“Elisabeth.” Mom slurs the s and drunkenly waves me over. She picks up a whiskey bottle and tips it over the general area of the shot glass, but nothing comes out. Which is good because she’d miss the glass by an inch.
I go to her, take the bottle, and set it on the table beside us. “It’s empty.”
“Oh.” She blinks her hollow blue eyes. “Be a good girl and go get me another.”
“I’m seventeen.”
“Then get you something too.”
“Let’s go, Mom.”
Mom smoothes her blond hair with a shaky hand and glances around as if she just woke from a dream. “He hit me.”
“I know.”
“I hit him back.”
Don’t doubt she hit him first. “We’ve gotta go.”
“I don’t blame you.”
That statement hits me in ways a man can’t.
I release a long breath and search for a way to ease the sting of her words, but I fail. I pick up the other bottle, grateful for the pitiful amount remaining, pour a shot, and swig it down. Then pour another, pushing it toward her. “Yes, you do.”
Mom stares at the drink before letting her middle-aged fingers trace the rim of the shot glass. Her nails are bitten to the quick. The cuticles grown over. The skin surrounding the nails is dry and cracked. I wonder if my mom was ever pretty.
She throws her head back as she drinks.
“You’re right. I do. Your father would never have left if it wasn’t for you.”
“I know.” The burn from the whiskey suppresses the pain of the memory. “Let’s go.”
“He loved me.”
“I know.”
“What you did…it forced him to leave.”
“I know.”
“You ruined my life.”
“I know.”
She begins to cry. It’s the drunk cry. The type where it all comes out—the tears, the snot, the spit, the horrible truth you should never tell another soul. “I hate you.”
I flinch. Swallow. And remind myself to inhale. “I know.”
Mom grabs my hand. I don’t pull away. I don’t grab her in return. I let her do what she must. We’ve been down this road several times.
“I’m sorry, baby.” Mom wipes her nose with the bare skin of her forearm. “I didn’t mean it.
I love you. You know I do. Don’t leave me alone. Okay?”
“Okay.” What else can I say? She’s my mom. My mom.
Her fingers draw circles on the back of my hand and she refuses eye contact. “Stay with me tonight?”
This is where Isaiah drew the line. Actually, he drew the line further back, forcing me to promise I’d stay away from her altogether after her boyfriend beat the shit out of me. I’ve kind of kept the promise by moving in with my aunt. But someone has to take care of my mom—make sure she eats, has food, pays her bills. It is, after all, my fault Dad left.
“Let’s get you home.”
Mom smiles, not noticing I haven’t answered. Sometimes, at night, I dream of her smiling. She was happy when Dad lived with us. Then I ruined her happiness.
Her knees wobble when she stands, but Mom can walk. It’s a good night.
“Where are you going?” I ask when she steps in the direction of the bar.
“To pay my tab.”
Impressive. She has money. “I’ll do it. Stay right here and I’ll walk you home.”
Instead of handing me cash, Mom leans against the back door. Great. Now I’m left with the tab. At least Taco Bell Boy bought me food and I have something to give Denny.
I push people in my quest to reach the bar, and Denny grimaces when he spots me. “Get her out, kid.”
“She’s out. What’s her tab?”
“Already paid.”
Ice runs in my veins. “When?”
“Just now.”
No. “By who?”
He won’t meet my eyes. “Who do you think?”
Shit. I’m falling over myself, stumbling over people, yanking them out of my way. He hit her once. He’ll do it again. I run full force out the back door into the alley and see nothing.
Nothing in the dark shadows. Nothing in the streetlights. Crickets chirp in surround sound.
“Mom?”
Glass breaks. Glass breaks again. Horrible shrieks echo from the front of Mom’s apartment complex. God, he’s killing her. I know it.
My heart pounds against my rib cage, making it difficult to breathe. Everything shakes—my hands, my legs. The vision of what I’ll see when I reach the parking lot eats at my soul: Mom in a bloody pulp and her asshole boyfriend standing over her. Tears burn my eyes and I trip as I round the corner of the building, scraping my palms on the blacktop. I don’t care. I need to find her. My mom…
My mom swings a baseball bat and shatters the back window of a shitty El Camino.
“What…what are you doing?” And where did she score a baseball bat?
“He.” She swings the bat and breaks more glass. “Cheated.”
I blink, unsure if I want to hug her or kill her. “Then break up with him.”
“You crazy ass bitch!” From the gap between the two apartment buildings, Mom’s boyfriend flies toward her and smacks her face with an open palm. The slap of his hand across her cheek vibrates against my skin. The baseball bat falls from her hands and bounces three times, tip to bottom, against the blacktop.
Each hollow crack of the wood heightens my senses. It settles on the ground and rolls toward my feet.
He yells at her. All curses, but his words blend into a buzzing noise in my head. He hit me last year. He hits Mom. He won’t hit either one of us again.
He raises his hand. Mom throws out her arms to protect her face as she kneels in front of him. I grab the bat. Take two steps. Swing it behind my shoulder and…
“Police! Drop the bat! Get on the ground!”
Three uniformed officers surround us. Damn.
My heart pounds hard against my chest. I should have thought of this, but I didn’t, and the mistake will cost me. The cops patrol the complex regularly.
The asshole points at me. “She did it. That crazy ass girl took out my car. Her mom and I, we tried to stop it, but then she went nuts!”
“Drop the bat! Hands on your head.”
Dazed from his blatant lie, I forgot I still held it. The wooden grip feels rough against my hands. I drop it and listen to the same hollow thumping as it once again bounces on the ground. Placing my hands behind my head, I stare down at my mom. Waiting. Waiting for her to explain. Waiting for her to defend us.
Mom stays on her knees in front of the asshole. She subtly shakes her head and mouths the word please to me.
Please? Please what? I widen my eyes, begging for her to explain.
She mouths one more word: probation.
An officer kicks the bat from us and pats me down. “What happened?”
“I did it,” I tell him. “I destroyed the car.”
Ryan
SWEAT DRIPS FROM MY SCALP and slithers down my forehead, forcing me to wipe my brow before shoving the cap back on. The afternoon sun beats on me as if I’m simmering in hell’s roasting pan. August games are the worst.
My hands sweat. I don’t care about my left hand—the one wearing the glove. It’s the throwing hand I rub repeatedly on my pant leg.
My heart pounds in my ears and I fight off a wave of dizziness. The smell of burnt popcorn and hot dogs drifts from the concession stand, and my stomach cramps. I stayed out too late last night.
Taking a look at the scoreboard, I watch as the temperature rises from ninety-five degrees to ninety-six. Heat index has to be over one hundred. In theory, the moment the index hits one-o-five, the umps should call the game. In theory.
It wouldn’t matter if the temperature was below zero. My stomach would still cramp. My hands would still sweat. The pressure—it builds continually, twisting my insides to the point of implosion.
“Let’s go, Ry!” Chris, our shortstop, yells from between second and third.
His lone battle cry instigates calls from the rest of the team—those on the field and those sitting on the bench. I shouldn’t say sitting.
Everyone in the dugout stands with their fingers clenched around the fence.
Bottom of the seventh, we’re up by one run, two outs, and I screwed up and pitched a runner to first. Damn curveball. I’ve thrown one strike and two balls with the current batter.
No more room for error. Two more strikes and the game’s over. Two more balls and I walk a batter, giving the other team a runner in scoring position.
The crowd joins in. They clap, whistle, and cheer. No one louder than Dad.
Grasping the ball tightly, I take a deep breath, wrap my right arm behind my back, and lean forward to read Logan’s signal. The stress of this next pitch hangs on me.
Everyone wants this game done. No one more than me.
I don’t lose.
Logan crouches into position behind the batter and does something unexpected. He pulls his catcher’s mask onto the top of his head, places his hand between his legs, and flips me off.
Damn bastard.
Logan flaunts a grin and his reminder causes my shoulders to relax. It’s only the first game of the fall season. A scrimmage game at that. I nod and he slides his mask over his face and flashes me the peace sign twice.
Fastball it is.
I glance over my shoulder toward first. The runner’s taken a lead in his hunt for second, but not enough to chance a steal. I cock my arm back and throw with a rush of power and adrenaline. My heart thumps twice at the sweet sound of the ball smacking into Logan’s glove and the words “Strike two” falling out of the umpire’s mouth.
Logan fires the ball back and I waste no time preparing for the next pitch. This will be it. My team can go home—victorious.
Logan holds his pinkie and ring fingers together. I shake my head. I want to close this out and a fastball will do it, not a curve. Logan hesitates before showing me two peace signs.
That’s my boy. He knows I can bring on the heat.
Keeping his hand between his legs, he pauses, then points away from the batter, telling me that my fastballs have been straying outside. I nod. An understanding to keep placement in mind with my speed. The ball flies out of my hand, punches Logan’s glove right in the middle, and the umpire shouts, “Ball!”
I stop breathing. That was a strike.
The fence rattles as my teammates bang on it, screaming at the injustice. Shouting at the umpire, Coach stands on the verge of no-man’s-land between the dugout and the field.
My friends on the field whistle at the bad call.
The crowd murmurs and boos. In the bleachers, with her head down and lost in prayer, Mom grasps the pearls that hang around her neck.
Dammit. I yank hard on the bill of my hat, trying to calm the blood racing in my veins.
Bad calls suck, but they happen. I’ve got one more shot to close this out. One more…
“That was a strike.” Dad steps off the bleachers and heads to the fence right behind the umpire. The players and the crowd fall silent. Dad demands fairness. Well, his version of fair.
“Get back in the stands, Mr. Stone,” the ump says. Everyone in this town knows Dad.
