Double Trouble (13 page)

In neither scenario did she end up the pariah of the Kellogg Mavericks.

Now PJ could taste the old pregame adrenaline, a roil of half fear, half hope as she flew into Dally’s house, unearthed her softball uniform from the laundry basket
 
—the clean laundry, thankfully
 
—pulled on the polyester over her wig, added the cap, grabbed the cleats and equipment, and took off for the softball diamond three blocks away.

She was getting a do-over.

So it was at catcher. She could play catcher. It had to be a thousand times easier than shortstop, right? Just squat and catch the ball.

Oh, and call the pitches. She tried to remember the signals as she jogged toward the field. She paused in the parking lot at the lip of the park to put on her equipment and pull herself together.

Her debut as Dally. She would simply wear the catcher’s mask, and no one would know the difference. Positioning the cap backward on her head, she pulled the mask down over her face.

The ballpark had three fields, two already in use. A bat cracked against a ball and a cheer sweetened the humid afternoon. The smell of hot dogs reminded her that she’d missed breakfast.

The Rockets were warming up in the infield, throwing the ball around. Whoever had picked the black uniforms should be strung up from the oak tree in the park behind them because PJ already wanted to wade into Lake Nokomis, sparkling blue, pretty, and tantalizing just beyond the fields.

But no. She was here to win. To be Dally Morrison, superstar catcher.

For a second she wished Jeremy were here to see her be a PI, the undercover girl who got the job done.

She found Stacey stretching out on the grass, a fashion statement with her bright red hair and the way she’d cut her shirt short to reveal her stomach and ruby belly button charm. Apparently PJ had dressed Dally down in her basic uniform and hat.

Whoops.

Stacey looked at her. “You’re late.”

“I forgot.”

She shook her head, making a face. “Listen, if you want, I can get a pinch catcher in. I talked to Morgan
 
—don’t look at me like that; I didn’t tell her anything, only that you weren’t feeling like yourself
 
—and she said she’d love to fill in for you.”

PJ crouched before Stacey, looking around, then lowered her voice. “Dally said that if she
 
—I
 
—didn’t play, then they’d cut her from the team.”

“They wouldn’t cut her for one game. Just maybe bench her for the season. But what’s worse: you messing up her position or the entire game?”

PJ debated this in silence, weighing the personal ramifications and just how seriously she should take Dally’s threats. “I’ll play.”

“You swear you can do this.”

“It’s amateur softball! But yes, I learned the calls, and I have played softball before. No problem.”

Stacey narrowed her eyes. “Apparently Dally didn’t fill you completely in on Karla.”

“Karla?”

“Maybe it’s best you don’t know. C’mon
 
—she’s warming up with Morgan. You’d better stake your territory.”

PJ followed Stacey over to the catcher’s box, where a girl with short blonde pigtails crouched behind the plate.

“Morgan has her own fan club,” Stacey said. She gestured to a group of young men in the stands.

PJ noticed more fans assembling, some wearing Rockets T-shirts, a few older folks, maybe from the neighborhood,
maybe relatives. She wondered if Gabby had ever attended one of Dally’s games, then if Boone might show up.

Even though she hadn’t mentioned the game.

The pitcher looked like she could have played for the majors, with arms that filled out the sleeves of her black Rockets uniform. She chewed a wad of gum, her dark eyes under her cap sizing up the imaginary batter, leaning low over the ball that she held out in her mitt.

“Who’s
 
—?”

The pitcher suddenly straightened and in a split second delivered the ball to the catcher in a roundhouse fast pitch that made a satisfying and frightening thwack in Morgan’s glove.

PJ jerked. “That was fast.”

“Aw, she’s just getting warmed up. Karla’s pitches have been clocked nearly as fast as the pros.”

“Professional softball?”

“Baseball.” Stacey gave her a disgusted look, then shook her head. “Heaven help us.” She waved as Morgan threw the ball back. “Morgan, Dally’s here.”

Morgan took off her mask as she stood. “Hey, Dally. I was just filling in.” She offered a smile to go along with her sunny voice, and as she passed by PJ, a cheer went up from her devoted fans.

PJ crouched down behind the plate, her thighs protesting. The minute she settled into a crouch, her balance shifted and she clunked into the dirt on her backside.

“Oops.”

Stacey was watching her, eyes wide with horror. “Please.”

PJ held up a hand to the pitcher
 
—Karla. “Sorry! I haven’t stretched out yet.”

“Don’t talk,” Stacey growled.

PJ patted her glove. “Give it to me, Karla!”

“Seriously. Not a word.”

PJ closed her mouth. Stacey was nearly as scary as Dally.

Karla stared at her, as if waiting for something. PJ held out her mitt. Waggled it. Whacked it with her hand.

“Call the pitch,” Stacey said under her breath.

Call the . . .
Right. PJ sent the sign for a fastball, the only pitch she really recognized. Karla sized her up, stepped back, and let it fly.

PJ tried to hold steady, but she couldn’t move under all this gear in this crunched-up position, and as the pitch came at her, she couldn’t help but pull back. The ball hit the dirt where her glove had been and bounced up hard, thwacking her mask. She tumbled back again into the dirt.

Stacey turned away, wincing.

Karla delivered something that looked like a glare.

“Hey, Dally, you back off the wagon or something?” the first baseman shouted.

“That’s not funny!” the second baseman said, as PJ scrambled for the ball and threw it.

PJ nearly cried with relief when it sailed in an arch straight for Karla. She lifted her hand in an apologetic wave.

C’mon, PJ
. She crouched again, held out her glove, sent the same sign, and this time focused on Karla’s pitch. The ball sailed toward her, dropping at the last moment right into her glove. Pain veined up her arm and she held in a howl.

But as she threw the ball back, she saw Stacey nodding, a tight smile on her face.

She had to learn to move in this getup. And see. The
black lines of the catcher’s mask crisscrossing her face and the padding right above her eyes cut off her vision. She tried another fastball
 
—maybe she’d do the entire game with fastballs
 
—and it went wide. She lunged for it and nearly took out the coach, who was advancing to the plate to call the team in.

PJ fringed the huddle, listening to the pep talk, trying not to flee. Especially since their opposing team, the Hornets, were equally ranked. Apparently the winner of today’s three-game tournament went to the division play-offs.

As she walked away, the coach, a woman who reminded her of a den mother, with her softly rounded body and the curly brown hair sticking out of her hat, gave PJ a kind look and pulled up beside her.

“Listen,” she said quietly. “I know you and Karla have tried to patch things up, but this game is bound to dredge up memories and, well, if you sense Karla getting out of control, you let me know.”

Huh?

“Maybe I’m overreacting, but I just don’t want a repeat of last year. That’s all we need
 
—for the Rockets to make the papers again. It was hard enough to get the grocery store to sponsor us this year, but more importantly, we need Karla for the play-offs. She can’t break her probation or we’ll be in trouble, so . . . just keep an eye out.” She patted PJ on the back. “Good luck out there, kiddo.”

PJ froze as the woman walked away. She stared first at the coach, then back at Karla, who was warming up in the bull pen, swinging her arms.

Pro . . .
bation
?

Stacey met her in the dugout. “I got Morgan to hit for you
 
—I used the bum knee excuse.”

“Bum knee?”

Stacey leaned close. “Karla. It’s not a pretty story.”

PJ clasped her hands over her knees as she sat in the back of the dugout, too afraid to cheer.

She was a dead girl.

They ended their first at bat with no runs. PJ manned the plate, watching Karla march to the mound, a wad of gum in her cheek
 
—or maybe that wasn’t gum.

“Batter up!”

PJ crouched as the first batter stepped up. She gritted her teeth and flashed the fastball signal at Karla, who then stared down the batter and pitched.

Thwack.
PJ realized she’d closed her eyes, but yes, the ball landed in her mitt. She stood up to throw it back, then saw Stacey furiously shaking her head. Oops. Apparently catchers didn’t stand up to throw.

PJ tried a drop ball. It came in short. PJ nabbed it and this time stayed down to return it to the mound. Next to her, the batter was digging her cleats into the dirt, mumbling under her breath.

So maybe she’d stick with the fastball. PJ gave Karla a target and
 
—

The batter swung. The air whooshed right above PJ’s head, and her entire body jerked as the batter connected with the ball. She searched for the hit in the field, but it seemed to have vanished. Then Karla was running toward her, gazing above her.

Uh-oh.

PJ looked up just as the ball landed three feet from her with a poof of dust and spiraled into the backstop.

“Foul.”

Karla had stopped ten feet away from PJ. “You playing here? And what’s with the string of fastballs? Get your head in the game.”

PJ sprang to her feet, nodded, and picked up the ball. She threw it back without comment.

Karla caught it, but instead of turning back to the mound, she stopped and pointed at PJ, her eyes like bullets as she communicated what PJ interpreted as death, maiming, and pain.

Probation.

Karla struck the next two out
 
—mostly with fastballs
 
—before PJ got another chance at a foul. She saw the ball pop up, leaped for it, and barely missed it as it banged off her glove and dribbled out. Thankfully, it was a tough catch.

Still, a voice rang out behind her from the bleachers as she settled back into her position. “You trying to kill me, Catch?”

PJ shot a glance into the stands and nearly missed another bullet from Karla. All nine rows had filled now, with friends, parents, babies, husbands . . . She saw no one she recognized.

They closed the first inning with no runs.

The Rockets managed to score two runs on the Hornets, and by the end of the second inning, PJ decided she could probably do this. Choose a pitch
 
—she hadn’t the faintest idea how to call them
 
—make a target for the ball, catch the flies . . . sure, no problem. Except she felt she might choke on her own tightened breath.

She managed another inning, this time reaching out and swiping a quick foul that earned her an out and a cheer.

By the fourth, sweat tidal-waved down her back, her face, and bathed her catcher’s mitt in slimy odor. She trembled every time she crouched down, her legs having turned to lava. And it didn’t help that every time she signaled a pitch to Karla, the pitcher either rolled her eyes, frowned, or gave a her a steely-eyed look that sent a cold drip of fear into PJ’s stomach.

Karla had stopped growling at her or questioning her intelligence in the dugout. Which could only mean that she was saving up her fury for some after-game retribution.

PJ levered her mitt out, hating Jeremy and Dally, hating Kellogg, Minnesota, her life of crime, and especially Boone, who had practically goaded her into PI work.

“Strike three!”

PJ watched another batter go down. Two outs. One more.

A line drive to short. Stacey scooped it up and arrowed it to first. How hard was that? Try playing catcher.

She collapsed in the dugout, rubbing her thighs.

“Why don’t you take off your mask?” This from the first baseman, a petite girl with a blonde crew cut.

PJ shook her head.

“You’re really acting weird tonight, Dally. Not one taunt out of your mouth
 
—usually you and Karla are going at it, razzing the batters.”

Tag-team batter harassment. No wonder Stacey told her to keep her mouth shut.

She nodded, and the first baseman moved away to torment someone else.

One-two-three, the Rockets went down fast, too fast for PJ to catch her breath.

“Okay, let’s hold ’em,” Coach said as PJ trotted out past her. “Hang in there, Dally.”

Yes, hang in there, Dally. Hang in there.

As if someone in the stands had heard her mental cheering, a voice rang out, “Go, Dally!”

Again she turned and scanned the crowd.

There.
There
 
—beside a kid finishing a hot dog and a blonde with bug-eye glasses and a straw hat
 
—the guy trying to look nondescript in a red baseball cap and a pair of wire-rim dark glasses.

Jeremy.

She nearly whipped off her equipment and leaped into the stands, hands outstretched to strangle him.

“Dally! Batter up!” Karla’s voice had the edge of a bowie knife.

She would just have to kill Jeremy after the game.

Batter one came up to bat. PJ crouched behind the plate, not looking at Karla as she sent her a curveball signal. Karla walked her on a full count.

“C’mon, Karla,” PJ shouted and received a frown.

Maybe she could change Dally’s image. Offer the glove of friendship, so to speak. She patted the palm of her mitt, then flashed her a drop ball. She’d been going in alphabetical order for a while now. Curveball, drop ball, fastball, knuckleball, screwball.

The pitch came in hard, and PJ refused to let out a yelp.

However, her encouragement seemed to rouse Karla. She struck out the next two batters.