Chasing Impossible
Page 2

It’s a politician answer. The truth without admitting the truth. Dad doesn’t think I’m responsible. Not with my diabetes and not with my life.
Coach Reynolds accepts Dad’s answer with a wave of his hand. “Sounds good. We’ll hold a team meeting if he decides to join. Explain the situation to them. Maybe if you have a pamphlet—”
“No.” I cut him off and his eyes snap to mine.
“What?”
“If I join nobody but the coaching staff knows.”
Coach Reynolds warily flicks his eyes to my parents. He’s searching for support but ends up on his own. “I’ll admit to not understanding your condition, son, but from what I understand, this is serious.”
It is. I crashed once on an ER table. Shit doesn’t get much more real and serious than that. “Outside of doctors’ offices, there are a handful of people who are aware of my diabetes. My last team won back-to-back state championships and my teammates never knew their catcher can’t produce enough insulin.”
My two best friends didn’t know and still don’t.
“There’s no shame in telling—”
I cut him off again. “Would you run headfirst into a guy whose body doesn’t work right? Would you purposefully hurl a ball full force at a guy if you thought he was broken?”
Coach Reynolds circles his wedding ring on his finger and my stomach bottoms out. Bet he’s got kids and he’s confusing his feelings for them with the idea of putting me on the field. “Should they? I have to admit, I’m questioning if this choice is wise.”
I rest my arms on the table and lean forward, never breaking eye contact. “I stood between your biggest guy and home plate in the championship a few weeks back. He hauled ass in my direction for home. I caught the ball, took the charge, and tagged his ass out. I’m sitting here and from what I hear, he’s still nursing a broken leg. I am not weak.”
Dad pulls a letter out from a folder and slips it across to the coach. “It’s a letter from his doctor. Logan’s cleared to play. He has to test more when he’s practicing and during games, but there’s no reason for his diabetes to hold him back.”
When Coach Reynolds’s eyes stop the back and forth proving his reading, he simply stares at the bottom of the page, weighing his need for a catcher over the burden of responsibility of having a kid with diabetes on his team.
He knocks the table two times and finally meets my eyes. His desire for a championship team won. “I just saw and heard passion. You sure you’re done playing ball?”
A hundred-mile-per-hour fastball being thrown at me or taking the brunt of a guy in his hunt for home as I tag him out? That’s some crazy shit and I need a dose of crazy—daily. There’s something wrong with my brain. There’s a constant itch under my skin, a twitch in my mind, and if I don’t find a rush, then I feel like I’ll go insane.
Am I done with baseball? Who knows. But... “I need the summer off.”
Coach nods with a victory smile on his face. “All right. I can respect that. Fall ball practice starts the first week of school. I expect to see you on my field.”
A waitress drops a tray full of food, the entire restaurant gawks, and when Coach Reynolds returns his attention to the table, Mom starts telling him about an herbal tea at the organic foods store she manages that would be great for the team during training.
“You sure about this?” Dad mumbles in my direction.
He’s used to me following whatever path I like at the moment. It’s predictable that he’ll second-guess and ask me if this is what I really want. Has nothing to do with baseball. Me playing ball—that’s not what’s important to him. My health is. My mental stability.
“Just need the summer.”
Dad shoots me a look that suggests later he and I will discuss everything I’m not saying. It’ll be a hell of a conversation. One he won’t want to have, but one I’m determined will go my way in the end.
Abby
Rule number one from my father: never let them know you’re scared.
I cradle my cell against my ear, shut the upstairs bathroom door of my house, lock the knob, then use the chain I added for extra security. “Next you’ll tell me the stars realigned themselves to foretell my doom and a voice called down from the heavens telling you I should stay in bed.”
Ricky laughs. He always laughs. At least with me. I make him nervous, and in our line of business, trusting the wrong person can be a fatal mistake so he chooses not to believe I’m crazy and instead chooses to think I’m funny. By the way, I’m not funny, but I am crazy.
“I’m telling you that you should cancel your plans for the evening,” he says.
I move the plastic shelves that hold our towels to the side, roll up the wallpaper that was held in place with Velcro, then use the screwdriver to take the wooden “door” in the wall off. “Because your fortune cookie warned you off from bad business meetings. If you’re going to listen to the crap, at least do it right and read your horoscope in the paper like the rest of us.”
The loud background laughter and conversation on his end fades and I wonder if he’s also entering his private space that includes his personal cubby hole full of cash. “I heard from reasonable sources there are people going after some of my assets this evening. You need to stay in.”
“Tough, because I’m going to a club tonight.” True. After I meet a few clients to sell them what they’re interested in buying, I’m hanging with friends and then I’m meeting with a new potential client. I interview potential clients before I sell because I’m paranoid like that. “I’m going to be the teenager that everyone, even you, keeps reminding me that I am.”
Four screws out and the door loosens. Every time I open this little compartment I’m half relieved and half sickened. Too many stacks of cash for someone my age, but at the same time, not nearly enough.
“It’s Sunday night,” he says. “Friday and Saturdays are your paydays.”
“I’ve got regulars who get cranky when I don’t meet their expectations, plus it’s summer. I try for a faster turnover rate now because school can eat into my delivery time, and I like for them to have memories of a time when I delivered immediately. Maintaining a high level of customer satisfaction and retention while getting my beauty rest and finishing my homework isn’t as easy as I make it seem. Flawless takes work and planning.”
“The honor roll employee with the customer’s-always-right attitude.” He fake cackles and it’s the type that swamps me with the urgent need to shower and clean myself of filth. “It’s always a pleasure to speak with you. Maybe I should force everyone to adopt your customer service philosophy.”
“You said it.” My customers are right unless they try to cheat me and then I’m nasty.
“I’ll give you a paid vacation day. Whatever it is you’re scared of losing in cash, I’ll pay.”
My heart skips a terrified beat. Ricky doesn’t make offers like that, and I don’t like that he’s making them with me. “I get that you’re worried I’ll lose some of your supply if I get jacked, but I’m smarter than that. I don’t carry enough at one time that it’ll matter if someone is stupid enough to steal from me. I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”
I retrieve the package I picked up from another of Ricky’s “assets” an hour ago from my hoodie pocket and sort what I need to fill orders for the evening. I also withdraw from my cubby hole cash, small bills to be exact, because God forbid people bring exact change and none of them believe in tipping.
“Abby.” Ricky switches to serious and I pause with a roll of ones in my palm. “I’m not worrying over you having to reschedule a few appointments and the asset I’m concerned about doesn’t fit into a pocket. I think they might be going after my best sales representatives.”
“Then call them and tell them to read horoscopes.”
“You’re the asset I’m worried about.”
“I’m small-time.” I stay that way on purpose. I sell drugs for money. I sell drugs because I’m desperate for more than minimum wage.
I’m protective of my territory—Dad’s neighborhood, my school, the college boys who I make bank off of. I keep my number of clients just high enough to pay my bills and cover my future bills, but low enough that I don’t become any more involved in this “life” than I need.
Ricky’s concern over me—this is “involved” and it makes my skin crawl.
“You have loyal customers because you’re a pretty young girl who makes them comfortable, but they respect you because deep down you’re scarier than any horror movie they’ve seen. You’re smart, brilliant even, and you keep yourself small-time because you think it buys you power, but that’s another discussion for another day. In the meantime, I’m ordering you to stay off the streets tonight.”
I’m silent. He’s silent. My head is right next to the toilet bowl.
“This is an order, Abby.”
“I made plans with friends,” I whisper absently as my forehead hits the cold porcelain. I thought I was smart. I thought I had played this hand my father dealt me well, but like him, I’ve messed up. Stupidity, it seems, is genetic.