This Much Is True (13 page)

Charlie doesn’t say anymore. Instead, he picks up speed and moves across two lanes of traffic in a matter of seconds. It’s only after he navigates past the oncoming traffic that he turns and gives me this full-on warning look that scares the hell out of me. “Look, I’m not trying to bring you down. It’s just this girl is trouble. She’ll fuck with your mind as much as your soul.
Trust me.
I’ve watched her do it to a few of my friends.” Charlie shakes his head. “She can turn it on, and she can turn it off. She told you her name was
Holly
—her twin
sister’s
name.
Her twin
. Who does that? Especially given what we’ve just learned happened to Holly. She lied to you. Holly’s dead,” he says with disquiet. “Tally lied to you about
everything
.”

“That’s fucked up,” I say slowly.

“Yeah.”

“She lied to me about everything.” I try hard not to let the despondence overtake me completely, but it does anyway.

“Yeah.”

“So what do I do now?”

Charlie scrutinizes me closely. “Dude, you walk away. You fucking
run
. Tally Landon is not a girl to get your head wrapped around.” I tune out his lecture. “Like I said, she’s a year away from hitting the big time with her ballet. That’s all she cares about. Didn’t she tell you any of
this
?”

“Kind of. She danced for me. She said she was the next Polina something or other.”

“
She is
. Seriously, dude. She’s a rising star in the ballet world. Trust me when I tell you that world is fucked up. They barely eat. They barely shit because they starve themselves so much of the time. Hell, they limit themselves to two drinks at a party if they go to one because, if they do drink and allow themselves the calories, they get fucked up on two drinks alone. Don’t you get it? Ballet is everything; nothing else matters to them.”

His rant about Tally Landon goes on for another five minutes. I thought he was done, but then he launches off on another tangent and gets even more pissed. “Marla has always talked about Tally with this kind of reverence. She
worships
her and the way the girl operates. Damn. It’s one of the many reasons we broke up. I didn’t completely trust Marla since she was hanging out with Tally Landon so much. And I couldn’t be around Holly, not after…because… I left for UCLA.” Charlie sounds so forlorn that it catches my attention. “The three of them together were…too much. It was like flying too close to the sun. They fucked with guys, fucked with them in every way, and basically enjoyed doing it. Not Holly so much, but Tally and Marla to a greater extent, for sure.”

His shoulders begin to shake again.
Shit.
He’s crying again.

Finally, he wipes his face and looks over at me.

“She
lied
to you, Prez. Think about why she did that. She doesn’t like attachments. You can’t
own
her. She’s aloof and uninvolved. That’s her deal. She’ll screw with your mind and cruelly move on when you least expect it. You’ll just serve as one of her boy toys, and then she’ll leave you behind. That’s what she does. Look, she already has.” He shakes his head side-to-side. “I should have warned you. I didn’t think she was there with Marla. I thought I saw
Holly
.” He frowns. “Holly’s the angel.
Was,
” he shudders when he says it past tense. “I thought Thorn was there with her. I thought I saw him. Parties weren’t always Tally’s scene. She liked her privacy, and she remained focused on her ballet. That’s all she cares about. I was hoping Marla wasn’t still hanging out with her. I should have paid more attention to who you were talking to last night. Prez, are you even
listening
to me?”

“Yeah, I heard you.” Dejected by the news of this girl Tally, I lower my baseball cap even further to hide my face from Charlie.

“Okay, what did I just say?”

“She lied to me about everything.”

“Yes. Think about that. Why would she do something like that? It’s fucked up, man, but it’s what she does.”

“She left me a thank-you note.” I wince at the irony even as Charlie attempts to laugh.

“Well, you got more than most then.
She thanked you
, Prez, but you’ve got to stay away from her. She’s trouble. I’m telling you this for your own good.” Charlie sighs and looks more uncertain. “I guess that goes for me, too. I should just stay away from Marla. Look what she does to me by just seeing her again. I can’t even think straight. And Holly’s dead.” Charlie slaps the steering wheel and looks irritably at the traffic up ahead and groans. “I missed the turn.
See
? That’s what Marla does to me.”

I sit up straighter and barely glance up at the cars passing us. Charlie slows down and makes a U-turn in the middle of the street and begins to race back the other way. I have to remind him to slow down because he still seems distraught with the news about Holly Landon.

Holly. Shit. Tally? Why would she lie to me like that?

“Well, at least we found out the truth before either one of us got in too deep,” I say with forced bravado.

“Yeah. There’s that.”

We trudge into the kitchen, holding the pies in weak triumph to Aunt Gina. “What’s wrong with you two?” she asks as soon as she sees us.

“Women. You can’t trust them, and the good ones don’t last.” Charlie looks at his mom and relays the tragic story of Holly Landon’s demise. I can’t bear to hear him tell it again. I’m already reliving the horrible images of that accident. I can still hear the girl’s screams. There was nothing I could have done, but that doesn’t make it any easier in recalling it now. Imagine being the dead girl’s sister. Her twin, no less.
Tally.

After a few minutes, Aunt Gina eyes me warily. I haven’t said a word since we got back.

“Everything all right with you? And this girl?”

“Not exactly. She’s Holly Landon’s sister.
Tally
.” I can’t quite keep the misery out of my voice.

“Life must be so hard for her right now,” my aunt says with a heavy sigh. “It’ll take some time for her to work it all out.”

Spoken like a true psychologist, which Gina Masterson is. All I can do is nod. It’s hard to breathe, to think.
Everything’s screwed up. I’m tired. I have a game. I’m a train wreck; all because of this girl Tally.

“Mom, I just told him to forget all about that girl,” Charlie says irritably. He glares at both of us.

He seems to be fighting for control. I’m sure he doesn’t want to break down in front of his mother.

Aunt Gina looks over at Charlie. “Both of you need time and distance from these two girls. Time. Distance. It’ll be hard. It’ll seem impossible—but if it’s real, it’ll survive.”

“Not true,” we both say at the same time.

I head back across the lawn toward the guest house, intent on getting ready for my game against Oregon State. I have four hours to get it together. I attempt to concentrate on my father’s three favorite words for me these days.
Focus. Baseball. Winning.
Yet
I keep thinking about this girl.
Tally.
Her image runs through my mind over and over.
Tally. Tally Landon.
Why does her name roll so easily off my lips even as I shower and dress and get ready to throw a baseball?
Why?

She seems to have taken my soul. I’m going to have to figure out a way to get it back.

* * * *

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Tally  ~ For the love of baseball

I
sit between my two best guys—my dad and Tommy—and take solace in the fact that I can be a spectator and have free reign to watch the pitcher on the mound without anyone questioning how closely I do, including the guy himself. According to my little brother, the Stanford is up nine to seven in the top of the eighth over Oregon State. All I know is that Lincoln Presley is winning in more ways than one.
With me.

I still like him. I still want him.
Intrigued by the unexpected possession that Lincoln Presley has over my mind, body, and soul, I have trouble breathing most of the afternoon.

“Awesomely good at baseball,” Tommy says more than once over the course of three hours.

For his part, Lincoln Presley remains focused on the game. He commands the entire field of play with his indelible presence. He doesn’t even glance up my way.

The field dust permeates the air and my psyche, obviously, but I still manage to love the way the sun lights up his dark hair whenever I get a glimpse of it sticking out from under his red and white baseball cap. I ran my fingers through his gorgeous, wavy head of hair just last night.
I’m possessed. I have to stop thinking about him. I have to stop staring at him. Stop it, Tally. Stop now.

Yet I find myself intently watching the way his leg muscles move and stretch as he winds up for another pitch or the way his fingers curve around the ball each time, just before he throws.
What the hell is wrong with me?

My heart speeds up the longer I watch him. My face gets hot, too. It’s time for a break from the spontaneous combustion that seems to be taking place inside of me. I steal a glance at my dad. He looks over at the same time and smiles wide.

“Thanks for coming today. You made Tommy’s day and mine.”

“Sure. We won’t get to do this all summer.” I frown. “I wish Mom would have come.”

“She wanted to. She’s tired today.”

“She’s tired every day.” Bitterness seeps into my voice. I look over at him with a silent apology. “Dad, is she going to be okay?”

“She’s trying. We all are. It’s hard on her—between losing your grandmother last year and Holly; it’s all been a bit much for your mom. Don’t worry. I’m keeping a close eye on her.”

“Are you?”

My dad gets this guilty look but doesn’t answer for a long while. “It’s hard on all of us, Tally. What’s happened.”

“Yes. It is.” I look unseeingly at the baseball game. My interest wanes. The catapulting emotions for this guy I just met and the upheaval in which I find myself and my life just about pulls me under.

“So,” Dad says with a little hesitation, “You
know
him, kiddo?” He subtly gestures with his right hand toward the pitcher’s mound.

Tommy.

I’m going to have to have a chat with my little brother about what we share with the parents. My dad gets one of those
worried-father-please-don’t-do-this-to-me
looks. Dad suddenly seems unsure if he really wants to know how I’ll actually answer. After all, what does
knowing him
imply? I sort of laugh when he presses his lips together and gets this vexed look. “Barely.” I shake my head side-to-side. “We met last night at Charlie Masterson’s party. He’s nice,” I add in an offhanded way and shrug a little for emphasis.

“All I care about is what
you
think,” my dad says.

“I think he’s nice.” I glance away from my dad and back toward the pitcher’s mound where Linc winds up for another perfect throw. “He’s good; isn’t he?”

“Very good. There are a ton of scouts here just to watch him pitch. He’ll be drafted in the next couple of weeks.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, still keeping my eyes on Linc as he winds up to throw again, and manage to avoid my father’s probing glance.
Bonus.

“His life’s about to change. He’ll probably play in the minor leagues for a few years, maybe less, depending upon how he does there. They’ll sign him to a huge long-term contract, provide him with a hefty signing bonus, and bring him up through the ranks. He’ll pitch at the major-league baseball level soon enough.”

A guy in front of us turns around and gets this unapologetic look for eavesdropping and says, “That’s the Giants’ scouts over there.” He points toward the North. “And that’s the Oakland A’s and even the Yankees’ scouts on the other side.”

I look around at all these avid fans that watch Lincoln Presley so intently and can almost pick out who the scouts are for myself. They hover together near the fences on either side of home plate, assessing Linc’s abilities with their speed guns and applying quiet verbal critiques to those around them, and write stuff down on their prized clip boards.

Scouts. Baseball star. Wow.

“I read that he’s going in the first round,” the guy says while still looking up at us.

“What does that mean?” I ask him.

“It means he can write his own ticket, young lady. He’ll play for the big leagues within the year. He’s got quite an arm and quite a legacy with his dad. And you
know
him?” The guy looks impressed.

“We’ve met. We’re friends.” My face gets hot again as the guy looks me over. He nods, apparently satisfied with my honesty on that front, and eventually turns his attention back to the game.

Breathe. This is getting weird.
The longer I sit here watching Linc, the weirder the whole thing gets. I sense additional scrutiny from my dad with one of his studied sidelong glances. I’m fully aware that my dad would still like to believe that I am still his innocent little girl, that I’m still ten and virtuous besides.

Yes, Dad, I know him. I slept with him just last night. I know him quite well. But really? Not at all.
I wince and take a deep breath.
Shit. What was I thinking coming here? This is all wrong.

I finally look over at him. “We’re just
friends.
” My dad breathes this little sigh of relief while I consciously hold mine as I deliver this all but blatant lie. “I’m leaving for New York in a few weeks, remember? Nothing to worry about.”

“But you’ll be careful in New York. Allaire Tremblay will be there,” he says, looking more uncertain.

“I’m always careful; and yes, she’ll be there—and Marla, too. Rob Thorn is going to NYU. Plenty of people around that I know who will watch out for me.” I’m not sure why I felt the need to add in the Rob Thorn trivia, but my dad looks relieved.

“Good,” he finally says.

Tommy returns with his third hot dog and moves in to sit between us. He takes turns staring at my dad and then me, before shrugging and devoting his attention back to the game and his hero, Lincoln Presley.

I’m surrounded now by all these rabid fans of Lincoln Presley, which proves both surprising and alarming.
They worship the guy. All of them.

I feel bad that I have really no idea what they’re talking about or can’t fully appreciate the talent they obviously see. Fans of Linc’s examine and pick apart every pitch from the way he holds the ball to the way he lets it go and as to whether the strike zone is high or low or the pitch was outside or dead-on. I’m overcome with confusion and utter amazement at the same time. I don’t know any of this stuff. I don’t have an appreciation for the game the way even my little brother does. They live and breathe this stuff.
Baseball. Stats. Runs. Walks. Errors. Wins.

Winning.

Impossible. This situation with this guy is impossible. I shouldn’t be here. This is all wrong. This is an impossible situation.

“Baseball is my focus,” he’d said last night. He’d said it almost apologetically. Now I think I get why he said it that way, as well as what he was really trying to say to me.
I don’t get involved. Baseball is my focus.
That was his warning.

My heart contracts. It seems to literally cave in on me as I splinter inside.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why did I come? Why am I still here?
I shudder with the recognition of that kind of pressure.
Lots of it. To be perfect. To be the best.

My focus is baseball.
He wasn’t kidding.

The air leaves my lungs swiftly and doesn’t seem to want to return. I’m aware enough to realize the beginnings of yet another one of these confounding panic attacks. I stand up. My dad looks at me funny.

“Gotta go. Can I have your car keys?” I ask, holding out my hand.

“Are you okay?” he asks, reaching into his coat pocket for his keys, and then drops them into my hand.

“I’m fine. I just need some…air. The dust is getting to me. I need to drink some water…soda.
Something
. I’ll meet you at the car after the game.”

Miraculously, I climb down the bleachers and through the throngs of people with relative ease. Baseball fans are an accommodating bunch—nice and thoughtful. Some guy helps me jump down from the last row of bleachers where the promised land of the hard ground shimmers just three feet away from me. His hand stays on my waist a moment too long. I pull away after thanking him without really registering his face because now I’m intent on an escape from all of this. The crowd suddenly roars with the umpire’s call of “Strike!” I glance over and watch a stream of Stanford Cardinal baseball players run across the field. I’m just about home free when I spy Lincoln Presley running straight towards me. My breath hitches at the sight of him.

Then, some tall blond calls out his name and waves. He moves off in the other direction toward her. My nemesis is tall. An Amazon. I can’t quite place her accent. Yet I stand here and crazily watch him go over to her while I semi-hide behind the bleachers and watch the two of them interact. He works his fingers through the holes in the fence that separate them and in the next moment, she’s brushing her lips along his fingers.

What the hell is this? Who is this?

I close my eyes for a few seconds trying to get air while this unexpected jealousy wends its way through me like a flame that bursts to life at the flick of a match following an inevitable trail of gasoline.
Oh. My. God. I’m jealous. At an almost visceral level. I so want to scratch her eyes out. Right now.

I take in air and open my eyes only to discover she’s still kissing his fingers through the fence. And he doesn’t seem to mind.

She’s laughing. A sexy laugh.
Holy shit.

“Nice pitching, Lincoln Presley,” she says.

Russian accent. She’s Russian. Tall. Blond. Sexy.
I’ve never felt more inadequate in my life. I turn away because I can’t watch anymore.

“Thanks for coming,” I hear Linc say.

I can’t help it; I’m turning back around and watching him study her face intently.

“Did you come by yourself?” he asks.

Did she come by herself?
An interesting, all-telling question. My mind automatically wraps around the intimation he’s going for in those few spoken words.

“Yes, of course.” She laughs.

He laughs and kind of nods. “I’ll see you after the game then.”

Whore. Manwhore. Whoreman. I hate you.

I’m pathetic. Even my silent name calling is pathetic.

I blindly make my way toward the women’s restroom. Five minutes later, I’m ensconced inside one of the stalls—locked and loaded and attempting to breathe.
Holy shit. I’m pissed. Disillusioned. Disappointed. Panicked. Unloved. Unwanted. Fucking jealous.

“Fffffuuuuuuuuuuucccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkk,” I say aloud.

“Are you all right?”

It’s the Russian bitch.

No way.

“I’m fine.” I search for a lie. I want her to leave, and I manage to take a few shallow breaths as I hear the water running and then the subsequent rattling of the paper towel dispenser. “My period started,” I lie. “Do you have a tampon by chance?”

“But of course,” she says in her sexy Russian accent.

Her slender hand appears along the edge of the bathroom stall proffering a pink wrapped tampon within the next sixty seconds.
Girl power.
I don’t feel particularly beholden to her thoughtfulness and unnecessary rescue. I can’t even explain why I just said what I did.
You’re Tally Landon; you don’t have to.

“Are you going to be okay now?” she asks.

“Yes. I’m fine. Thanks.”

I throw the tampon into the trash, flush the toilet thirty seconds later, wait another two minutes; and have to hope that she’s left. I open the door and step out.

She stands at the long mirror on the far wall, fixing her long, silky blond hair. She’s redoing her ponytail. She’s wearing all black. Jeans. Jacket. Blouse. Tight. Fitted. Designer.
How absolutely fucking fabulous is she?

“Thanks,” I say for what must the third pathetic time.

I wash my hands slowly using plenty of soap like I have time and youth on my side.
True. I do.

And yet.

I combat this sudden urge that has me putting my hands firmly around her slender neck and squeezing out her very breath until there isn’t any more. Until she is no more.
What the hell is wrong with me?

Jealous much, Tally?

No.

I can’t even breathe while I’m thinking these murderous thoughts.
What the hell is wrong with me?
My breath gets jagged. I look up in time to catch her studying me via the other mirror. She gets this almost expectant look as if I owe her my life for the gift of the tampon. I wonder how many times I’m going to have to thank her for it.

Don’t, Tally. Don’t.

Walk away.

But no.