Through to You (6 page)

He starts walking toward the door, and I run to catch up with him. The air is hot and muggy, and I can tell my hair is about to turn into a poufy mess. I tug it back into a ponytail.

“Is this . . . I mean, we're not going to be running or anything, are we?” I'm in okay shape because of all the dancing I do, but I'm a horrible runner. I'm not fast at all. When we run the mile at school, I'm always one of the last ones to finish.

Penn holds the door open, and I step inside and am immediately greeted by the cold air of the air-conditioned building. “Why?” he asks, giving me a sexy little grin. “You planning on trying to run away from me?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I just want to know what kind of footwear I'm going to need.” I gesture down to my feet, which are encased in my brown strappy sandals. Thank God I gave myself a pedicure last night. My toenails are painted a soft pink color, perfect for early summer.

“Oh.” Penn seems dismayed. “Yeah, we're definitely going to have to do something about those.”

“What?” I ask. But he's already moving through the doors. “What am I going to have to wear?” I have a thing with shoes. I don't like wearing shoes that other people have worn. Like if I go bowling or something, I get totally freaked out. That's how you end up with a foot fungus.

“Relax,” Penn says. “You can wear those if you really want to.”

“I
am
relaxed.”

“Really?” He shakes his head like I'm a hopeless case.

Once we're inside, I realize that we're in the part of the sports complex that's a ballpark. Like, an indoor ballpark. There's a big baseball diamond in the middle, and there are guys on the field, swinging bats, playing catch, and stretching. Bleachers line the walls, and there's even tall stadium lights shining down onto the field.

“Baseball?” I ask. “I don't know how to play baseball. Is that what you're going to teach me? Because I'm not that coordinated. I mean, I am with some stuff, obviously, since I'm a choreographer. But with hand-eye coordination, you know, I'm not that good.” I realize that I'm babbling, and I twist my hands and try to calm down.

Penn closes his eyes, like it pains him that I'm asking questions. “No, Harper,” he says. “I'm not going to teach you how to play baseball. Playing baseball is not something I can teach you in just a couple of hours. But I can try to teach you how to hit.”

Hit? Like bat baseballs? What is he talking about? I just told him I have horrible hand-eye coordination.

Penn steps up to the front desk before I can figure out how I'm going to get out of this whole thing. The guy who's working the desk is wearing a red polo shirt. He looks like an athlete—tall, tan skin, a little older than us, probably in college.

“Hey, Ian,” Penn says as he pulls out his wallet. “You home for break?”

“Yup.” Ian sighs. “Only working here a couple of days though. Then I'm headed down to Florida for a tournament.” He mimes pitching a ball. “It never stops, you know?”

“I hear ya.” But Penn's voice doesn't sound all that friendly.

“I heard you've been trying to get in with Dr. Marzetti,” Ian says.

“I haven't really decided yet,” Penn says. He's holding his debit card, and he taps it against the counter impatiently.

“Really?” Ian persists. “Because that's what I heard from Coach.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, I haven't decided yet.”

Wow. This whole thing is getting kind of intense. And the guy behind the counter must realize it, because he turns his attention to me. He slides his eyes up me the way that boys do when they're checking you out. He grins at Penn, and I can't tell exactly what his grin means. It's very . . . sort of smarmy. Like maybe he thinks that Penn is going to have sex with me? Or it could be one of those grins, like,
Oh, Penn strikes again
. I wonder how many other girls Penn has brought here, and I decide it's probably a lot.

I've seen him in the halls at school, girls trailing after him. Of course, most of the times I can remember that happening were when Penn was still on the baseball team.

“You ready?” Penn asks me.

“Oh. Yeah.”

I follow him across the field to the back of the building and through some double doors marked
BATTING CAGES
. Back here there's no one around and everything's quiet.

“Wow,” I say. “How come no one's practicing?”

“Because none of them think they need to,” Penn says. He walks over to one of the racks against the wall and picks up a helmet. “Here,” he says, handing it to me.

I look at it. “What's this for?”

“So you don't get hit in the head.”

“Yeah, I know what a helmet is.”

He sighs. “Then why'd you ask?”

“I just meant why'd you give me this one?”

He shrugs. “It's pink.”

“And you just assumed that because I'm a girl I like pink?”

“Well, yeah.” He has the decency to look sheepish.

“This helmet is for a child.” It's true. The pink helmet he gave me is for a little girl. Or a little boy. I'm not going to be all sexist the way Penn was and just
assume
that only a little girl could use it. Boys can like pink too. My little cousin Jeremiah likes to wear pink tutus during preschool dress-up time. At least he did until his parents freaked out and pulled him out of that school because they thought it was too progressive.

“Oh.” Penn takes the helmet from me. “Well, what about
this one?” He picks up a black one and puts it on my head. It slides down over my eyes.

I push it back up. He laughs and shakes his head. “It's too big for you.”

“No, it's not.” I strike a pose and puff out my bottom lip. “It makes me look like a badass.”

Penn shakes his head, then walks over to one of the cages.

I become painfully aware that now that I'm wearing a helmet, he's probably going to expect me to actually hit.

I follow him over to the batting cage, and he pulls a bat out from a bag that's sitting against the wall.

I pick one up and try to pretend I know what I'm doing. I swing it around in circles.

“What are you doing?” Penn asks.

“Just, you know, warming up.” I toss it around a little more, hoping I look casual and natural.

“You're holding that baseball bat like a golf club.”

“No, I'm not!” I quickly pick the bat up and rest it against my shoulder.

“Now you're holding it like a purse.” He shakes his head. He steps behind me and puts his arms around my shoulders, showing me how to hold the bat. He smells like soap and vanilla and Axe body spray.

He swings my arms for me and little jolts of electricity fly through my body.

“Now, keep your eye on the ball,” he says.

A ball comes flying out of one of the machines, and I jump
back and scream. “Ahhh!” I drop the bat, and Penn laughs.

“What the hell?” I say. “I wasn't expecting that!”

“It's on a timer,” he says. “Sorry. I should have warned you.”

“Wow,” I say. “What if I'd been hit? What if I'd
died
?”

“You weren't going to get hit,” Penn says. He comes over and stands in front of me. “I would never have let you get hit.”

He's staring at me with intensity, and I know he's telling me the truth. I don't know why, but I have the feeling that he would never put me in harm's way.

“Fine, whatever, “I say, mostly because I can't handle the way he's looking at me. “Can I try it again?”

“Course.”

He puts his arms back around me. I'm finding it hard to concentrate when he's this close. Another ball comes flying, and I feel his arms tighten, and then he's swinging, and we make contact with the ball. It goes flying to the back of the cage.

“And that,” he says triumphantly, “is how you do it.”

We hit a few more balls, but his arms against mine are giving me goose bumps and making me feel dizzy. After a few minutes I step back.

“Had enough?” He grins.

“Kind of,” I say. “My arms are getting sore.”

He hits a few balls by himself, and I watch as his biceps flex. I try not to stare, but he's good. Like, really good. The balls go flying all the way over the fence that's against the back wall, and I can tell he was taking it easy on me. He's strong.

I shiver, because it's actually very sexy.

“So,” I say when the machine finally stops and Penn takes a break. “Why'd you stop playing?”

“Because the machine ran out of balls.”

“No, I mean . . . like, in general. How come you're not on the team anymore?”

Penn shrugs. “Got hurt.”

“And you're still hurt?”

“No. Well, I mean, I'm not in pain anymore.”

“Then why aren't you still playing ball?”

He swings the bat and then tosses it onto the ground. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“You don't ask enough.”

He grins and then crouches down and slides the bat back into the bag. “Yeah? And what am I supposed to ask you?”

“I don't know. Isn't there anything you want to know about me?”

He shrugs. “You told me all that fascinating stuff about yourself earlier, remember? And I already know you're cool, you're smart, and that you have medical anxiety.”

“I don't have medical anxiety!” I notice that he didn't call me cute, and I wonder if I should be offended. Do I want him to think I'm cute? I think again about how it felt when he had his arms around me a moment ago, and my pulse starts to race.

“Then why are you running from the nurse?”

“I'm not running from the nurse!” I think about it. “I'm hiding from her.”

He shrugs, then zips up the bag of bats and stands back up. “Whatever. Same difference.”

“Not really,” I say. “If I was running from her, I would have literally been running.”

“I meant running more in the metaphorical sense.”

“I know that.”

He takes off his helmet and shakes out his hair. His hair is a little bit shaggy, like he needs a haircut. He doesn't look messy or anything, though. It just looks sexy. I swallow as he throws his helmet down onto the ground. A heat is moving through my body, starting in my toes and sliding up through my torso. I wonder what we're going to do now. Is he going to take me home?

Before I can figure out if I want him to, the door to the batting cages opens, and two guys come strolling in. They're both wearing navy-blue T-shirts and white track pants, the kind that snap up the side. They're talking and laughing in that way guys do, the way that makes it clear they're talking about something unsavory, like a girl they had sex with or how drunk they were the other night.

“I'm telling you,” one of them says, “it's true.”

“I don't doubt it,” the other guy says. “That's so hilarious.” He draws out the word, making it sound like hi-
lar
-ious.

They move closer, and I recognize the taller one. It's Jackson Burr. He's in our class at school. I've never had much contact with him, though. He's the type of guy I've always been afraid of—good-looking and unpredictable.

His gaze lands on Penn. “Well, well, well,” he drawls, “if it isn't Mr. Mattingly himself. To what do we owe the honor?”

Penn shrugs, like the question is no big deal, but his shoulders tense up and his jaw sets into a straight line. “Just hitting.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jackson smiles and then looks at me, his eyes moving up my body, like maybe Penn was talking about hitting something else. “Who's your friend?” I try not to feel insulted. Jackson Burr and I have been in a few of the same classes every year since we were freshman. You'd think he'd at least know my name.

Penn shrugs. “No one.”

Jackson must agree with him, because he turns his gaze away from me, like I'm dismissed. Wow. Talk about every single boy cliché happening in, like, the space of four minutes. Two guys talking like they think they're the shit? Check. A guy writing me off because I don't have blond hair and big boobs? Check.

I can't believe Penn insisted I come here with him, and now he's, like, pretending it means nothing.

“I have a name,” I say. I reach my hand out to Jackson. He looks back at me, surprised, almost like he's startled that I'm there, even though a second ago he was undressing me with his eyes. “I'm Harper.”

“Harper,” Jackson says, like he's never heard the name before. He reaches out and takes my hand. His hand is rough and kind of cold. “I'm Jackson.”

I think about telling him that I already know his name, that he's been in a bunch of my classes, but then I figure, what's
the point? All it will do is give him a big head, that a girl he's never noticed before knows who he is. So all I say is, “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too.”

Penn's just standing there, still all tense.

Jackson's friend is over in the corner, looking through a bag of bats, almost like he's bored with this whole interaction.

“So,” I say. “Um, you guys were on the baseball team together?”

“Oh, me and Penn go way back,” Jackson says. “We're old friends. Aren't we, Penn?”

“Sure,” Penn says. But he's not smiling. He turns to me. “We should get going.”

“You don't have to leave on account of me,” Jackson says. “Stick around. We can hit together, like old times.”

I'm about to say I don't mind, that if they want to hit together, I'll just hang out and watch them practice, but I can tell Penn doesn't want to. It's weird. His whole vibe has changed. Before he was light and flirty, and now there's a darkness permeating through him.

“No.” Penn shakes his head. “Come on, Harper.”