Stealing Parker
Page 8

He looks over his shoulder at me. “Who? You callin’ me a girl?”
I shut my eyes and shake my head. My brother has been complaining for years that he and I must be the only cultured people in Franklin. “No, he was this Greek guy. In the time of the gods.”
“You think I’m a Greek god? I knew you loved me.”
“Come on, you.” I shut his locker door and pull him into the library, leading him to the magazine room. We fall down onto cushy chairs. Drew sets his laptop case on the floor. He always keeps his computer nearby in case he has a free moment to write.
I open my purse and pull out my compact so I can re-powder my face. I dab it across my nose and chin. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” He props his ankle on his knee and shakes his foot.
“You ran out of the cafeteria. I was worried.” I shut my compact and slip it back into my bag.
Drew drums his fingers on the chair’s arm, then takes my hand and studies my peach nails. “I like this color. It’s simple.” He slowly meets my eyes.
My cell beeps, and I quickly check the screen. Mom. She sent me a text saying she hopes I’m having a nice day. “Ugghhh,” I groan. “She’s so annoying. She won’t let go.”
“Who was that?”
“Mom.”
“Have you talked to her lately?” Drew asks softly.
“No.”
“Sometimes she calls my mom to check in, because you never answer her calls. Why haven’t you?”
“Because,” I snap. The librarian gives me a warning glare. “She ruined my family and everything with my church when she…you know…came out. I just don’t get why she had to leave us.”
I rarely talk about any of this, not even with my family, so I’m surprised it’s tumbling out of my mouth. It’s like, if none of this had happened, everything would’ve been okay with me—with church, with softball, maybe I would’ve had real dates. The real goddamn kicker is that her girlfriend, Theresa, was the church office assistant.
“But it’s not your mom’s fault,” Drew starts.
“But it is.” I shove the phone deep in my bag.
“She can’t help it—”
“It doesn’t bother me that she’s gay. I just wish my family was still together.” My eyes water.
He hesitates, and looks around the magazine room. His mouth opens, but the warning bell rings for next class and Drew jumps to his feet. He throws an arm around me as we enter the crowded hallway.
Laura had a big black dog named June. I loved going to her house. I’d throw stick after stick, and June would go retrieve them and lope back to me, and I swear, if dogs could smile, June would have the biggest grin on her face. I loved playing with that dog. Hugging her. Kissing her. Laura hated that I got along so well with the dog, because June belonged to her and she didn’t like sharing.
Then, one Sunday morning, Laura told me June had died. I cried during Sunday School. I wiped tears off my face during Big Church, using the hem of my dress. Mom and Dad asked what was wrong, so I told them the dog had died. When my parents expressed their condolences to Brother John, he told them June was alive and well. And then Brother John gave me a lecture on how lying is a straight path to Hell. I never told anyone that Laura lied. I didn’t want anyone to tell her she was on a path to Hell.
Written February 15. Wadded up and burned. The flame caught my thumb and I stuck it in my mouth, to soothe it.
Today’s practice starts out with a team meeting. I squeeze between Drew and Sam on the bleachers.
Brian is standing in front of us, twirling a bat in his hands like a pinwheel. I’m glad to see he ditched the Best Buy employee costume for a sweatshirt and baseball pants that’ve seen a few workouts.
He glances at me and then focuses on Coach Burns, who clears his throat and reads from his clipboard, telling us about the first game set to take place Saturday against Tullahoma. He explains that we should meet at school at 6:30 a.m. to get on the bus so we can go to Cracker Barrel for breakfast and then make it to Tullahoma in time to warm up.
Drew growls, “I hate Cracker Barrel. I’m sick of it.” His mom is always bringing food home because she gets a 50 percent discount.
“I love their pancakes,” I say, knocking my knee against his. “I wish you’d hook me up more often.”
Drew knocks his knee against mine. “As if you’d eat a pancake.”
“I would eat one.”
“Pancakes or waffles?”
“Waffles. Syrup or butter?”
“Miss Shelton, is there a problem?” Brian asks. He stops twirling his bat.
“Um, no?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“No private conversations while Coach Burns is talking, please.” He turns his gaze from me to Coach Burns, and heat rushes through my body. Why’d he have to embarrass me like that?
Since the softball team is still using the field, Coach Burns starts talking strategy for Tullahoma, the first of forty-five games. The football team gets all the money they want, but our baseball and softball teams share equipment and a field. Coach Burns seems like the kind of guy who makes do with whatever he gets. What kind of coach will Brian be next year?
Coach Burns says blah, blah and I focus on the softball team, watching them scrimmage. The girl they’ve got playing third base has poor range. She’s not quick on her feet. I could always cover the entire gap between third and shortstop, diving when I needed to, taking a ball straight to the gut when required. This girl barely moves three feet, then lets the left fielder clean up her mistakes.
Laura steps up to bat next. I feel a pang of hatred for her as I watch her dig a trench with her cleat. She taps her bat on home plate then rests it on her shoulder. Terrible stance. How is Coach Lynn standing for this?
I scan the field for her, but she’s nowhere. Then I notice Mr. Majors, the music teacher, is standing by the dugout reading People. What? Where’s Coach Lynn? They’ve got the resident accordion player supervising practice? Huh. I hope she’s okay.
Laura swings at the first two pitches, missing both.
I pull my knees to my chest and stare at the field, sort of wishing I was out there. Ever since I came here on Saturday, my hands have been aching to hold a bat. I want to slip cleats on and jog the bases and slide into home. I shake these ideas out of my head the moment I see Allie and Melanie pointing at me from first and second bases, respectively.
Boy, have I fallen. I might as well be third-string.
Laura takes a few more practice swings. Hardly any pitchers are great batters, because they spend all their time practicing pitching, but Laura’s worse at bat than most. She makes up for it on the mound—she’s one of the best in the conference. I’m feeling evil, so I pray she’ll strike out. Strike out, strike out. She steps up and swings away at a high ball.
Strike three!
I clap my hands together and laugh.
“Is there something you’d like to share with us, Parker?” Brian asks.
“No, sir.”
He gives me a look. He mouths, sir?
I salute, which makes him chuckle. His eyes look like melted Hershey’s Kisses.
I can’t wait to find out what he needs help with after practice.
An eon later, practice ends.
Brian beckons me to follow him toward center field, toward the batting cages. He twirls his bat and glances back at me.
I trot up to his side. “So you need my help with something?”
“I do.” His stride is long and full of importance.
I pull my hair over one shoulder and play with a clump of it, trying to de-stress. He smells delicious, like bubblegum, and his frayed sweatshirt looks soft. It’s the kind of shirt I’d love to curl up in to watch TV.
“Have you ever had a haircut?” he jokes.
“Not in a while.”
“Hmmm.” He checks my tangles out.
“I like my hair! Most guys like it too!”
He laughs and chews his gum, making a smacking noise. “I didn’t say I don’t like it.”
“Right. You didn’t say anything.”
“Nothing to say.” He goes silent. Cars roar by on the highway beyond the train tracks.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t totally honest with you about the stats on Saturday…It’s just, I was enjoying talking to you and didn’t want to stop.”
He nods and gives me a smile. “Apology accepted.”
He pulls open the center field gate, and we walk over to the batting cages. The sun has completely set, and only a few floodlights illuminate the field. I shiver, and warm my hands in my armpits.
“You cold?” he asks.
I nod. Normally, this is when the guy would warm me up in some way, by hugging me or giving me his jacket or starting an intense make-out session that would leave me hotter than a volcano. But all Brian does is turn on the pitching machine and swing his bat.
“You want me to load balls for you?” I ask, not totally disappointed. It’s nice he wants my company.
He finds my eyes. “No. I want you to hit for me.”
My mouth falls open. My fingers itch to hold a bat. My fingers itch to hold him too, but that’s beside the point.
I step closer and look up at his face. “Why?”
“Uh…I’m interested to see what you’ve got. You played varsity as a freshman? That’s gotta mean something.”
I shrug.
“Will you hit a few balls? For me?” His voice is soft and pleading.
“What’s it to you?”
He moves a step closer and stares down at me. “I’d hate to see someone with potential throw it all away.”
“If I bat for you, what’s in it for me?”
He smirks slightly. “What do you want?”
You. I don’t say that though. He watches as I play with my hair.
“In return, I want you to tell me about what baseball means to you,” I say. “Did you play? And you can’t just say ‘something like that.’”
He exhales, and stares up at the stars. “Yes, I played. Now you have to hit a ball.”
I grab his elbow. “That’s not good enough. Where did you play? For how long? What position? What’s your best batting average? Or are you a pitcher? What’s your ERA?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says, raising a hand, looking amused. “Bat first, talk second.”
I take the aluminum bat from his hand, run my fingers over the cool metal, and take a few practice swings. My arms feel stiff and weak, but I haven’t lost my mechanics. Batting is like breathing.
He steps over to the pitching machine and turns it off. The whirring sound ceases. He picks up a softball and tosses it to himself. “I’ll throw a few at you first, if you’d rather.”
“Would you turn the damned machine back on?”
He raises his eyebrows, smiles, and laughs. “You’re a feisty one. No wonder all the guys like you so much.”
I shoot him a look, but deep down I’m pleased he called me feisty and knows that guys like me. One point for Parker.
He turns the machine back on and stands behind the protective fence. I put on a batting helmet.