Throwing Like a Girl (9 page)

“You met Rocky?” As if she’s some sort of celebrity.

“She picks up her sister and brothers at the same time my mom picks me up. She told me she watches practice from the library while she waits to drive everybody home.”

“She watches practice from the libes?” Frannie asks.

“That’s kind of sad,” Mo says.

“What’s sad is her brother,” Frannie counters. “He’s the cutest guy. The best football player we’d had in years. College scouts came to see him play. And then he blew out his knee at homecoming. Supposedly a doctor told him he’d never play football again. So, he didn’t go to college. He got a job with Mr. O’Hara, who’s a security guard in some fancy hotel downtown. And that’s it. He still lives at home. He still doesn’t help out Rocky. Nothing. She’s stuck.”

I just sit there and try to take it in. I can’t finish my yogurt. I can’t even look at my chocolate chip cookie.

And then Rocky appears at our table. It’s shocking really. We’re stunned into silence.

“Hey,” she says to us, then to me, “Did you talk to your mom?”

“Yeah. She’s thrilled she doesn’t have to pick me up anymore.”

Rocky smiles. “Good. I’ll see you around five forty-five?”

“Sure.”

“Bye.” Rocky nods. Mo says, “She’s so nice.”

“Totally,” Frannie adds.

I’m excited and nervous about softball the whole day. During Behavioral Science someone tells Mr. Dominick that Nate is absent today, and I’d been so distracted by softball I hardly even noticed!

I realize that reading a lineup (with only nine players) and scrimmaging isn’t a huge deal, but it’s the first time I’ve ever played a real game, and I want to be good. I want to understand every position and where you’re supposed to be on the field. I want to be able to read a batter, which is something Coach mentioned yesterday, and people nodded their heads, and I had no idea what she was talking about. I need to remember to look that up online tonight.

Mostly, I want to hit the ball and get on base. I want to learn to slide. I want to cross home plate and have the whole team high-five me. And I want to throw like a girl. A
real
girl.

Coach reads two lineups. The
good
lineup is on the field, and Coach is barking instructions at them. They seem pumped and confident. The rest of us kick around in the dirt, waiting to hear what we’re supposed to do and gazing at the bats leaning against the fence.

“Okay,” Coach says when she finally comes over to us, the leftovers. “Y’all are up. Everyone will bat. And then we’ll put you out in the field for one rotation. To make things go a little faster, each batter gets three pitches. Kat’s catching; she’ll make the calls. If the three pitches are balls, then you walk. But if one’s good, you swing away. I’ll be coaching from first. We won’t work on signs or anything today. Just hit the ball.”

I swear she’s talking so fast I hardly understand anything she says. And worse than that, Sally Fontineau is also on the bad squad, or as Frannie has nicknamed us already, the Bod Squad.

I’m up third. LeaAnne LaRusso (a ninth grader) explains to me that it’s because I’m playing first base and we’re going in order of positions—pitcher, catcher, first—not ability.

“Thanks, LeaAnne,” I say, trying not to sound sarcastic.

Gwen Arden, Sally’s gal pal, is pitching. She’s pretty good
actually, and after two foul tips, she strikes out Jenny Yin, and everyone on the field cheers.

This sucks
.

LeaAnne catches for our team, so she’s up next. She’s pretty good. If Kat weren’t the best player on the team, LeaAnne might have a shot at starting catcher. But what do I know?

She swings at the first pitch. I’m watching her feet dig a place for themselves at the plate. She holds her right elbow up high, and even though her stance looks funny, she hits it over Virginia Dalmeyer’s head. It’s not a really hard hit, but it gets her to first. Virginia’s playing short but, according to Frannie, that was Rocky’s position and Virginia’s better at third.

Anyway, blah blah. I’m up next and everyone’s watching me. Why did I want to play this stupid sport? It’s supposedly a team sport, but really it’s one more opportunity for everyone to stare at the new girl from Chicago who has never played softball before.
Totally humiliating
.

I try to remember what LeaAnne did. Since I’m a lefty, I have to do everything opposite, but I manage to do it. I stand there trying to stare down Gwen, when LeaAnne yells, “Come on, Ella!”

It’s as if the sky opened up and the gods shoved a big old spike of adrenaline into my heart. I have to scowl on purpose so I don’t smile. I want to yell thank you to LeaAnne, but suddenly the first pitch goes flying past me and slams into Kat’s glove.

Kat rises from her squat and tosses the ball back to Gwen so effortlessly that I have to look at her. She grins through her catcher’s mask. “Nice and easy, Ella,” she says. “Don’t take your eye off that ball.”

Did she say something to me?

I do exactly what she says. I watch the ball as hard as I can:
from Gwen’s glove to the swing of her arm—down, around, then forward again. The ball snaps out of her hand and comes at me fast, but it’s slower in my head. I see it. I think,
It’s low, but I can hit it
. I swing and smack.
That felt so good
. It goes right past Julie Meyers, who plays first base and doesn’t seem to want it as much as I do. She comes completely off the bag to try to chase it down while LeaAnne runs to second—
safe
—and I run through first,
safe
.

I did it! It wasn’t beautiful. It didn’t sound great, but I did it. I hit the ball and got on base.

How hard is that? Not very.

LeaAnne claps for me. Coach, standing beside me at first base, says, “Good job, Ella.”

Even the construction workers up on their perch cheer.

This is so fun. I LOVE SOFTBALL!

We go through our whole rotation and get two runs: LeaAnne the first, Mo the second. We’re very proud, jumping around and laughing. I don’t even care that Sally’s the only one not celebrating. It’s obvious she’s the one who doesn’t fit in. Even the starters tell us we did well.

In the field I play first base. Coach tells me where to stand and how to position myself when I’m waiting for a throw from third or short, left foot against the bag and right arm extended. The good lineup gets a lot of runs, though. Almost everyone gets on base, and the one fly ball that’s catchable is a pop-up that I drop.

There are so many ups and downs in sports.

At the end of practice, Coach runs us hard. She sits on the bleachers blowing her whistle, scribbling on her clipboard. I’m almost hating her right about now.

And then this truck, a small white flower-shop truck, parks right where Sally parked that first day. A guy in uniform gets out
holding a bouquet of yellow roses. He walks toward the bleachers while we’re still supposed to be sprinting in shifts on the field. But because Coach is distracted by the delivery man, she forgets to blow the whistle for the next shift, so we stop to breathe and watch as the guy gives her the flowers. We’re gulping air when she pulls the little card out and reads it.

After she does, she looks up at the Peyton Plastics building, where all the construction workers have gotten to their feet, taken off their hard hats, and stepped back a few paces to let one of their own come through. It’s hard to see from here, but I’m pretty sure the guy that walks forward and takes a bow is Mack Elliot. And her reaction confirms it. She nods back and turns away so he can’t see her smile, as if he could from that far away.

“Okay, girls, go home. Have a nice weekend. Stay out of trouble,” she tells us.

Back in the locker room, Frannie and Mo invite me to a pep rally that’s later tonight.

“For…the football team?” I ask, confused.

“No, that would be
every
Friday during school hours in the fall,” Frannie says, pretending to be shocked by my lack of knowledge. “This is the tiny
one
they have for boys’ soccer. Once a spring. But it is in the football stadium, if that’s any consolation.”

In Chicago, boys’ and girls’ soccer is played in the fall, and there aren’t any pep rallies.

“We’ll pick you up at seven?” Mo offers.

“Sounds great!” I exclaim, excited to have plans on a Friday night. I wonder if Nate will be there, but don’t ask.

I grab my stuff in the locker room and race out to the lower
school, where I see Rocky’s little brothers waiting. I wonder if I should say something, introduce myself. But they take care of it for me.

“Hi, I’m Thomas,” the older one says.

“I’m Ella. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Mikey. I’m eight.”

“Hi, Mikey.”

“Rocky says you play softball. Are you as good as her?”

“Not from what I’ve heard.”

Their car swings around the loop and screeches to a halt in front of us.

“Cheese, you’re gonna kill somebody,” Theresa says from the front seat. She opens the door, climbs out, and gets in back grumpily.

“Nice hit out there today,” Rocky says as I get in.

“Thanks.” Then I turn to Theresa. “Are you sure you want to sit back there? I wouldn’t mind.”

“Whatever,” she says, without looking at me.

“Theresa’s cranky because she doesn’t get her license for two years. Just ignore her.”

We drive for a little while, and I give Rocky directions. But then there’s a whole long stretch where she talks about practice. About the mistakes and the weaknesses. About how I can improve my hitting, catching, and throwing.

“I’m sure the coach would really appreciate your input,” Theresa grumbles from the back.

I realize that I probably
could
use some help, even though it’s hard to hear the bad stuff.

Rocky glances at me and smiles. “I don’t mean to get all preachy.”

“No, I’d love a personal coach.”

When Rocky drops me off, Theresa gets out again and climbs in front. She doesn’t even look at me, but it’s hard not to stare at her because, even frowning, she’s so pretty.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Sure,” Rocky says.

“See you Monday.”

I practically dance through the front door.

My mother is verbally trying to force a taco salad from my plate to my mouth. I keep telling her I’m not hungry. But we’re both so excited I’ve been invited somewhere that she abandons the fight to get me to eat, and I abandon my wrath at being forced. Standing before the fridge in bare feet and wet hair, I drink a glass of milk and grab a handful of carrots to make her happy. I don’t tell her about tomorrow morning’s Safeway rendezvous for the Marriage Project—which she’ll call a date. I have to focus on one thing at a time: what to wear to the pep rally.

The few weeks I’ve been here I’ve watched carefully the clothes kids wear to school, but I have no experience with the après-school attire. I call Christine’s cell for help and leave a message. I call Jen, who’s in the middle of an argument with her mom, and she says she’ll call back. But time is of the essence. Amy’s not much of a clotheshorse, so I skip her, and call my sister Beck in Boston. She’s eating pizza with friends and puts me on speakerphone. Not the kindest moment in the history of sisterhood.

“Beck, I’m serious. I need to look casual and cool. But I don’t want to stand out in any way.”

Laughter erupts and I can do nothing but wait for her reply.
I’m desperate.

“Jeans and my old light blue tie-dyed shirt.”

“Not tie-dye,” someone groans in the background.

“It’s a subtle tie-dye, just blue and white,” Beck defends. And then to me, in a quieter voice off speaker, “That shirt looks really good on you. It’s skimpy and faded and shows off your body. Seriously, it’s perfect.”

I’m momentarily shaken by the compliment. This is rare for us. But I take her advice.

When I come downstairs my mother glances at the outfit but doesn’t comment. Dad hasn’t gotten back from work yet and I’m watching the clock, hoping Mo gets here before he does.

“Beck recommended I wear this,” I say.

I’m not asking her opinion and it’s clear she understands that, when she says, “No later than ten thirty tonight.”