What Remains (13 page)

I hear what he's saying, I really do. I just don't know that I actually want to do it. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course,” he says, already working on something else. “See you on Tuesday.”

Seventeen

Reynolds' list is a lot harder than it sounds.

I keep taking out pieces of yellow lined paper like the ones I used to use to write down my baseball career options, and stare at them, willing the words to appear.

I try to catalog the times when I think Lizzie's heart is pounding because she's reacting to something. And I write down the crazy dreams that are definitely not mine. I even force myself to describe the flicker of feelings that go through me when Spencer and I are just hanging out.

But I feel stupid. Even though no one has seen the list, it makes me feel self-conscious. There are a whole lot of balled-up pieces of yellow paper in the garbage can next to my desk from lists I've started and destroyed. And there are a bunch of ashes in the can from the earlier pieces of yellow paper that I've already burned. The last thing I need is my mom reading what I've written. Or Spencer finding them.

It's much easier to blow off the lists and focus on Saturday and the weather. The forecast is 65 degrees and sunny with light winds blowing from behind the plate. That's perfect weather for baseball in a part of the country that could just as easily see snow in April.

The team will practice inside if the weather turns bad, but I don't want to sit inside the stuffy gym. I want to be on the field, smelling the freshly cut grass and feeling the sun on my skin. I don't want to watch everyone run laps inside. I want to hear the sound the ball makes when it hits the glove. I want to hear the crack of the bat.

I'm too keyed up to sleep much on Friday night. I stay quiet, though, because I don't want Mom to know I'm awake or she'll decide that I'm getting too excited and make me come home after my appointment at the hospital. She doesn't get that it's a good thing; that even though I won't be playing, the thought of standing on a baseball diamond energizes me.

I get to the field early on Saturday because Mom drops me off after my checkup. The doctor is still happy and says I can kick up my exercises, which is great because the meds are making me bloated and even the thought of running makes me feel light and free.

I'm so early there are only two cars in the lot. One
I
know is Coach Byrne's, but I don't recognize the other
one, which is a small blue convertible. I wander over to the field and find Coach sitting in the bleachers. He's sorting through line-up cards filled with player stats and projections against the standout pitchers in our league.

I'm way happier than I should be to see these lists of names and numbers. It's probably strange to love trying to make the numbers come out in our favor almost as much as I love playing. I pick up the first card in his stack and convince him to move a couple of the guys around in the batting order. I know the pitcher we'll probably be facing for our first game and he has a crazy screwball that some of our usual guys are going to try to slam. They're going to fail miserably.

While he's filling in his sheets, I watch the grass move in the breeze. It feels like summer and home and while I want to be out there playing, I'm grateful to be here at all.

“This is the best decision I've ever made,” I say to Coach without tearing my eyes from the field.

“Good thing you're young. You have time to make even better ones,” says a girl behind me.

I turn around and realize that after all of this time, I'm somehow having a conversation with Ally Martin.

She's wearing slightly faded jeans with a long-sleeved white T-shirt and a Central Warriors baseball cap over her long hair, which she's pulled back. I have a freaky flashback to one of the Ally/baseball dreams I haven't had in so long and then stand there without a coherent thought running through my head. I literally have nothing. For her part, she's smiling, but there's a challenge in her eyes. I think she knows how much this is bugging me out.

Finally Coach looks up and says, “Oh, not sure if you two know each other. Cal Ryan. Ally Martin. Ally is our official scorekeeper this season. I wanted her to get a little practice in too.” Coach is calm, like he can't tell that worlds have just collided in front of me.

“Scorekeeper?” I ask, like I've never heard the concept before.

Ally sits down next to me and puts her feet up on the row of the bleachers in front of us. “Yup. Coach needed someone and I've got experience, so here I am.”

My brain is being pulled in two because I couldn't ask for anything better—if more distracting—than to have baseball and Ally at the same time. But I can't imagine what experience she could have. The official scorekeeper spot always has a million people applying for it since they actually have a certain amount of power in a game. They determine what's an error and what's a hit. They keep all the stats. I have no idea how Coach is possibly going to teach her everything before the season opens. I realize it's my turn to speak, but I'm not sure if I should be worrying about talking to her because I've wanted to for so long or worrying about her being our scorekeeper.

“Stop looking so terrified, Cal,” she laughs. “You know my dad coaches the Central College Warriors, right? I've been doing this for their team the last few years.”

Her dad coaches the best private college baseball team in the state. How the hell did I not know that? I know a million useless things about her. I know what her favorite flavor of yogurt is. I know what bands she likes, and what books she reads. I don't know how I managed to miss this.

I replay the sound of her saying my name. I'm having one of those moments that I want to capture so I inhale
and try to hold it in, the bright sun, this freshly mowed
grass, and the faint smell of vanilla.

I don't really know what my face looks like when I do this, but Ally, who amazingly is sitting next to me and speaking to me, puts her hand on my shoulder, where it feels like it burns a delicious hole through my shirt.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“I'm fine,” I say. “Never been better.” And it isn't really a lie.

She has an easy laugh and it kind of explodes out of her. “Oh, good. So who's filling in for you at short?”

My stomach twists. “Dillard, I guess.” Coach nods distractedly in agreement. Suddenly I wonder if there's any way I could talk Coach into letting me play. I want Ally to see what I can do on the field. I want her to see me as more than just heart transplant boy who has to sit on the sidelines.

And then I remember the conversation I overhead in the hallway. She's probably doing this to spend more time with Dillard. But before I have time to torment myself with that thought, she utters the most amazing words I've ever heard.

“Justin has a nice swing, but he doesn't have your hands.”

I look down at my hands, which are holding the line-up sheets and shaking from adrenaline and nerves. It's like I'm seeing them for the first time.

“You've seen me play?” I ask. And then wish I could take it back because I'm sounding like an insecure suck-up.

“Of course. I've come to most of the games.”

It's the strangest thing to be having a conversation with her. All the fear that's been built up over the past year sits like a hard ball in my stomach, but somehow, I'm able to push through it. It baffles me how I could have possibly missed seeing her at our games. Probably for the best. I can't imagine that knowing she was there would have helped my batting average.

I want to ask her about whether she and Dillard are together, but the team starts to gather. Everyone comes up and pats me on the shoulder and says how glad they are to have me back and hopes I'm doing well and all of that. For a minute I don't mind being the center of attention.

I catch Dillard staring at Ally. He looks like he wants to eat her for lunch.

Finally, Coach stands up and tells everyone to shut up. “Okay, everybody, welcome to spring. This is where you get to redeem yourselves for that poor excuse for an opener last week. So let's see ten laps and then we're going to try some fielding drills.” There's general mumbling and grumbling, but everyone picks themselves up and heads down to the field.

“Coach, is it okay if I join in?” I ask. I'd wanted to run with the team anyhow and now I've got so much energy racing through me that I feel like I need to burn it off just to function.

Coach gives me the once-over and then nods. “Go. But don't overdo it. And I mean that,” he says, sounding way too much like my mom.

I start down the bleachers and hear, “Hey, wait up.” When I turn around, Ally is following me.

Of course I stop and wait for her. She takes off her shoes. My jaw drops as she unbuttons her jeans and starts sliding them off, revealing a tight pair of black running shorts. I wonder how I'm possibly going to be able to get through this. I'm suddenly so turned on I'm not sure I can walk much less run. It's like the blood in my body isn't even sure where it needs to be. It's just scattered as far from my brain as it can get.

Lizzie's laughter circles around me—of course she'd be loving this—until I turn away from Ally and focus on taking long, slow breaths while I stretch out.

“Meet you out there,” Ally calls over her shoulder.

I stop mid-stretch and watch her as she slips back into her shoes. I'm amazed at this day. Amazed at how lucky I feel in spite of everything.

The team flies by us, but I don't care. For the first couple of laps, Ally and I pace each other without saying anything. My muscles are sore and it feels like it's been forever since I actually did anything real with them. I know I'm going to hurt like hell tomorrow, but it's hard to care.

On the next go-round Dillard slows down and runs alongside us.

I focus on my feet hitting the grass. The last thing I want to do is get into some sort of pissing match with him in front of Ally.

She pulls ahead as he tries to throw an arm around her. But then she elbows him sharply in the ribs and says, “Get the hell off me.”

“Aw, honey,” he whines, “why do you have to be that way?”

I'm ready to take him down if he steps out of line, but she seems to be able to handle him. When he stumbles, I speed up and pass him, drawing level with Ally again.

“You don't want to get too close to Ryan,” Dillard calls behind us. “You know he's queer for Yeats.” He draws Spencer's name out like it has a hundred “s's” in it, like it's being said by a snake.

My hands ball into fists. If Ally weren't here I'd haul off and slug him again, even though it would probably get me thrown off the team for good, not to mention that a proper fight could kill me and if it didn't, Spencer probably would if he got wind of it.

Thankfully, Coach spots that Dillard has slowed down to hang with us and takes matters into his own hands. “Dillard, get your butt in gear or it'll be warming the bench this season.”

Dillard has no choice but to race ahead. First, though, he winks at Ally, which just causes her to roll her eyes.

I'm sure she's heard all the rumors about Spencer, me, and Lizzie. Everyone has. I just have to hope she's smart enough not to believe them. Before she can say anything, I throw out the crucial question. “So are the two of you … ?” I point to Dillard, but leave the sentence hanging because I don't even want to say it out loud. I just power ahead, not even looking at her. So when she stops dead in her tracks—literally stops—it takes me a minute to notice and I have to double-back for her.

She looks hurt and angry, like I've seriously offended her. “What? No. How could you even think that?”

I jog in place and motion for her to start running. “Sorry, I just thought … ”

“That I had really horrible taste in boys? Because seriously, he's the biggest dick I've ever met.”

I give her a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Really. I won't make that mistake again.”

She smiles back as if she knows something I can't possibly understand. “No. No you won't.”

Then she starts running again, and leaves me in the middle of the field wondering what the hell is going on

Eighteen

1. I have a dream where I'm Lizzie and she's dancing with Spencer. She really likes it and …
   
2. When I was talking to Ally, I felt this push to kiss her. Only we were just talking. I'm not ready to kiss her yet, but Lizzie was always trying to get me to move faster.
   
3. Spencer and I were in his car and …
   

Every list I write for Dr. Reynolds sounds stupider than the last, so I just keep crossing things out.

I flip the paper over. My writing is small and spidery and I don't really have the courage to title it. But it's a new list of things about Ally. I'm embarrassed to put anything down on paper, but in the same way that writing my Lizzie-list makes all of the strange things happening more real, making a list of things about Ally makes
that
more real too.

Some of the things I've written down are things I've just learned. Some are things that I've known all along from watching her over the past year and all of them make me happy.

1. Baseball!
   
2. She smells like vanilla.
   
3. Her dad coaches the Warriors.
   
4. She's read all the Harry Potter books.
   
5. She's seen some of my games. (Hopefully that includes the one where I hit the grand slam!)
   
6. She eats egg salad sandwiches for lunch twice a week.
   
7. She's joined the drama club to get her arts requirement.
   
8. Her mom died when she was a kid and she's an only child like me.
   
9. She's funny.
   
10. I think it might be easy to
    fall in love
    be friends with her.
    

I don't show either list to Dr. Reynolds. He doesn't ask to see my Lizzie list, which is fine because I don't have anything I want to show him. Besides, I've had fewer of Lizzie's bad dreams this week and thankfully none about Spencer. I'm not ready to share my facts about Ally either, so maybe I'm good.

Instead he teaches me some deep breathing techniques. Things I can do to calm myself down when I get too worked up, like counting to a hundred, calculating baseball stats, or reciting the periodic table in order, which is something I've been doing since I was a kid. I just didn't realize why.

We talk about my appointments with Dr. Collins and how well they're going. We talk about practice. We talk about driving and he tells me again and again that the accident wasn't my fault. We don't talk all that much about Lizzie and we pretty much never talk about Spencer.

Before I know it, it's Saturday again and I'm back on the baseball field.

“So, as some of you know,” Coach Byrne says at the end of practice, “I've got a long-running feud with the coach of Fairview.” I know what's coming but most of the team looks confused. He pauses before delivering the punch line. “He's my brother.” Everyone laughs, but they wouldn't if they knew that while Coach Byrne might be a nice guy, that goes out the window where his brother is concerned. The two of them are seriously competitive about everything: where they live, the grades their kids get, and mostly, the success of their baseball teams. Plus, the Fairview High Demons are the team to beat in our league. And with our current lineup, we don't even come close and Coach knows that.

“Anyhow, so next Saturday instead of coming here and taking it easy, I want you all to get your sorry butts over to their field and try not to let them wipe the floor with you. The game doesn't count in the standings but I guarantee you that if you make me look bad in front of my baby brother you are not going to be happy campers. Got it?”

Everyone nods in unison.

I feel a serious pang go through me. It isn't a physical pain, but it's an ache not unlike what Lizzie saddles me with when I'm around Spencer. I want to play in this game so badly it hurts. But I know no matter how much I beg Dr. Collins, it isn't going to happen. Even if he agreed, which he won't, I'd have to get through my mom and that door is shut tight.

The team goes off to the showers or home or wherever, and I'm left sitting here looking out over the field that I can no longer play on.

I'm glad to be on the field at all, but I can't help thinking about how Dillard is no match for Fairview. He's too arrogant to wait out their starting pitcher and he's a mess in the field and the Demons know that. Plus they're going to hit up the middle with their wicked bats and he's going to let every one of those line drives through. No amount of strategizing on my part is going to save them. There's no one else on the team who can play short.

“You look lost in thought.” Ally sits down next to me. I'm getting used to seeing her like this, in a T-shirt and shorts, but the effect of it hasn't diminished. She still takes my breath away, and not just physically. Knowing we have this bond over something that matters so much to me just ramps everything up.

I shrug. There's no point in my whining about not being able to play. Not when Lizzie can't paint, or kiss, or laugh. Not when Lizzie can't do anything.

Yeah, got it, Cal. You can stop using me as an excuse now. No sense both of us having no life.

“Do you think there's any chance we'll beat Fairview?” Ally asks, but I suspect she already knows the answer.

“Not a hope in hell,” I answer honestly. Not only do they have the highest on-base percentage of any team in our league, they have a few pitchers who I swear were either held back so many times that they should already be in college or were recruited from other schools. That's just my theory. No one has been able to prove anything.

“I think I could field the ball against them better than Justin,” she says. Even though I know they aren't together, at some really juvenile level it makes me happy to hear her putting Dillard down.

“Yeah, our only chance would be to put Velcro on his mitt and hope the ball finds its way into it.”

She laughs and then her face gets all serious. “Do you think they'll ever let you play again?”

I get why everyone is asking me that, but I'm tired of having to think about what I can't have. Still, it's Ally, so I answer her question.

“Yes and no. Hopefully I'll be able to take it easy and play intramurals, but not varsity so I'm not sure it's worth it. And no contact, so forget about sliding or bashing into the catcher at home; what's the point?”

She doesn't say anything false to try to make me feel better. She just says, “That sucks,” which actually does make me feel better because it's true and because it means she gets it.

I squint up at her. The sun is playing on the little hairs that stand up all around her head. I love that she isn't one of those girls who looks like she spends hours getting ready before she'll leave the house. I love that she seems so kind. I think about all of the things I like about her, until I hear
Gag
from Lizzie and “Hey, so can you pick me up on Saturday?” from Ally.

“What?” I know what Lizzie means, but I'm in shock to realize that Ally Martin is asking me to pick her up, which probably means taking her home too, not to mention spending the half an hour in the car each way to and from Fairview together.

Yeah, sport. But you still haven't gotten behind the wheel of a car and made it … you know … move.

Crap. Lizzie is right, but Ally doesn't know any of this, so she answers like I obviously didn't understand what “pick me up” means.

“My car is going into the shop on Wednesday. Can you give me a lift to the game? I'll buy you dinner after to pay you back for the gas, if you don't have any plans.”

My face is on fire and my brain isn't processing things quickly enough. But even through my temporary insanity I realize that I'd get to spend all day with her. All I need to do is to drive the damned car, something I've done hundreds of times in the past and something that now absolutely terrifies me to the depths of my soul.

There's a loop in my brain that's pushing these thoughts around and around like a merry-go-round on crack. I feel like a little kid in a toy store; a huge ball of “want.” Everything is just sitting there, waiting for me to reach out and take it, and all I can think of is the accident, and Lizzie, and my heart—Lizzie's heart—is starting to race.

Buck up, Cal. Time to be a big boy.

I know I'm meant to say, “Sure, what time is good?” or something else casual that doesn't make it sound like I've dreamt of having this conversation a million times before. But I can't open my mouth because my teeth are clenched so tightly that my jaw is aching. Inside, Lizzie's heart is beating like a clock ticking down the seconds before I blow this one chance.

“Oh,” Ally says, looking disappointed at my silence. “Will they not let you drive yet?” She's obviously throwing me a lifeline I don't deserve.

“No, that's not it.” I instantly regret my honesty because that would have been the best excuse I could have hoped for. “I … I'm … ” I look at her and what the hell can I say to this girl? That I'm so scared of doing to her what I did to Lizzie? That I'd be less afraid of holding a loaded gun to her head?

“It's okay,” she says, staring out at the empty field. “I didn't mean to push. Sorry. I can find another way there.”

She sounds disappointed and it's killing me that I'm pissing on the chance to spend some time with her. So instead of saying that I'll meet her there and asking either Mom or Spencer to drive me, and instead of telling her the whole truth because who knows what she would think of that, I take a big gulp of air and force myself to say, “No, it's good. Just tell me what time.” It's a performance even Spencer would be proud of.

She breaks into a wide smile that lights up her face and leans over and kisses me on the cheek. Half of me wants to scream in joy and half of me wants to scream in terror. I'm honestly not sure which side would be louder.