Thrown a Curve (4 page)

“Your other option is a ride in a squad car,” he said firmly.

I spit out the words in a final plea, “But . . . I’m a girl.”

“There’s no rule against girls being on the baseball team. They’ve just never tried out before.”

“I haven’t played on a team since I was little, when I was like eight years old,” I protested.

“Listen, Taylor, relax. I saw you knock down those bottles at the carnival. You’re a natural. Tryouts start Thursday after school. I’ll let the coaches know you’re coming.”

Desperately, I asked, “What if I don’t make the team?”

“If you try your best at tryouts, and they cut you, then we’ll come up with a new plan.”

I sat there, dumbfounded. The bell rang for third period.

“Hurry along now, so you won’t miss any more class time,” Mr. Sacamore said, ushering me to the door. “Remember, Thursday, after school, in the gym. I’ll be watching.”

I walked slowly back to class. I felt numb from what had just happened. I guessed I should be happy I wasn’t going to the slammer for the rest of my high school years . . . but
baseball
?

For the past six years, I’d tried so hard to not think about baseball. When my dad or brothers watched games on TV, I avoided the family room. And I never went to any of Danny’s Little League games. Heck, I even pretended I had cramps when it was baseball day in gym class. Now, this whacked-out guidance counselor wanted me to play. What a sick, twisted turn of events!

I entered third period five minutes late.

“Taylor, do you have a pass?” Ms. Clark asked as I walked slowly to my seat.

“No, I was in the office,” I answered.

“If you cannot produce a pass, I will see you after school,”
she said in a matter-of-fact, case-closed kind of voice. She turned back to the class. “Let’s open up to page nineteen in our novel.”

Great. An after-school detention—just what I needed with all my problems.

After lunch, I snuck out the back door of the school while everyone else was heading to the afternoon pep rally. I had to figure out what to do about this baseball thing. I couldn’t play, could I? I mean, baseball was the only thing that ever made me happy, but playing now would be like letting my dad off the hook for what he’d said. By not playing, I figured, I’d be punishing him. I never told him I stopped playing to hurt him, though, and he probably wasn’t hurt anyway. He was most likely thrilled that I quit. So the only person I’d be punishing was myself. I was in a daze by the time I pushed open my front door.

After school that day, Justin stopped by my house. He found me lying like a slug in front of an afternoon talk show.

“You actually watch this crap?” he asked.

“I’m not really watching,” I said. “I’m trying to slip into a coma so I never have to go back to school again.”

“What happened second period? I saw Horner taking you out of Algebra.” Justin pushed my feet off the couch so he could sit down. “Did he know about the windows? Are you suspended?”

“Horner didn’t know anything. But Mr. Sacamore saw the
whole thing.”

“That sucks,” he said, shaking his head. “What are they going to do to you?”

“Well, Sacamore said he wouldn’t report me to the cops—”

“Oh, that’s good.”

“On two conditions.”

“What?”

“That I meet with him every Friday . . . and that I try out for the baseball team,” I said quietly and a bit embarrassed.

Justin laughed. “The baseball team?” he said. “Now, that’s rich.”

“I’m glad you think it’s so funny.”

Still chuckling, he said, “It’s not funny, Taylor, it’s just . . . well, most people would be happy they weren’t suspended or arrested. You’re moping around here when you should be celebrating about how easy you got off. Typical Taylor—seeing only the dark side of things.”

“It’s not easy, Justin,” I yelled. “You don’t understand about me and baseball. It’s not easy for me to just pick up a baseball and start playing again.” I was close to tears.

“So, you’re out of practice. You can brush up after a little time playing.”

“I don’t want to play!” I screamed. “I hate the game, and I’m not doing it!”

“Why, T? What’s the big deal?”

I was getting more and more upset. “You don’t understand,
okay?” I was practically screaming at my best friend.

He moved closer to me and put a light hand on my arm, trying to calm me down. Suddenly, I felt strangely weak and female, and pulled my arm away nervously.

“So, explain it to me, then,” he said. “From what I remember, you’re pretty good. You played when we were kids and—”

“Forget it,” I said, heading toward the staircase. “I’m going to lie down. I feel sick to my stomach.” I began to go up the stairs. “I’m not playing. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Taylor, I don’t think you really have a choice,” he said, sounding concerned. “Sacamore handed you a gift with this, so accept it. I mean, really . . . consider the alternative.”

I didn’t answer him, but I did consider the alternative, which would make life with Dad even worse, if that was possible.

Justin watched me walk up the stairs before letting himself out.

T
he next few days were total torture for me. All I could think about were the tryouts on Thursday. I couldn’t sleep or eat. I couldn’t decide if I should blow the tryouts or actually try to pitch my best. Would Sacamore know if I wasn’t trying? He
did
see me throw at the carnival.

I didn’t want to play, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of the coaches and students. Being on a team again wouldn’t be too bad—it forced people to kind of be friends with you—but Rick would probably make sure no one talked to me.

By late Wednesday night, I still hadn’t made a decision. I was wandering around the kitchen about ten o’clock, and my dad, as usual, was in the den reading. I munched on a piece of bread with peanut butter and stood outside the room, silently watching.

Dad always looked tired. In fact, I almost never saw him sleeping. He was up in the morning before me, and stayed up late into the night. I wasn’t sure if he slept at all. He probably wasn’t even human.

Dad was sitting at his desk with his reading glasses on the tip of his nose. He was forty-five years old, and he still had a full head of hair, but it was almost all gray, with only a few streaks
of brown left. To me, he looked cold and mean—and he was. No matter what good things I did, nothing was good enough for him. Maybe this time he would be impressed with me. Baseball was the one thing he actually seemed to enjoy.

“Hi, Dad,” I said, walking into the den.

“You still up?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the book.

“I can’t sleep.”

“Uh-huh,” he mumbled.

A few moments passed, and I could tell he wasn’t going to ask me why I couldn’t sleep. I figured I had to tell him about the tryouts, in case I ended up playing on the team or dying from humiliation.

“I’m trying out for the baseball team tomorrow,” I said quietly. “Pitcher.”

Still engrossed in his reading, he said, “Don’t be silly, Taylor. It’s late. Go to bed.”

“But Dad, I’m serious. I—”

“Taylor, it’s late. I have a lot to finish here.”

Throwing my hands up in frustration and slumping up the stairs, I went into my room and sat down in front of the mirror. I stared at my long, stringy brown hair. Dad never listened to me. He never said anything when I got good grades. He never said anything when I cleaned around the house. He never hugged me goodnight. He didn’t care if I played baseball.

I reached into my top desk drawer and pulled out the scissors. I began chopping off chunks of my hair—big chunks. He cared when my brothers played. More hair fell to the floor. Hot
tears streaked down my face. He didn’t love me. No one even cared that I was alive.

By this time, my hair was sticking out in every direction, like a punk weirdo’s. Oh well, I had to wear a baseball cap anyway. I suddenly felt exhausted as I stared at my mowed hair in the mirror. But I felt better. For some reason, I fell asleep that night as soon as my head hit the pillow.

Thursday morning, I got up early and stuffed some gym stuff in my book bag. I didn’t own a baseball glove, so I slipped into Brian’s old room to find one. He was a freshman in college now, and Dad kept his room the way he’d left it. Brian came home only on the holidays, mostly to add to the laundry piles. Brian didn’t play ball any more, which I thought made Dad mad. I peeked under the bed—nothing but dust bunnies.

I headed for the closet and opened the door, smelling the musty leather. I dug through the dingy sneakers and crumpled baseball cards. At the bottom of the mess, I unburied an old glove. It was as flat as a pancake and faded with age, but I picked it up and held it like it was a priceless vase. I slipped it onto my left hand and felt the soft bumps of the worn leather inside.
This will do,
I thought as I slammed my right hand into the glove’s pocket.

I hurried down to the kitchen and grabbed a cereal bar from the cabinet. At the counter, my younger brother Danny was eating a large bowl of fruity cereal while Dad sipped coffee and looked out the kitchen window.

Danny stared at me, his mouth wide open. “Taylor, your hair
is crazy!”

Dad turned his head to look at me.

Laughing, I said, “Yeah, Danny, maybe I could borrow one of your baseball hats.”

“I don’t know if that’s gonna help,” he said, “but I’ll get you one.” He scooted off his chair and loped toward the hall closet. Danny was always able to smile through anything. He didn’t know Dad hated me, and I never had the heart to tell him. Dad was his hero, and sometimes I thought I was the second person he worshipped. Now that Brian was out of the house, everything I did was the coolest. My biggest fan was a ten-year-old kid.

Dad took a long look at me. He reached into his pocket and handed me a few bills. “For lunch . . . and a little something extra for a new hat,” he said, shaking his head as he walked into the den.

I smiled as I looked at the money. At least he noticed. “Forget the hat, Danny. I’ll buy my own,” I yelled, running out the back door.

I hurried toward town so I could buy a new hat before school started. Along the way, people gave me some odd looks. I must’ve looked insane. I shuffled into the Sports Depot store that had just opened. I stood in front of the wall of baseball hats, trying to decide which one to buy. I’d never been a fan of one team in particular, though my dad and brothers were hardcore Yankees fans. I moved along the wall. Tigers? Giants? There were also hats with silly pictures and phrases, like “Number One,” and “Over the Hill.” Then I saw it—the perfect one for me.
I reached up, pulled the pink hat from the wall, and took it to the register.

“Would you like a bag?” the cashier asked.

“Nope, I’m gonna wear it,” I answered, pointing to my hair and making the man smile and nod.

I bent the brim, folded the hat in half a couple times, plopped it on my head, and walked toward school. On the way, I passed a couple of fourth graders. They pointed to my hat and read the logo aloud, “Girls Rule.”

When I got to school, Justin was waiting for me at my locker. I took off the baseball cap and shook my head.