head, settled it into place, then tugged on the brim, exactly as he'd tugged on it when he'd placed it on my head at Dave and Bubba's.

Bird and I were sitting in the bleachers. It was the top of the third, and Jason was still on the mound. He was having a terrific game. Three batters up, three down. A no-hitter so far. He should have looked happier. Instead, he
looked majorly ticked off. I guessed maybe it was a guy thing. Stay serious, stay focused. Look mean.

“Strike three!” the ump yelled, and that was the end of another no-hit inning for Jason.

“Watch Brandon run across the field,” Bird said.

He made a beeline for the pitcher's mound, did a little leap over it, and ran to the dugout.

“He does that every time,” Bird said.

“Why?”

“Says it brings him luck. He is so superstitious. He won't wash his game socks as long as the team is winning.”

“Ew! And he didn't want to work in a fertilizer plant?”

“I know. Go figure.”

I watched Jason come in from the field. No one talked to him, no one high-fived him. He was having an absolutely wonderful game and he was being completely ignored, sitting in the corner of the dugout. Alone. Alternately lifting the Velcro on his batting gloves and pressing it back into place, which seemed odd when he'd batted last inning. Unless we encountered a
hitting streak, he wouldn't be batting this inning. So why was he focusing so hard on his gloves and not watching the game?

We'd had a couple of hits, but no runs. So the game was tied zero–zero.

“Hey, listen,” Bird said, cutting into my thoughts, “I was looking at the concession stand volunteer roster. You and I need to volunteer to work again soon, so we don't get scheduled to work during the July Fourth game. That game is just too much fun with dollar hot dogs—”

“Too much work, you mean, with the hot dogs on special.”

“Can you imagine? Everything is a buck that night. People will go crazy buying, and we'll go crazy working. So let's do some early volunteering so we're off-duty that night. Besides, you've already missed one set of summer fireworks. No reason for you to risk missing another.”

Crack!

I covered my head, ducked down. Bird didn't laugh. She likened me to a survivor of some traumatic event who is always spooked by certain noises.

She just touched my shoulder and said, “It went the other way.”

I straightened up. “But it
was
a foul ball.”

“Yeah.”

I hated that I kept flinching. I wondered how long it was going to take before I could totally relax at a game.

Alan was at bat. The next time he swung, he connected and sent the ball in a line drive down the grass between center and left field. They both scrambled for it. By the time one of them got it, Alan was safe at first.

“Why do you think they're ignoring Jason?” I asked.

“I don't know. Go down there and talk to him,” Bird suggested.

“I'm not going to do that.”

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “We're here to watch the game.”

“Whatever,” Bird said, seemingly distracted, as though she hadn't really been listening. “Brandon is warming up. Come on. Let's go down there. I want to wish him luck. You can say something to Jason, make him feel bet
ter, maybe find out why everyone is giving him the cold shoulder.”

She jumped up and started to climb over the bleachers to get to the field. I thought about staying and saving our places, but in the end, I grabbed my tote bag and followed her. Our seats would probably be empty when we got back, and if they weren't, we could find others.

By the time I got down there, Bird was standing to the left of the backstop, near the warm-up area, smiling at Brandon. It was obvious he was trying not to get caught smiling at her, that he was supposed to focus on the game.

I scooted over until I was standing behind the dugout. Jason was still messing with his gloves. I was surprised the Velcro still worked, that it hadn't worn down until all the tiny sticky teeth were gone.

“Hey, Jason,” I said. “Awesome no-hitter.”

I was vaguely aware of someone gasping and someone else moaning, as Jason came up off the bench fast, spun around, and stared at me like I'd morphed into something from
The X-Files
.

The guy who'd gasped, Chase, put one
knee on the bench, so he could talk to me in a low voice and still be heard. “You'd better go.”

“Why? What did I do?”

“You never talk to the pitcher when…” He shook his head. “You just never talk to the pitcher when—”

“I just wanted to congratulate him on a good game—”

“It's not over 'til it's over,” Chase said.

“You jinxed me,” Jason said, crouching down in the corner, pressing his palms against his forehead, like he'd been struck with a migraine headache.

“You don't really believe that superstitious—”

His head came up so fast, and his stare was so hard that I stopped. He did believe. He really did believe. And judging by the way the other guys were looking at me, they all believed.

I backed away, not knowing what to say. I'd just felt sorry for him because he was being ignored. The guy at bat struck out, and Brandon was next. Bird had her fingers
crossed while clutching the wire of the fence.

“I think I just made a big mistake,” I said, my voice low.

“Yeah, I heard you. According to Brandon, you're never supposed to use the term
no-hitter
in the dugout.”

“Well, I wasn't technically in the dugout.”

“But your words traveled into the dugout. Close enough.”

“Great. You don't really think I jinxed them, do you?”

Brandon struck out, the first time he'd struck out since playing for the Rattlers. When he walked by and glared at me, I found myself wishing Harry Potter was real, sitting in the stands, and could turn me into a rabbit's foot. I didn't really believe in bad luck. I believed we made our own luck, but I also understood the power of positive or negative thinking. If you think you'll lose, you'll lose.

The next inning, when six batters in a row got base hits off Jason, the coach put in a relief pitcher.

By that time, even people in the stands
were looking at me like it was my fault. Someone suggested I sit behind the dugout of the visiting team.

With that, I'd had enough. I located my dad at the top of the bleachers and asked him to take me home.

He did.

 

I knew Bird was having another pool party at her house following the game. I didn't know how much celebrating anyone might be doing, because I knew we'd lost. Dad and I had accessed the Rattler website, using his laptop so we could sit in the game room, and listened to the live broadcast.

I wasn't in the mood to go to Bird's party, even if I would have been welcomed. I had serious doubts I would be. And okay, I was chicken. I didn't want those doubts confirmed.

But I was in the mood for a party so I decided to throw one of my own—a pity party.

Wanting to soak in bubbles, I went into the bathroom. Tiffany had stretched mesh over the tub, so she could hand dry some of her clothes. Nothing of hers was wash-and-wear. It either
had to be dry-cleaned or hand washed. Way too much trouble to move everything out of the way, as far as I was concerned. I had no idea where to put it all, and Tiffany would no doubt throw a fit, because I'd upset the drying process. She was a little particular about her clothes, and her hair, and her makeup.

I figured Jason wouldn't be home for a while, so I went into the bathroom across the hall. Seeing Jason's comb, shaving stuff, and hair trimmer, I felt like an intruder. Still, I knew I could do what I needed to do without messing anything up.

Opening the cabinet, I reached up to the top shelf and pulled out my box of pity party gear. I always used this bathroom when I needed total alone time.

I turned on the water and sprinkled in my passion peach bubble bath. While a glorious haven was being created, I set passion peach votive candles around the edge of the tub. I opened a bag of scented, dried peach blossoms and sprinkled them over the floor. I set an inflatable pillow at the head of the tub. When the bubbles were almost threatening to spill
over the edge, I turned off the water, lit the candles, switched off the lights, removed my clothes, and climbed in. I sank beneath the silky, warm water until the bubbles were tickling my chin.

With the pillow tucked beneath my head, I thought,
I could go to sleep here.

But it wasn't really sleep I wanted. I just wanted to feel pampered. I wanted to feel like I was doing something right. All I'd done was talk to a guy and he was horrified.

And to be honest, his reaction had stung. I'd wanted him to be happy to see me standing there. I'd wanted him to share something personal, like, “Did you see the way the batter just stared at the curveball when it went past?”

I'd wanted him to give me one of those slow grins, press his hand against mine for a high-five. I'd wanted—

The door clicked open. Jason stood there, staring at me. Why wasn't he at Bird's party? What was he doing here, and what exactly could he see in the shadowy bathroom?

I didn't dare move, didn't risk popping any bubbles.

“What are you doing in my bathroom?” he asked.

“I confused the left side of the hallway with the right?”

He looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead he just closed the door.

Sinking completely beneath the bubbles, I was determined to stay there forever.

 

Of course, I couldn't stay there forever. Eventually I needed to breathe, and more importantly, the bubbles began to disappear and the water started to get cold.

I got out of the tub, wrapped a big, thick towel around myself, gathered up my clothes, opened the door to the hallway, and peered out cautiously. Empty. Thank goodness.

I tiptoed across the floor to my room, not certain why I felt a need to tiptoe, but it just seemed like something I should do.

I thought about getting ready for bed, but whatever relaxation had taken place as I'd been in the tub had immediately left when Jason opened the door. I was tenser now than I had been at the game.

I put on a pair of old gym shorts and a soft, worn T-shirt that had BASEBALL = LIFE written across the front.

Then I went back across the hall to Jason's room. The door was open, but he wasn't inside. I glanced across the hallway. Tiffany's door was closed. She was probably already getting her beauty sleep.

I needed some chocolate chip cookie dough.

All the lights were turned off as I went downstairs, but Dad had plugged little indigo night lights into almost every wall socket, so he wouldn't have to turn on lights and disturb people when he got up in the middle of the night. Dad was a really light sleeper.

I crept into the kitchen, opened the freezer door, and groaned. Not a single pint of chocolate chip to be found. How had that happened?

I closed the door. Then I noticed the light over the back deck was spilling in through the windows into the kitchen. Talking to Dad was just what I needed. Maybe he could explain why baseball players seemed to be so obses
sive-compulsive. It was like being trapped in a
Monk
episode.

I opened the back door and stepped outside…

Only it wasn't Dad on the porch. It was Jason, sitting in the lounge chair. I was sorta caught between a rock and a hard place. I didn't particularly want to move forward, because I didn't want him to think I'd come looking for him, but I didn't want to retreat, either. After all, this was my house, my turf. So I chose to get snappish. “Did you eat my ice cream?”

He was studying me like maybe I was insane. He lifted a brown bottle to his lips. Root beer. Then he finally shook his head. “No.”

Okay, now was the time to leave. Instead I stepped outside, closed the door behind me, and dropped into the chair next to his.

“Look—” I began.

“Listen—” he said.

We looked at each other.

“You first,” we said at the same time.

Then we both smiled, looked away. This
was awkward. Weird even. I was mad at him for ruining my evening, my enjoyment of the game. I supposed he was mad at me for ruining his pitching.

“Seriously,” he said. “You first.”

Originally I'd planned to apologize for laying some bad mojo on him or whatever he thought my talking to him had accomplished, but to do that would give the impression that I believed it had been my fault that his no-hitter streak had come to a crashing halt. And no way was it my fault. So I moved to neutral territory. “Why didn't you go to Bird's party?”

He took another sip of his root beer. “Didn't feel like partying.”

“But you felt like moping around because a couple of guys got hits off you—”

“A couple? How 'bout six?”

“So what happened? You were really pitching tight. You were on fire—”

He shifted around in his chair so quickly that my breath backed up. “You talked to me.”

“Do you know how stupid that sounds?”

“You don't understand.” He got up and walked to the edge of the deck.

“Clearly I don't. No one was talking to you and you looked so lonely sitting in that corner alone….”

He kept his back to me, but started shaking his head. “You don't talk to the pitcher when he's pitching a no-hitter. Everyone knows that. Baseball players are superstitious.”