Far from Xanadu (18 page)

She stood. “Okay. Whatever.”

I scrambled to my feet. “We can ditch though. Anytime.”

Gazing off toward the dangling ropes, she folded her arms around herself and said, “I need to talk about this and I can’t with Bailey, you know? He wouldn’t understand. I mean, he might, but I’m afraid to tell him.”

She was afraid of him. I knew it. She’d be so much safer with me. “We could take off tomorrow,” I said. “Go someplace besides my house though.”

She peered into my eyes, into my soul. She was wondering, I know, why I didn’t want to take her there. She ran her index finger down the length of my arm and raised goose bumps on my skin. “One of these days you’re going to tell me your secrets,” she murmured.

I almost came.

“Xanadu!”

Both our heads whipped around.

“Where have you been?” Bailey swaggered up to us. “I need my notebook for third period. Hey, Mike.” His eyes swept my body, taking in my muscle tee and boxers.

“Bailey,” I said flatly.

Xanadu said, “It’s in my locker.”

“I know,” Bailey replied. “I, uh, forgot your combination again.” He forced a weak smile.

Xanadu widened her eyes at me.

Really, I thought. All brawn. Not much of that either. Not compared to me.

She held my eyes for an extended moment, sending me a meaningful message. I felt confused, conflicted. One minute I was her world, the next Bailey moved in. I know she was giving me signals, but I didn’t know how to interpret them. She wasn’t like any other girl I’d known — or wanted this way. She was a mystery, a contradiction. She took off for the main hall with Bailey in tow. Last thing I saw was him looping an arm around her shoulders and her snaking one around his waist. I closed my eyes and hit my head against the brick wall.

The Merc was a madhouse. What was going on? Darryl had gone off in the truck, so I was forced after practice to walk the half mile to work in a blinding dust storm. I was gritting dirt between my teeth as I hung up my sweatshirt on the hook in back. June saw me and rushed over. “Dad needs you up front to help cashier,” he wheezed. He added under his breath, “Hate Coalton Days.”

They were still a month away, but Everett always got the first jump on the businesses in town with the Merc’s spring sale. I lifted my apron strap over my head and tied it twice around the middle.

June slithered away, muttering unintelligible sounds. On the way to the register I passed Tiny juggling an armload of merchandise. She dumped it on the counter. A box of Snausages tipped over and I snagged it before it hit the floor. “Are we out of baskets?” I asked, searching the cart caddy at the entrance. There were still three available.

“No,” Tiny said, sounding disgusted. “I was just coming in for doggie treats, and then I seen these wind chimes and thought they’d sound pretty outside the salon. Queenie needs a new collar and leash, so I had to get that too. And a windbreaker, which I could’ve used on the way over. I had to get me a six-pack of pansies, course.” She rubbernecked around me. “You’re sending me to the poorhouse, Everett.”

He smiled sheepishly from behind the cash register. I think he had a thing for Tiny. He was such a crusty old coot. I couldn’t see how any woman would be interested in Everett. But then, I wasn’t any woman.

A line was already forming behind Tiny. Someone called to Everett how much were the bedding plants and I relieved him at the register. I rang Tiny up. She handed me two twenties, which reeked of permanent solution, and from the change I gave her, she separated out a five-dollar bill. “For you,” she said. “I hope you get to go.” She folded the money and dropped it into a can on the counter.

For me? I craned my neck around the cash register. It was a coffee can with a plastic lid, a slot cut out on top. I picked it up and turned it around. A picture of me was glued to the front. It was my school picture from ninth grade. What the hell...?

The can was covered in construction paper and decorated with glitter. Above my picture was printed, in red magic marker, “Mike’s Catch-Her-Star Can-paign.”

“What the hell...?” I repeated aloud, grabbing the can.

“There it is.” Mayor Ledbetter rolled his cart up to the counter. “This is a stellar idea, Mike. Ha, ha. Get it?” He dropped a couple of quarters into the slot. They didn’t hit bottom and clink. How many dollars were in there? “Nice to get the whole town involved.”

“Whose idea was it?” I snapped.

Mayor Ledbetter arched his eyebrows. “I thought it was yours.”

“Mine?” My voice rose. “I wouldn’t do this.”

Junior appeared behind me with a bag of wild bird seed flopped across his shoulder. “Save this for Renata,” he growled. “She’s stopping by later. I didn’t know your batting average was .647 last year.”

“Good write-up in the paper,” Mayor Ledbetter said.

“Huh? What paper?” What was this about?

Behind the mayor, Armie dropped a pile of jeans on the counter. He flipped open his wallet and withdrew a ten. “Stick that in there, will ya?” He indicated the can.

Mayor Ledbetter folded the bill and wiggled it in. Armie balled a fist and bounced it off his opposite shoulder. “You go, girl.”

“What write-up?” I was stuck on the mayor. “What paper?”

“The
Gazette
.” He waved toward the newspaper rack near the cart caddy.

“I’ll be right back.” I shoved the can at him and charged across the Merc.

Only one copy of the
Tri-County Gazette
remained in the coin box.

Through the glass window I could see my picture on page one. I dug out a dime and inserted it into the slot.

“First time I saw her play, I thought to myself, Man, oh man, Emmanuel, this girl has got the goods. She was six and I was ... well, let’s just say awe-inspired.”

Was this about me? No one interviewed me or anything.

Manny Archuleta, in a phone interview from Wichita — where he’s helping his mother recover from hip replacement surgery — is speaking about our own superstar. “She was a natural, even as a kid,” Manny tells this reporter. “You knew she had the game in her blood. She had a feel for it, an instinct. She’s the best player I’ve ever coached, or had the pleasure to watch develop. She’s taught me more about the game than I’ve ever taught her.”

The game, of course, is girls’ fastpitch softball. And the player Coach Archuleta is bragging about is Mike Szabo.

I didn’t know Coach Archuleta felt that way about me. Who was

“this reporter”?

There was no byline.

The Coalton Cougars have been on a roll since Szabo’s rookie year. For the past three seasons they’ve placed first or second in the region and continued on to the quarterfinals. Their success is due in no small measure to the infield play and leadership of Mike (Mary-Elizabeth) Szabo.

I cringed.

“Mike!” Everett’s voice registered dimly.

If you’ve never attended a Cougars game (and you’d be in the minority in this town), you haven’t had the pleasure of seeing Mike play. She’s the spots and stripes of the Coalton Cougars.

Spots and stripes? Cougars didn’t have stripes. Who wrote this? I read faster to get to the end.

Crouched behind home plate, she calls out signals and cheers on base runners. At bat, Szabo is a cat poised to spring on her prey. And she springs to the tune of an astounding .647 batting average.

My breath caught. Who was keeping stats? Besides me. And I only kept them in my head. The article was good. Not because it was all about me. Well, maybe, partly. I’d been written up in the paper before, but not like this.

What you may not know are all the records Mike currently holds. Keep in mind, she’s still a junior.

“Mike!” Everett called. “What are you doing?”I wandered back to the register, still reading.

Most career runs scored: 82

Most runs scored by an individual in a single season: 35

Most hits by an individual in a single season: 49

Most career doubles: 26

Most career runs batted in: 72

Someone was tracking me. The way Dad used to. He knew all my stats. He kept a book, meticulous records. I flipped to page three, where the article continued. My stats ran on for another half column. A name in the last paragraph caught my eye.

“Mike has an extraordinary opportunity to apply her talents and gifts by attending the Carrie Reigners Softball Camp in Michigan this summer. Only the best are asked to apply. Mike is one of approximately two hundred girls on the A-list. We can’t let her waste this opportunity because of financial need.” Dr. Kinneson went on to say . . .

Damn her!

What was she telling people? That I’m poor? Thanks a lot.

There was a sidebar near the end:

Mike’s Catch-Her-Star Can-paign begins this weekend at the Mercantile’s spring sale. Drop your spare change into the cans . . .

That’s all I saw. Slapping the paper together, I shrilled, “Who did this!” Everyone in the Merc stopped talking and swiveled their heads. I gulped and tried to calm myself.

Coach Kinneson. Had to be. I didn’t think she knew how to keep stats. How’d she get those pictures? The other ones, on page three and four. Me in Pee Wees. In Junior League. The team photos. My individual photo, crouched with my glove chest high, spread for a catch.

Coach Archuleta. He had photo albums. He knew our stats. I’d kill them both. They were conspiring against me. I’d make them pay.

I suddenly felt exposed, bared, every eye in the Merc stripping me naked. Every eye in town would be on me. They’d feel sorry for me — again. All over again.

Chapter Sixteen

I
nterviews. Sidebars. Catch-Her-Star Can-paign. The can, glitter, dotted-swiss ribbon around my school picture. It didn’t take a genius.

I slammed Jamie up against the wall of his bedroom so hard the trailer shook. “You’re dead, dickhead. Say a prayer.”

Jamie looked freaked, which was wise considering the proximity of my fist to his face. “Whatever I did, I didn’t do it,” he said in a rush.

I twisted his polo shirt at the neck. He faked strangulation. “What didn’t I do?” he choked. I released my hold roughly. He stretched out the shirt and gulped for air.

“The can-
paign
.” I drilled the word into his skull. “Catch-Her-
Star
?”

“Oh. That.”

I knew it. Jerk. I grabbed him again.

“I didn’t do it. I swear.” He pushed me off. “But I think it’s a fabulous idea.”

“No one else knew about the camp. Only you and Xanadu. And Xanadu wouldn’t do this to me.”

She wouldn’t, would she? I’d kill her too. No, I wouldn’t. I loved her.

Jamie smirked.

He
did
do it.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

“What’s the problem? What’s the
problem
? It’s humiliating.” I sank onto Jamie’s beanbag chair in the corner of his room. “I feel like a charity case. I feel like the poster child for Jerry’s Kids. Thanks a lot.” I folded my arms across my chest.

Jamie clucked his tongue. “Nobody thinks that.” He resumed what he was doing before I barged in to beat the crap out of him. Glossing his hair in the mirror with pomade or something. He raised his eyes and met mine. “Get over it,” he said. “Nobody thinks of this as charity. They just want to help.”

“I don’t need their help. I don’t need their handouts, okay? I’ve got this big job at the Redmans’.. .” Okay, I didn’t have the job — yet. But I would. “I don’t even know if I want to go to the stupid camp.” I sprawled back in the chair, arms behind my head. “I’m going to be really busy this summer with a replumb job, and the only reason to go to softball camp is if I’m going competitive or want to win a scholar-ship to college, and why would I want a scholarship when college is so
not
in my future?”

Jamie didn’t answer. He was too absorbed in slicking and arranging every hair on his head.

I sighed and shifted to get comfortable. The chair crunched. I crossed an ankle over my knee and picked at the sole of my shoe. “What if I end up having to give all the money back? How am I going to do that? I don’t even know who gave what.”

Jamie widened his eyes at me in the mirror. “You wouldn’t dare. That would offend everyone, even me. If you don’t go to the camp, you and I can take off for Puerto Vallarta. We’ll hit all the gay beaches. Better yet, let’s fly to San Francisco. Shag a couple of hotties off Castro Street.”

Jamie’s computer beeped. A sexy voice breathed, “Jamie, honey. You’ve got mail.”

“Speaking of hotties.” Jamie slid into his desk chair.

I watched as he clicked keys at cyber-speed. My head lolled back against the wall and my eyes strayed to Jamie’s ceiling. His glow-in-the-dark stars and moons pasted all over. When we were kids, I used to stay the night and we’d pretend his bed was a spaceship. We’d fly across the heavens, visit other planets. We always come home to Coalton.

“Oh my God,” Jamie gasped. “Shane wants to buy his plane ticket right now. No second thoughts. He wants me to pick a weekend.” Jamie swiveled around to face me. “What should I say?”

“Say you need a fax of his psychiatric report.”

Jamie stuck out his tongue and spun back around. He reached up and ripped his calendar off the wall. “Not this weekend,” he mumbled to himself. “I need to color my hair. My tan is uneven. I have to lose ten pounds and bleach my teeth.” He flipped to May. “I wonder if you can order Botox online.” Jamie sighed. He skimmed down the month. “Okay. Next weekend.” He keyed a message on the computer. “No second thoughts.”

“I can’t believe this,” I said.

“Neither can I. It’s actually going to happen. Shane and I are going to meet.”

“You’re going to die. You’re going to end up a statistic.” I didn’t say what I was thinking: You’re going to end up hurt.

“Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod.” Jamie stared at the screen. He covered his mouth with both hands.

I pushed to my feet and moved to the bed, perching on the edge to hang over Jamie’s shoulder. Shane messaged back. Jamie cried, “He can do it!” Jamie wrote back, “I’m so excited.” Shane: “Me too.” Jamie: “I can’t wait.” Shane: “Me neither.” Shane: “I’m checking Orbitz.”

“He’s checking Orbitz,” Jamie said, hyperventilating.