Thrown a Curve (12 page)

I grabbed my glove and headed up the stairs. Then I realized I needed a catcher. I stopped and looked at the coach. Was I supposed to ask someone to catch for me?

“Bratton, warm Dresden up, please,” he said, as if it were
normal—normal to ask Stacy’s boyfriend, the guy who hated me, to warm me up. Rick stood up slowly and smugly. He walked even more slowly to the water cooler and got a drink.

“Bratton, did you hear me?” Coach said.

Rick picked up his glove from the bench and, in a snotty voice, said, “Yes, sir.” He followed me out of the dugout and down to the bullpen. It wasn’t really a bullpen—it was a strip of grass to the side of left field. But I liked to think of it as more than that. I decided it was best to act normal with Rick—to behave as if we always played catch together.

He, however, felt the need to say, “I’m only doing this because Coach told me to. For the record, I can’t wait until they bench you permanently or throw you off the team.”

I tossed the ball to him and said nothing. I wanted to drop everything and run off the field. But I didn’t. I just kept throwing.

“You know, without your curveball, you’d have nothing,” Rick said, throwing the ball back to me.

I didn’t answer him. I pretended I was throwing at the tree behind my house. And trees didn’t talk. A tree couldn’t make me cry, even though I felt like crying.

The next few innings went better for us than I’d thought they would. Lawrence didn’t allow any more runs, and we scored three runs to put us up 6-5. Louis jogged toward Rick and me. “Taylor,” he said, “Coach says you’re going in to close.”

Rick went back to the dugout. I paced around the strip of grass like a crazy woman. I leaned against the fence and
bounced against it. I was going in to pitch the seventh inning. My head felt like it was about to explode. At least we were ahead. All I had to do was keep it that way.

When it was time to go in, I ran full speed onto the field. I had so much adrenaline pumping through me that I hopped around on the mound and walked around it five times or so.

“Batter up!” the ump yelled.

Great, a lefty.

I stood still and slowly dropped my glove to my waist. I turned my head to look for the catcher’s sign, but he was laying his middle finger across his thigh.
What a jerk!
I guessed he wasn’t going to help me. I breathed deeply and let my foot move back to begin my delivery. My fingers pushed the smooth ball forward before I released it. The pitch felt perfect as soon as the ball left my fingers.

“Strike one!” the umpire yelled after the tall lanky batter took a big cut. The crowd made a group “Ooo!”

I got the ball back and threw another pitch with barely a pause. It felt like I was in this magical zone, and if I stopped throwing for too long, I might lose my special touch.

“Strike two!”

That was quickly followed by my curve for “Strike three!”

Both of my coaches were standing up in the dugout, watching me as if they knew what I was feeling. Coach Jefferson was patting Perez on the back and smiling from ear to ear.

The next batter swung at the first pitch, and the ball rolled right back to me. I ran forward, scooped it up, and tossed it to
first base for out number two. I made eye contact with the first baseman, and he gave me a little thumb’s up. I used that small token of encouragement to take down batter number three.

As I threw the final pitch, I felt like I was stuck in slow motion. The batter swung and missed the high fastball, then slammed his bat on the plate in frustration. I stood on the mound and watched everyone else. My own team members on the field jogged past me toward the dugout, kicking up dust. The spectators trickled down from the bleachers like a waterfall. The coaches shook hands and walked back to the dugout. It seemed like everyone else was being quietly sucked away by a vacuum, leaving me alone, as if I’d been on the field by myself the whole time.

By the time I reached the dugout, everyone else was running up the stairs to leave. Louis was gone already. No one said, “Nice save, Dresden.” I grabbed my bag and walked into the outfield. When I reached the fence by right field, I turned back and stared at the freshly cut grass. I knelt down and ran my hands over the green blades. “Nice save, Dresden,” I said aloud and smiled. Whether or not anyone cared about my save, they couldn’t take it away from me. I stood up, squeezed through the gap in the fence, and walked with my head held high all the way home.

A
s I got near home, I thought about confronting my dad. Things had gone so well today on the field, I had to do something to screw up my day.

Sacamore had a point. Maybe I should try to talk to my dad. I hadn’t really talked to him since that day I heard him on the phone. What was that? Six years ago? Should I write him a letter? I wasn’t good at writing down my thoughts. Having to write essays for school was tough enough. Maybe I should talk to him face-to-face. Yeah, I could do that. After all, what’s the worst that could happen? How much more could he hate me?

I went up to my room, grabbed a towel, and headed for the bathtub, where I could mull this over. As I soaked my dirty self, I heard Danny run up the stairs, yelling for me.

“What?” I shouted back.

He was out of breath by the time he stopped outside the bathroom door. “Dad’s barbecuing! It’s the first one of the season, so hurry up!”

Danny was a barbecue freak. It was probably because, when he barbecued, my father actually took the time to cook. And he was pretty good at it. If he was cooking, he must have been in a
good mood. Maybe tonight was the right night to talk.

When I got downstairs, the grill was smoking, Danny was scurrying around setting the outside picnic table, and Dad stood at the grill, flipper in hand. When he saw me, he asked, “Burger or dog, Taylor?”

“Uh, I’ll take two dogs,” I said, sitting down at the picnic table across from Danny.

“Did you have a game today?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Did you pitch?”

“I came in as a closer for the last inning.”

His mouth was full of potato chips. “You won, right?”

“Six to five,” I answered. “I’m starting tomorrow against Mainland.”

The grill-master made no response. He didn’t even look in my direction.

“Cool,” Danny said. “I gotta get some more ketchup.” He ran into the house.

The three of us sat and ate. Danny and I talked about school and stuff. I tried to avoid the subject of baseball to keep Dad mellowed out. When we finished eating, I told Danny I’d clean up outside so he could do the dishes left inside. This left just Dad and me together.

As he scrubbed the grill with a wire brush, I tied up the garbage and walked it to the trash can behind the house. I hurried back and sat at the table. Here went nothing.

“Dad, can I talk to you?”

He answered casually, “Yeah, what’s up?”

“Maybe you could sit down over here,” I said nervously.

“All right, just let me finish up.” He continued to scrub the grill for a minute or two, then closed the lid and sat down across from me.

“So?” he said, wiping his hands on his apron.

I took a deep breath. “Well, I’ve been talking to one of the guidance counselors at school, Mr. Sacamore. Remember him from the suspension meeting?”

“Okay, yeah. Why are you meeting with him?”

“He thought it would be a good idea after me hitting Stacy and all.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So he asked me about my life and stuff at home and you.”

Dad just stared.

“And I told him I think you don’t like me, and he said maybe I should ask you about it.”

“About what?” he said.

“Well,” I said softly, “about why you don’t like me, Dad.”

He quickly got defensive. “What are you talking about, Taylor? Of course I like you. You’re my daughter. This is ridiculous.” He began to get up.

Trying not to cry, I said, “Wait. I’m trying to be serious. Maybe it’s coming out wrong. I just mean, you don’t take much interest in my life or anything I do. You never ask me about school or Justin or baseball. I just want to know why. You talk to the boys about stuff. Why not me?”

Again, he started to get up from the table. “Taylor, I treat all my kids equally. I’m very busy with work these days, and if you feel ignored, I’m sorry. But I’ve been busy. I’m the only parent here. Remember?”

I was so angry. He was lying to me. I wanted to yell at him, but instead I got up slowly, headed toward the back gate, unlatched it, and walked away.

“Where are you going?” he yelled. “It’s a school night, and you’re still grounded, young lady!”

I didn’t answer. I just kept walking.

I was in a fog as I walked aimlessly down the street. I couldn’t go to Justin’s. It was Wednesday night, and I knew he was at the movies with his mom and brother for “Family Movie Night.” We only had “Fight Night” at my house. But I really needed to talk to someone. This was the problem with having only one friend—when he was out, I was out of luck. I guessed I could head toward town, wait until the movie let out, and try to catch Justin as he came out. Bother him as usual with my stupid life. I wondered if Trudy and the softball girls were still at the pizza place. Nah! I didn’t know her well enough.

I knew my father would react that way—deny everything. But I was still pissed. Maybe I should keep walking and never go back. Would he even notice?

I continued walking past the theater and turned onto a side
street, when I heard a loud, deep, “Dresden!” coming from someone’s porch.

I looked up and saw half the baseball team sitting on the porch, drinks waving in the air. “It’s Dresden. Do the wave.” They all stood up and sat down, yelling “Woo hoo!”

I stopped and smiled. I wasn’t sure if they were being nice or mocking me, so I waved and kept walking.

“Dresden, where you going? Come on up and hang out with us,” yelled Tony Lighton, who played first base.

“No thanks, guys,” I answered.

They began to chant, “Dresden, Dresden.”

Tony tried again. “Come on, we’ll be nice. It’s only the six of us.”

I didn’t see Rick or any of the Stacy crowd. And Tony had given me that tiny thumbs-up after the game. Also, I saw Louis, who I knew was cool with me. And where else would I go?
What the heck.
I headed up the driveway toward the house.

Once I reached the porch, I could tell they didn’t know what to do with me. I was sure they didn’t think I’d actually join the party. Tony offered me a beer. It was his house, and his parents were in the Bahamas for the week. I took the plastic cup, just so I would have something to hold, and sat down on the porch. I held the cup tightly in my hand, but I couldn’t bring myself to take a sip. The smell made me feel like puking. The last time I’d touched beer, I’d ended up in such a mess, I was afraid of what might happen this time. Plus, I had to be on guard in case anyone here was planning something to humiliate me.

They were actually pretty nice to me. We talked about our win today and how we were facing Mainland tomorrow and how tough they were. Before I knew it, I was starting to relax. That’s when the rest of the team started arriving.

When someone’s parents are away, word gets around quickly. A group of guys I recognized from our team showed up. Some of them were carrying book bags that definitely did not have books in them. They slapped hands with Tony and said some of the girls would be over in a little while. They went to the kitchen and started raiding the fridge and the cabinets, pulling out bags of chips and pretzels. Someone turned on music and opened the front windows to let the sound out. I sat there quietly, trying to be invisible.

Rick had come in with this group of guys. He looked over at me and nodded to the other guys. “Ah, the pitcher’s here,” he said. He then took a sip of beer and headed inside.

I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad comment, but I definitely felt like I’d overstayed my welcome. I tried to figure out how to make a quick exit. All I needed was a bunch of giggling girls, or worse, Stacy herself, to arrive. I got up and started moving toward the edge of the porch.