Biggie (18 page)

Courtney's compromise is fair, all things considered, and I should just accept it and not go about sabotaging her date with the cowboy, but I'm alone tonight for a very shitty reason.

“Listen, you can go out with him some other time. And I'll compete for you. But I need you tonight. Let me have tonight.”

“I'm sorry, Henry, but he'll be here soon, and I have to get ready.”

“I've beat diabetes twice,” I yell to the sky.

The left turn in the conversation puts a perplexed look on her face.

“Twice, hell, maybe more,” I continue. “My mom thought I might still have had it up until a month ago.”

“Well, that's good,” she says. Or something like that. I'm ignoring her for the most part.

“Everyone assumed there was something wrong with me. No one could comprehend the fact that I was happy.” The rant has begun. “Was I fat? Yes! So what? Was I sick? No! Was I unhealthy? Not really. I was happy. I wasn't delusional. I was happy.”

I look over my shoulder back to the park and see a little girl swinging high up and down, and the sight of that girl enjoying this warm spring night pisses me off even more. I hate happy people.

“When my doctor told me last year that I beat diabetes again, I made some goals. Hell, I felt invincible, like I was special, unbreakable. I told myself that I was going to weigh two hundred pounds, date the girl of my dreams, and pitch a perfect game. Now, I seem to be putting on weight, the girl of my dreams is dating … I don't know, I guess my archenemy … and even though I threw hundreds, Courtney, hundreds of pitches, I still suck as a pitcher.

“My brother …”—although I'm on the verge of crying, I can't help but smile and let loose a short laugh—“told me he could teach me an unhittable pitch. It turns out that it's just a crappy curve ball. So two weeks ago, I found out that I'll never be the person I want to be; I'm stuck being the person I am. And I know I should be happy with what I have, but I'm not. I'm really, really sad all the time. And I know I'll be happy again.

“I'm not trying to be overly dramatic, but on the way over here, something dawned on me. Today, well, tonight actually, I was supposed to throw a perfect game. Killer, I always knew, would throw the opener, and I would pitch game two. I would be perfect, and my life would never be the same. Courtney, if you don't go out with me tonight, all I will think about is how I'm a failure. Everything I've done will lead to a night where the world is awake and I'm asleep.”

She turns away and starts walking home. As I catch up with her, I use the tips of my fingers and I snag enough football shirt fabric to stop her.

“Courtney,” I say.

“I said don't make me feel guilty, and what was that? My sister, who is my best friend by the way, is seeing your friend. I know you quit the baseball team.”

“I didn't quit.”

“Yes, you did. Brian said so.”

“Okay, okay, okay.” I'm mumbling. “I didn't quit, exactly. I tried out to be a starting pitcher and was told I wasn't good enough to be a starter, so depending on how you look at it, I was cut.”

“Well, I'm sorry about that,” she says. “I'm sorry you're alone tonight, but I really do have a date.”

Once again, she's walking away from me, and I'm the creepo chasing her.

“If this guy is so wonderful, why don't I know anything about him? Why haven't you mentioned him?”

She spins around. “I didn't feel like it.”

“This guy, is it serious? Your profile says you're single. It doesn't even say ‘complicated.'”

As we reach her driveway, she says, “It's only been one date and it sucked. He invited me to his house to watch a movie, and he watched ten minutes of it before he reached for my clothes. There. Now you know about our date. He begged for a second chance. I said, “You better make it good,” and tonight we're going horseback riding. You're all caught up now.”

“His house? Is he in college?” I ask.

“No, he's twenty-four.”

My head's going to explode. Twenty-four. I can't believe I lost one girl to a guy who sleeps around and another one to a pedophile. What is wrong with every girl in the world? I keep my thoughts buried by tongue rubbing the inside of my teeth and staring at the blue, cloud-free sky.

“Say it,” she orders. “Tell me what you're thinking.”

I need to keep quiet. I need to say
it's fine
but I don't. Instead, I blurt out, “You can't date a twenty-four-year-old. It's illegal.”

“I knew I shouldn't have told you,” she says. “And by the way, I can date him. I turn eighteen in three months.”

“He's twenty-four. Courtney, wake up! He's using you for sex. He wants to have sex with a high-school girl one more time. He's never going to call you his girlfriend or introduce you to his parents. It's all about sex.”

Before my accusations end, my eyes are shut and my face prepares for the slap. “I'm sorry,” I say.

“Apology accepted because you're wrong.”

Since my foot is already in my mouth, I add, “This whole thing has been a huge disappointment. I know that sounds mean, but honestly I can think of nothing else to say to you. I'm really disappointed.”

For some reason, she's smiling at me. I can't tell if she's playing games with me or just trying to hold in a string of expletives.

“I have to go get ready,” she says.

As I watch her walk up the steps, I feel like an asshole. Courtney is the nicest person I know, and I just yelled at her because I'm lonely and jealous. I grit my teeth and once again chase her.

I tap her shoulder and say, “Don't turn around. If you do, I'll get flustered and put my foot in my mouth again. I'm horrible at face-to-face conversations. Just listen. I'm sorry. You heard right. I quit the baseball team, so I had no right to bring that up. I'm such a mean person today, and you're so nice and so beautiful. In fact, I can't think of one thing about you that I don't like.

“Did you know that you're the only girl I know that doesn't call me Biggie? Don't answer that; let me finish. You don't disappoint me. I'm disappointed with myself. I wait too long. I think the worst, and then worst eventually happens. But that's my fault; I guess you know that, but I do, too. Have fun tonight.”

She slowly turns around and glances at me, but says nothing. Her lips are locked and her cheeks are flat. She's holding everything inside.

“You can breathe,” I say.

We both let out an awkward laugh. But it feels nice, as if we created our own cool breeze on this calm June Iowa night.

“Send me a picture of you in the cowboy hat, okay?” I say.

“Only if I look good in it.”

Chapter 32

Biggie Isn't a Mean Nickname

For the past six hours, I have been maneuvering through a maze of highways, county roads, city streets, and gravel back roads. When I wanted to turn left, I turned left. When I felt an urge to go right, I spun the steering wheel clockwise. I listened to loud music by Poison, Kiss, Bon Jovi, and Def Leppard. I burned through all the playlists on my iPod.

I don't want to go home. The house feels empty, quiet, and cold. I've spent hundreds of nights alone in my bedroom and not felt the slightest sense of loneliness, yet my bedroom now seems like a consolation prize. I'm supposed to be in Des Moines, celebrating with my teammates after my perfect game or seventeen-strikeout performance, or making out with Courtney, rubbing my hands all over her new hourglass body. Heck, there's no reason why I couldn't have done both.

Yet, here I am alone: a failure, who couldn't figure out how to pitch or how to get a girl to go out with him. Life sucks. There is no other explanation as to how someone who has mastered trigonometry, physics, and British literature can't figure out baseball or girls.

With my tank running low, I pull into my driveway and notice Killer sitting on my front steps. What the hell? Why isn't he in Des Moines with the Finch baseball team?

I turn off the truck and climb down. For reasons I can't explain, I'm really nervous. Hair on my arms stands up and my steps are short and measured. I'm in no hurry to reach the front door.

“What's up?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “I heard on the radio that you guys are in the championship game.”

He nods a couple of times, but says nothing. We just stand there silent, hands on hips, ears at attention, and eyes on each other.

“Cool,” I say. Killer standing silent in my driveway is freaking me out.

“This tournament,” he finally says, “means everything. We're competing against the big schools, and if we beat them, we can say we're state champs, regardless of class. The Des Moines paper does a poll of all schools and we could be ranked No. 1. Do you know what that means?”

I just shake my head, confused as to why I'm getting a history lesson.

“Whenever you hear someone talk about Finch baseball, they always say we're the best small-town team in Iowa. It's like a backhanded compliment. I want people to see us as the best team, period. That's why this is so important. You see that, right?”

“Yeah, I get that.” I really don't, but Killer's face looks different. He always portrayed power and strength, but now he looks weak and small. He's obviously nervous. He pulls a program out of his jeans and hands it to me.

“I circled it,” he says.

It's dark, but I can still make it out. “Henry Abbott, pitcher.”

“Like we've been saying, you can come back. Coach will still take you back.”

Before I can speak, he lifts his hands and pleads, “Biggie, I threw nine innings Thursday. Aargo tossed seven tonight, and Kyle pitched three on Thursday. We are down to Jet, and he's not a good pitcher, not like us. I can't believe I'm saying this, but you throw really, really hard … even harder than me. You need to come back with me. You need to beg Coach to let you pitch tomorrow. We can win this. Our offense is on fire. We scored nine runs tonight against a future college pitcher. We're hitting everything, and St. John's used their two top pitchers against Waverly-Shell Rock. Hell, you could give up six runs, and we could still win.”

“I'm not going to Des Moines and giving up six runs,” I say. “No way. I'll be a laughingstock. And what if you don't score six runs? Then I'm the losing pitcher of what you're saying is the biggest game of all time.”

Killer pulls on his hair and, as if he wants to pluck out my eyes, flashes his fingers at me. For a second I think he is going to claw me like a rabid stray cat.

“Don't be an asshole. I'm not saying you're going to give up six runs. I'm just saying you could and it wouldn't matter if you did. We would still win,” Killer says.

Maybe it's because I'm on a step and he's on the sidewalk, but Killer seems so irrelevant. We're back in second grade and he's the smallest kid in school, not the star quarterback. His chin points to the ground, and his shoulders sag. He looks tired and beaten, distressed and worried.

I hover over him like a god. Helped by a step, I'm a foot taller. While his body slumps, I'm at attention. Standing tall, relaxed, and confident, with the flick of my finger, I could knock him over. He's a rag doll asking for a favor.

“No,” I say. “I'm not helping you.”

“It's not me, you idiot,” he replies. “We're Finch. It's the town. Don't you care about your hometown?”

“Don't do that,” I say.

“Don't do what? It's true. This is a baseball town. You know it. Everybody loves the Yellow Jackets, and I'm telling you that your town needs you.”

“Killer, it's like the third game of the season. I really don't think everyone in town cares that much.”

“I WANT TO WIN!” he yells.

Killer paces a little in front of his car, and I realize we're not in second grade anymore. He stands tall and looks right at me. “You think I wanted to be born in a town of thousand people? I'm not small town. I'm as good as any one of those players in Des Moines, Iowa City, or Cedar Rapids. I don't have a single Division I college offer yet.

Why? Because all of my stats have an asterisk. All of my hits are against small-town pitchers. I beg and I beg Coach Phillips to schedule games against bigger schools, but they won't play us. They're scared because they don't want to get beat by a small-town school. Well, we got in this tournament and they have to play us now. And I don't want to lose because we ran out of pitchers. We're not out of pitchers, Biggie. We still got you. Maybe you're right and this town doesn't really care, but I do. I need you to come back.”

“Why would I help you?” I ask. “You stole Annabelle.”

“Oh my fucking god, is this still about Annabelle? Dude, she's not going to date you. You hacked into her computer. Do you have any idea?”

“You gave me the horrible name Biggie! You're the reason everyone, even my little brother, calls me Biggie.”

His face looks shocked and he shrugs his shoulders and twitches his face. “Biggie's a cool nickname. There's nothing wrong with it.”

I raise my hands and draw an are-you-kidding-me look on my face. Completely stunned and almost speechless, I say, “It's cool if it's ironic, like let's call hundred-pound Johnny ‘Biggie.' But if Johnny's fat, it's mean and awful.”

“Fine, I'm a horrible person, a horrible boyfriend, but what about Kyle, Jet, Aargo? Hell, your stepfather is a coach. Your brother is the batboy. You can hate me, but still play a game with your friends tomorrow.”

“It's not going to happen.” I turn toward my front door.

“Biggie,” he begs.

With my hand an inch from the doorknob, I decide against going inside and, for some idiotic reason, spin around and yell, “I don't want to give up eight runs and twelve hits! You're desperate. Don't you see that? I'm not your savior. I'm not a good pitcher.”

As I turn to shove crooked metal into the keyhole, Killer says, “Annabelle was wrong about you.”

My neck twists and my eyes watch him back up toward his Mustang.

“She said the reason you ignore all of us is because you think you're better than us with your brains, your big house, and your indoor baseball field. But you don't think you're better than us. You're scared. The biggest kid in school is scared of everything. Biggie is a little coward. We're through. This year didn't happen. The next time you see me we're sophomores again, and you don't talk to me and I don't give a shit.” He jumps into his car and peels out of the driveway.

The inside of my house is dark, but I don't need any light to make my way to my room. Without taking off my shoes, I flop down on my bed and realize that sometime during my shouting match with Killer, I stuck the program in my pocket.

Despite what I said outside about being on the team, it feels kind of cool that my name is listed on the roster. I pull out my phone and use its light to read my name. It says I'm No. 9.

I sit up. That can't be right. No. 9 is retired. No. 9 was Laser's number.

I hop off my bed and dart toward my closet. I rip open the Finch duffel bag and pull out the jersey. My hand runs over the No. 9.

I set the shirt down and run down the steps, out the door, and down the street.