Thrown a Curve (16 page)

He looked confused. “It’s not?” he said.

“No. I guess I was just preoccupied with baseball and my dad and getting suspended and all that stuff, and I kind of forgot to tell you how I was feeling.”

“So how
were
you feeling?”

“Uh, I was feeling good. Happy, I guess. That day, after I hit Stacy and you told me all those things on the bleachers, I was freaked out, but in a good way.”

“But you never talked to me after that,” Justin said. “It was like you wanted to pretend it didn’t happen or something.”

“No, that’s not it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I didn’t know how to react . . . I’ve never had anyone like me before.”

“Come on, Taylor.”

“Seriously.” I hesitated. “No one ever kissed me before,” I said.

“That was your first kiss?” he asked, shocked.

I shrugged, slid onto the floor, and leaned against the bed. I felt stupid and immature. “Justin, you’ve known me since I was five. You ever seen any guys around?”

“I just figured . . .”

“Figured what?”

He slouched down next to me on the floor. “You seemed so good at it, I figured you must have done it before.”

“Don’t mock me,” I said.

He touched my hand and ran his finger up my arm and back down again. “Seriously, that kiss made me feel drugged-up for the rest of the day,” he said.

It sounded like a better rush than baseball. I touched his face, and he pulled me closer. This time, I kissed him first, and he kissed me back. Then Justin said, “So if I tell Tommy you’re my girlfriend now, that would be okay?”

“Yeah, that’s okay with me.”

We sat there together until it grew dark outside and my bedside lamp gave the room a soft yellow glow. We talked a little bit, but mostly we just sat there, wrapping our fingers together and kissing quietly. Eventually, I heard footsteps on the stairs, and we quickly widened the gap between us.

Brian knocked and stuck his head in. “Hey, Taylor, it’s like 10:30. Maybe Justin should go home. It’s getting late,” he said
in his best Dad imitation. Justin stood up.

“I’ll walk you out,” I said.

Brian made a funny face at me as I followed Justin out of my room. As we descended the stairs, Brian loudly blurted out, “Oh, I get it. You guys are like girlfriend-boyfriend now?”

God, he was such a jerk. Justin laughed and opened the front door.

“Bye, Brian,” he said, starting down the sidewalk. “See you later, T.”

“Bye, sweetie!” Brian yelled, cracking himself up. I gave Brian a good whack in the arm, but I was in such a good mood, I laughed too.

So now I was done with Justin. Well, not
done,
but fixed. Fixed baseball, fixed Stacy, fixed Justin. One thing left.

Later that night, I was lying in bed, unable to sleep. I pulled on my sweatshirt and wandered downstairs. I heard the TV on in the family room, and I saw the back of Brian’s head on the couch. I stood quietly for a minute, making sure Lori wasn’t around. I didn’t see her, so I took a step closer. What was he watching? It looked like a home video. Brian still didn’t know I was behind him. I continued to watch the TV screen. It looked like our backyard. People were waving at the camera, and Dad was standing by the grill. Wow, he looked a lot younger then. And then I saw her—my mother.

“Is that Mom?” I blurted out.

Brian’s head whipped around. “Jesus, Taylor! You scared the crap out of me. How long’ve you been standing there?”

“Just a second,” I answered. “So is it?”

“Is it what?”

“Mom?” I said softly.

He nodded. “Yeah. I think it was like my seventh birthday. I found it in the basement. Weird, huh?”

I sat down and stared at the TV, mesmerized by her. She was handing Brian presents and clapping as he unwrapped them. I saw myself, sitting in a little plastic chair. I was probably three at the time. The video was so jumpy, it made me dizzy to watch after a while.

“You remember her, Bri?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“You miss her?”

He shrugged. “Not any more. It’s been like nine years.”

“I don’t remember her,” I said.

“Hey, you were only five or something,” he said.

“Did Dad ever tell you why she left or where she went?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “A year or so after she left, I found a letter postmarked from France, but I don’t know . . .” He paused and scratched his head. “I guess you’re old enough now to know why she left.”

“You know?”

“Yeah, but Dad doesn’t know I know.”

I waited and then said, “Well?”

“Well, I read that letter. I guess I was ten or so when I found it. I was snooping around Dad’s desk. I don’t know why he kept
it. It was from Mom, saying she was sorry, but she was in love with Robert and planning to marry him.”

“She was cheating on Dad?”

Brian nodded. “It sounded like it had been going on for a long time.”

I thought about what Brian had just said. I wasn’t angry or surprised, really. I figured Mom was with someone else by now. And I didn’t really know her anyway, so it wasn’t that big a deal. I felt bad for Brian, though, because he seemed bugged by it. It also explained why Dad hated when I played ball. I reminded him of her, and he probably hated her for cheating on him.

I looked at Brian and said, “Bri, do you ever feel like Dad doesn’t like me?”

He laughed. “Are you kidding? I know he likes you.
I’m
the one he hates.”

I was shocked. “What? You’re his favorite. He went to all your baseball games, coached your team . . .”

“Yeah, but I didn’t like playing, so I quit, and he’s been pissed ever since.”

“He never said that,” I said.

“But I know that’s what he’s thinking.”

“Don’t assume that. I think he’s really proud of you.”

“Maybe,” Brian said and shrugged. “You should get to bed.”

“OK.” I got up and headed for the stairs.

“And remember, this stuff about Mom is just between you and me.”

“I won’t say a thing. Night, Bri,” I said.

“Night, T.”

D
ad came home the following day. The doctor had told him to “take it easy,” but I wasn’t sure if Dad knew how to do that. He was used to rushing around all the time and working late every night. I was worried he wouldn’t be able to rest.

Brian set Dad up on the couch in the living room. He pulled the coffee table next to the couch and placed the remote and a glass of water on the table. Dad lay down, propped himself up on a few pillows, and flicked on the TV.

“Okay, Pop, you’re all set,” Brian said. “You need anything before I take off?”

Dad shook his head. “No, Bri, you get back to school. Thanks for watching the kids.”

“No problem,” Brian said, placing the phone on the coffee table. “If you need anything, call me.”

“Sure thing,” said Dad. “Get going.”

Brian gave him a side hug and headed toward me in the kitchen. “You’re in charge, Taylor,” he whispered. “Call me if you need me.” I sat at the kitchen table and stared at the back of my father’s head for a while. I wasn’t sure what to do, being in charge and all. I went to the cabinet, pulled out some crackers, cut up some cheese, and placed the cheese and crackers on a plate, which I carried quietly into the family room and put on the
table next to the water. Dad’s eyes were open, and he smiled. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he said.

There it was again—“sweetheart.” Maybe the concussion had affected his brain, and he suddenly thought he liked me. Having switched channels, he was now watching the ball game—Yankees vs. Red Sox. I turned to leave, but then thought,
What the heck,
and sat down at the end of the couch, next to his feet. It was a Yankees–Red Sox game, after all.

“What’s the score?” I asked.

“Two to one Yanks,” he answered. “Eighth inning.”

The first batter swung and missed. “Ooh, nice curveball,” I said without thinking. My dad looked impressed.

“Listen to you, Miss Baseball.
Nice curve,
” he said and laughed.

I perked up. “Well, it was,” I said.

“Okay, smarty. Let’s see if you can tell me the next pitch.”

“All right.” I stared at the screen. “Heater,” I said proudly. “Too high, though.”

“I agree,” he said, then was quiet for a while. “How’s your fastball these days?”

I was shocked. My father had just asked me about my pitching. I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Well?” he asked, waiting.

“It needs more heat, actually, but my coach says my curve is a killer.”

And that’s how it happened. For the first time in years, my father began to talk to me. We sat there watching the game and
talking about baseball. I told him about tryouts and my shutout. He told me about the first time he’d ever gone to Yankee Stadium for a game. It didn’t matter to me what we were talking about, though. It just mattered that we were talking. In my fourteen years on earth, it was probably the best day of my life.

After the game ended, he shut off the TV and pulled himself up to a sitting position on the couch. He looked very serious and nervous.

“Taylor, I think I owe you an apology for the last few years.”

I was so afraid of ruining a good day, I said, “Dad, you don’t have to—”

“Yes, yes I do,” he said, waving a hand at me. “The other night after the barbecue, you tried to talk to me, and I brushed you off. I’ve been a pretty crappy father, and I want to explain. So just let me do this, okay?”

I nodded. “Okay, go ahead.” I felt like I was Sacamore for a minute.

He rubbed his eyes and sighed deeply. “You know that picture of your mother? The one you found in my closet?”

“Uh-huh,” I answered.

“Well, that’s how we met. She was playing on the softball team at school, and I was on the baseball team. Back then, even a girl who played as well as your mom wouldn’t try to play with the boys. She’d probably be really proud of you if she knew what you were doing,” he said, smiling at me.

I felt a heavy weight on my chest, and I had to hold back the tears.

“In any case, I guess every time I look at you, I see your mother. You walk like her. When you’re upset or angry with me, you make the same faces. And you definitely throw a baseball like she did.” He laughed. “Except, it seems like you throw twice as fast as she did. Anyway, when I was lying in that hospital bed all alone, all I could think about was that I might die without ever making things right with you.”

Now I was crying. Dad shifted on the couch and repositioned his broken arm. “I guess I just thought if I could make you into one of those girlie type daughters who liked to wear dresses and paint her fingernails, it would erase some of your mother from my life. But, the funny thing is, you found baseball yourself, even though I tried to keep you away from it. Or maybe baseball found you.”

I wiped my eyes and sniffed. “Yeah, it did. Even though I tried to ignore it, it always came up somehow.” I thought about how being angry with my dad had caused me to throw bricks through the school windows, which, in a strange turn of events, led to my winning a spot on the team.

“Dad, I think I should come clean with you about playing on the team this year.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t know if Mom would exactly be proud of me. You see, I was forced to try out for the team by Mr. Sacamore, the guidance counselor.”

“I thought you started talking to him after you made the team, when you got into that fight,” he said, squinting.

I shook my head. “Actually, I started sessions with him after I, uh, sort of got drunk and threw some bricks through the school windows,” I said. I hung my head and bit my lower lip, waiting for him to yell.

“Whoa,” he said, surprised. “I guess I really
have had
my head in the sand.”

I couldn’t believe he didn’t yell. “Dad, how many of those pain killers did you take?”

“Lucky for you, probably one too many.”

We both smiled at each other.

Then Dad said, “Maybe, after I heal up, I should talk to Mr. Sacamore with you. I never knew you were doing things like that. I can’t have my little girl drinking. You know that’s a bad choice, right?”

“I do now,” I said.
Boy, do I ever.

“Is there anything else I missed that I should know about?”

“Um, well, Justin is kind of my boyfriend now,” I said shyly.

He shook his head. “Okay, that’s enough talking for one day. In my fragile condition, I don’t think I can handle the thought of you and boys.” He pulled the blanket over his head, pretending to faint.

“Dad,” I said, nudging him, “are you okay?”

He pulled the blanket back down and smiled. “I guess I’ll survive.”

Just then, Danny came bounding through the back door. Dad winked at me. “Why don’t you go order a pizza?” he said.

“How about Chinese instead?” I suggested.

“Sounds good to me,” he said.