Curveball : The Year I Lost My Grip (9780545393119) (11 page)

The last seven shots or so showed Linnie winning the relay: Her perfect dive. Her graceful stroke. Her amazingly slick flip-turn. The end of the race, when she stood on the deck and raised her glistening
arms in victory. I barely even knew how to swim, but you didn't exactly have to be a dolphin to realize Linnie was something special in the water. Well, and out of it.

Of course, she was no Angelika. I almost got up my nerve and said something to that effect, but Angelika didn't give me enough time to get the words out. “You did great, Pete!” she practically hissed. “Your favorite subject is going to be so pleased. Maybe she'll even ask you to be her personal photographer….”

I don't get mad very easily, but this was starting to irritate me. I mean, what had I done wrong? Angelika was the one who had volunteered me to be a sports photographer. All I did was show up at every single event she told me to, and take a bunch of pictures.

Excellent pictures, in fact, if I did say so myself.

Was it my fault that Linnie Vaughn looked good in a swimsuit?

I fished my spare memory card out of my pocket (with a silent thanks to my grandfather for drilling
that tip into me), walked across the room to my camera bag, slapped the card into my camera, and got Angelika in the frame. She glared at me, one hand on her hip. “What are you doing, Peter?”

I started taking pictures.

“I'm serious,” she said, stepping toward me. “What are you doing?”

I kept shooting.

“Come on, give me that,” Angelika said.

Click, click, click. She was getting closer.

“No,” I said.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because Linnie freaking Vaughn isn't my favorite subject, Angelika.
You're
my favorite subject.”

Through the viewfinder, I saw Angelika reach for my camera. I let her take it out of my hands, but the strap was still around my neck. She pulled the camera to her. I came along with it. I'm happy to say I didn't take any more pictures that night. But my girlfriend and I did make it to Linnie's party. Eventually.

 

“See, Pete here is the freaking luckiest guy there is,” AJ declared. It was hours later, after Linnie's party had been broken up by the surprise arrival of her parents. AJ, Angelika, and I were sprawled out on the wicker furniture of the back porch of AJ's house. It was about forty degrees out, but I wasn't feeling the cold. There had been this delicious fruit punch at the party with watermelon in it, and — even though I swear I hadn't known it at the time — apparently some of the non-fruit ingredients weren't exactly legal for Pennsylvanians under the age of twenty-one. Linnie had taken a special interest in quenching our thirst for some reason, and the drink was so fruity and good that I might have picked up a refill or two before the festivities had met an aborted end. AJ had been a big punch fan, too.

Angelika had taken a sip, poured the rest of her drink into a potted plant, muttered, “Sorry, plant,” and then proceeded to watch me and AJ ignore her warnings.

Anyway, now my head was in Angelika's lap, and my eyes were closed. She was playing with my hair,
which felt really nice — so nice that I hadn't said a word in at least half an hour, because I was hypnotized by the sensation. She and AJ had both decided I was asleep, which meant the conversation was taking an interesting turn.

“Luckiest? What's so lucky about him?”

“Well, first of all he's got you massaging his scalp, while I'm sitting here all alone. I mean, not
alone
alone, but … you know. Alone.”

“Oh,” Angelika said, and I could hear the laugh in her voice. “So you're pretty much saying you're
alone
, then?”

“'S right. But Pete's got a girlfriend. You are his … I mean, he's your … you guys are all, like, girlfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend, girlfriend now, right?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I think we are.”

“'At's cool,” AJ mumbled.

“So how else is he lucky?”

AJ snorted. “You kidding me? He's, like, Mr. Perfect Life. El Perfecto Grande. Captain Gots-it-all. Like, have you met his family? His mom is the awesomest
mom there is. Did you know he, uh, sleepwalks sometimes?”

Dude
, I thought.
Thanks a lot. I don't sleepwalk. I just wake up, and then walk. Angelika's going to think I'm some kind of zombie or something.

Angelika must have shaken her head, because AJ continued. “And he goes to the kitchen table, right? So his mom wakes up — and this is, like, at
night
night. We're talking three in the morning. My mom would be all
What are you doing up, Adam James?
Uh, because that's my real name: Adam James. Anyway, she'd be going,
You should be in bed!
And I'd be thinking,
No duh, Mom!
And she'd go,
Here I am, a single mother, with you and your little brothers to worry about, plus a full-time job, and I don't have time for this, blah blah blah
, until I fell a-freaking-sleep just from hearing the same old stupid speech about why do I need any attention from her … uh, what was I talking about again?”

“Pete. Lucky.”

“Oh, right. So his mom gets up, sits with him at the table, and feeds him cookies. I mean, not
feeds him
feeds him — she doesn't put them in his mouth or anything. But the point is, she's right there with the cookies and all. And then there's his dad. Pete complains because his dad works a million hours a week, but first of all, that's why Pete always gets everything he wants. And his dad is nice and everything when he's around. And neemwhile … I mean, meanwhile, my dad lives like a thousand miles away, and you don't hear
me
complaining about it.”

“Except now,” Angelika said.

“Well, yeah. But you don't hear me complaining about it when I'm, like,
sober
.” There was a long silence, and I may have started to doze off, but then AJ said, really loudly, “Plus, have you met Pete's grandfather? He's freaking awesome. And I mean, I know he's old, and Pete's all worried about him and everything — but both of my grandfathers are
dead
. I'm not trying to be mean or anything: I love Pete's grampa. Did you know he's come to, like, every baseball game we've had for the past three years straight? And he's taken pictures at all of them. And then he puts them up online so everybody's parents can
order prints if they want. And for me, that's a big deal. It's not like my mom actually gets to most of my games, with TJ and CJ — those are my brothers — to take care of. And I'm pretty sure my dad wouldn't even know what I
look
like if Mom didn't keep sending him those pictures.”

My head was spinning. I had always thought AJ had the perfect life. His mom always let him go wherever he wanted; he was so much bigger, stronger, and better-looking than I was; and he was just so
relaxed
. I couldn't believe AJ was jealous of the things I
had
when I spent my life wishing I could be who he
was
. Plus, there was one other thing he had going for him. I almost opened my eyes and sat up to point it out, but fortunately, Angelika had my back.

“What about his elbow problem?” she said. “Don't you think that's pretty unlucky? I mean, I never knew him when he was playing baseball, but he seems pretty crushed that now he can't.”
Go, Angelika
, I thought. “Did you know he even
cried
about it in front of me?”
Stop, Angelika
, I thought.

AJ said, “Yeah, I know how bad the arm thing is. Did you know I was there when it happened? He was pitching, and I was the catcher. The look on his face right before he fell — it was horrible. Don't tell Pete this, but I even had a couple of nightmares about it. Still, even then, his parents were both there, and his grandfather came charging out on the field, too. If it had happened to me, the coaches would have had to send my parents a freaking telegram or something.”

Another long silence followed, which gave me more time to think about how much I hadn't understood about my best friend. I wasn't sure whether I should just lie there and be furious at him for blabbing all this stuff to Angelika, or sit up and ask for a group hug.

Then he started talking again. “Plus, I know he's going to pitch again.”

“I'm not so sure about that, Adam. When he talks about it, he —”

“I know he says he might not. But that's because he flips out about everything. Trust me, he'll be back. He
has
to.”

“Why?”

“Because … swear you won't say anything? Because this sounds really wussy.”

“Um, I swear.”

“He thinks he needs baseball, but that's not true. Well, he needs it, but he doesn't
need
need it. Not the way I do. He's got everything else. He takes the fall off from pitching and ends up getting straight As, becoming a freaking yearbook editor as a freshman, and going out with you. But me, I need baseball. I
am
baseball. Listen: Peter can do anything in the world he wants to do.
Anything
anything. But me? I can throw a ball. That's pretty much it. And — I'm almost at the wussy part. I'm scared to try out for the team without him.”

“Why? Pete always tells me how cool and confident you are on the field. And I saw you play basketball. I took pictures of you on the court — and you're so, I don't know, graceful. You make sports look so effortless.”

“Thanks. You know what, Angelika? Pete always tells me how smart
you
are. And he's right. But anyway, I pitch better with Pete behind the plate. He's so good at calling pitches. Plus, I just feel like when he's back there, I'm going to hit his glove every time. I don't know why. It's like he's my security blanket or something.
That's
the wussy part.”

“Yeah, I could tell.”

I couldn't help it: I snorted. Angelika was just such a fast thinker. Fortunately, my arm was kind of in front of my mouth, so the snort sounded more like a snore.

“I can see why you're so attracted to him, Angelika,” AJ said. “He makes such, um, sexy noises.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Sunday was a horror. At some point in the early morning hours, I had passed out in Angelika's lap. At some later point, I had been woken up by a rush of vomit in my throat, tried to roll over, and spun to the ground from the hammock that AJ had somehow managed to move me to. Sadly, AJ's porch hammock is suspended about three feet above a brick floor. Brick is cold, it's hard, and it has one other really negative quality: Liquids splatter when they hit it.

By the time AJ came out to check on me at 5:45
A.M
. or so, I was huddled on the wicker couch again, wrapped in a fuzzy-lined tarp I had pulled off of his mom's barbecue grill, shivering, and bleeding from abrasions to my right palm and my left knee. Which of course meant that (A) my pants were ripped, and (B) I had gotten blood all over the lining
of the tarp. Plus, the whole front of my shirt was flecked with dried barf, and my head hurt like somebody was dropping a rock on it every half second. From a great height.

And the taste in my mouth? You don't even want to know.

Of course, AJ was in a fabulous mood. “Get up, brother Pete!” he said. “Here, I brought you some OJ.” This announcement caused me to gag all over again. “Oopsie,” AJ said. “Come on, drink this up … nice and slow now….”

I took a few of the slowest sips in the history of the planet and was trying to decide whether I'd ever again be capable of swallowing more than one drop of fluid at a time when AJ said, “Ooh, stand up! Hurry! You have to get into the bathroom — pronto!”

His raised voice pounded against my brain, making the whole porch seem to spin and pulsate as I jumped to my feet. “Whuh … why?” I asked, in the throes of an insane head rush.

“Two words: Mom. Angelika.”

Holy cow! In my shameful state, I had completely forgotten about Angelika. “Angelika? What happened? Where is she? Is she OK?” I grabbed at the arm of the couch with one hand to steady myself.

“She's fine —
she's
not the one who tossed back three cups of that punch like it was, uh, punch. But she's upstairs getting dressed, and you definitely want to get in the shower before she sees you.”

“Wait. She's here. Where did she sleep? And where, uh — where did
you
sleep?”

I had a deeply serious moment of panic, which lasted until AJ said, “Ange slept in my bed …”

Ange?
I thought.
Ange?

“… and I slept out here with you. I just got up way early — dude, I was so, like, starving! So I went in and scrounged around for something I could eat without waking anybody up. Lucky for me there was a Pop-Tart and some leftover Chinese shrimp with lobster sauce….”

I barely stopped myself from hurling yet again.

“Anyway, I think you need to hit the lav right now, while Ange and my mom aren't walking the halls yet.
I mean, if I'm not actually lighting the house on fire or something, Mom doesn't usually notice what I'm doing too much. But she's pretty sensitive to smells, and — well — you reek like death. Stale death.”

It's pretty hard to stage a one-man commando raid on a suburban tract house when one can barely stand, but I made it to the bathroom unseen. AJ knocked really quietly, and told me he would dig up a toothbrush, painkillers, and some clothes while I took a shower. By the time I got all cleaned up and came out, there was a pile of supplies on the counter. I brushed my teeth, gargled about forty-three gallons of mouthwash, combed my hair with my fingers, and forced myself to swallow a few Advils. Getting anything to go down my throat was a gruesome task, but on the other hand, I felt like someone was trying to squeeze my brain through a cheese grater — and that had to stop.

I surveyed the clothes AJ had left me: a pair of fluorescent orange sweatpants, boxer briefs, socks, and a bright red Phillies T-shirt. What a freaking crack-up that guy was. Even in his hungover state
(although admittedly, he appeared to be handling the condition a million times better than I was), he had thought to make me — a die-hard Yankees fan — wear a Phillies garment. Angelika called my name and knocked on the door. I looked at the Phillies shirt. I sighed, said, “Hang on, I'm getting dressed,” then blushed furiously as I reached for the mound of clothing.

Well, one thing I could say for this getup: The socks fit. Aside from that, I looked like some kind of gangsta sock puppet. Between the garish color scheme and the fact that AJ is nearly a foot taller and forty pounds heavier than me, I was not going to be featured in any fashion shows wearing this ensemble. Angelika knocked again. I started to open the door, but then realized my disgustingly filthy clothes were sitting in a pile on the floor. Thinking fast, I grabbed them up, dumped out the little bathroom garbage can onto the floor, took out the plastic trash bag inside it, scooped the garbage back up from the floor into the can, and tied the clothes inside the bag.

Whew
, I thought,
that was a close one
. I took a deep breath, and opened the door. “Good morni —” was
all I got out before Angelika stormed into the room, slamming the door shut behind her. She was wearing a pair of AJ's sweats, too, but the look was a whole lot cuter on her.

“NEVER do that to me again!” she growled, stamping her foot.

“What did I do?”

“You put me in a bad situation, Peter! You passed out, and left me in a strange house, with no way to get home.”

“It's not a strange house. It's AJ's house, and he's —”

“Shut. Up. I only want to say this once: If you ever, ever get drunk when you are supposed to be my date, you will never be my date again. Got it?”

That Advil simply was not going to be strong enough to take away all the pain I was having. Rubbing my temples with one hand, I nodded. “Good,” Angelika said. “Now. Are you OK, Peter?” The next thing I knew, she was hugging me. That's the bad thing about dating somebody who thinks faster than you do: You never quite know what the heck is going on.

A pounding on the door made us jump apart. It also made me grab the side of my head again. Angelika touched my cheek gently, then spun and turned the knob. This time, AJ's mother stormed in. She looked at Angelika, said, “Out!” and then wheeled on me. Angelika tiptoed past her, left the room, and closed the door softly. This was just what I needed: another angry confrontation. I didn't get it. AJ's mom had always been completely uninvolved. There had been dozens of nights when I had slept over without even seeing her in the morning. We'd come downstairs, and she'd already be gone out to do errands with AJ's brothers or something. The closest I got to contact with her on most of those mornings was the note she'd leave on the counter:

So why, on this of all mornings, was she all agitated?

“Peter Friedman,” she said. “I am
so
mad at you. I trusted you. I always trust you. You are supposed to be AJ's smart friend. I have never felt I had to worry when AJ was with you. Do you know what it's like to be a single mother, Peter? No, of course you don't. You can't. So I'll tell you: Being a single mother means not having enough time. Not being able to take care of everything you need to take care of. And worrying. All. The. Time. But you've always been so levelheaded and responsible that I've felt good about leaving AJ alone with you.”

She left off for a moment with that thought, and paced back and forth several times. I felt like I was locked in the bathroom with an enraged mama bear. “Um, Mrs. Moore, I'm really sorry I —”

“You think you're sorry? You stay out till all hours of the night, you bring my son home drunk, and then in the morning I find some strange GIRL in his bed?”

“Wait, she's not a strange girl, she's —”

“She's who? This ought to be good.”

“She's my girlfriend. Angelika.”

“Your girlfriend? In AJ's bed?”

I nodded and gulped. When she put it that way, it sounded kind of upsetting.

Mrs. Moore put her palm on the side of my head, and gave me a sort of half shove, half smack. “That's for AJ.”

I stood there, trying not to sway.

She gave me another half smack. “That's for Angelika.”

I was swaying. I was definitely swaying. I strongly hoped AJ's mom was done with forcibly moving my head for a while. She wasn't. She stepped close one more time, put her palms on both sides of my face, and shook me a few times. I thought my eyeballs were going to pop out onto her fuzzy bedroom slippers.

“That's for you,” she said, and stomped out of the bathroom.

As you might imagine, breakfast was a little awk
ward, although Angelika and Mrs. Moore got along like long-lost sisters. AJ's brothers chatted up a storm, too, while AJ sat there and didn't say much. Meanwhile, I was engaged in a desperate battle against the forces of nausea. AJ had told his mom that we had gotten drunk on fruit punch, so she had gotten some special revenge by preparing this meal:

• Apple pancakes with strawberry sauce
  
• Strawberry-banana-kiwi juice
  
• Orange yogurt
  
• Grapefruit
  
• Wildberry Toaster Strudel
  
• Froot Loops
  

But somehow I survived long enough to stagger out of there and walk Angelika home. Then I hiked my way back to AJ's house to pick up my putrid bag of laundry. When I got there, AJ was the only one still home. All I wanted to do was lie down on the couch and take a three-hour nap, but sadly, AJ had
other plans. As soon as I walked in, he threw my old catcher's mitt at me and said, “Guess what. It's spring training time!”

Where had he even gotten that thing? Wherever it had come from, it hurt. I groaned, and said, “What are you talking about? It's November.”

“Yeah, but you're out of shape. You didn't play soccer or basketball this year, and it shows. Look at you! You're all fat and soft. If we don't start working on you now, you're going to look like a marshmallow in your uniform by the time tryouts roll around.”

“But —”

“No buts, Pete. Do you want Ange to dump you for someone who can run across the street
without
doubling over and gasping for air? Someone who doesn't suffer from the dreaded affliction known as muffin-top-itis?”

“Dude, I'm not —”

He patted me on the stomach, harder than strictly necessary, and said, “Yes. You are. You
so
are. Look at this jelly roll. Now let's go.”

Muffin top? Jelly roll? AJ was nuts. On the other
hand, I had nearly died of a heart attack running to Grampa's house. “Fine,” I said. “Bring it. I'll show you who's in shape.”

He was beaming now. “That's my boy,” he said. “Finally showing some competitive fire. Now get your glove on and get out there so I can pitch to you.”

“Uh, AJ, I'm still not allowed to throw.”

“I know, I know. The physical therapist has you on a special program, right?”

I nodded. What I didn't tell him was that the program consisted of me relearning how to do extremely basic low-impact movements. Like tying my shoe, for example.

“So, no worries. You won't throw today.” He grabbed the glove out of my hand. “You'll run!”

But first, I had to start a load of laundry. For the record, I would just like to point out that I didn't throw up while I was putting my clothing in the washer. It was touch and go there for a while, especially when I had to peel the folds of my shirt apart where they had been glued together by whatever
goop I had brought forth from the depths of my stomach, but I held on to my revolting fruity breakfast.

I would also like to point out that I didn't vomit during the two-mile run that AJ subjected me to. I felt like my head was going to burst open like a rotting, gas-filled pumpkin, and every step made my guts lurch and roll, but again, there was no display of liquefied Froot Loops. Even after the run, when AJ said, “So much for the warm-ups. Now it's sprinting time!” I held it all together through several rounds of suicide drills on the school's outdoor basketball courts.

But when we got back to AJ's house, his mother was home. As soon as we walked in, she smiled wickedly at me and said, “Oh, good! You're up and about! That's the way to handle your first hangover. I'm proud of your fortitude.” I smiled back at her, but I'd imagine it was a weak and sickly little grin. Then she hustled into the kitchen and came back holding a huge tumbler full of garish hot-pink fluid.
Thick
, garish hot-pink fluid. “I've made you a little
post-workout treat, Peter. How would you like a nice glass of watermelon smoothie?”

I managed to get half of that sucker down.
Then
I threw up.