Stealing Bases (10 page)

twenty

I push off the rubber again and again and again. This time the stands are silent. Everyone else went home two hours ago, but I’m still here, standing on the same rubber I just pitched the best game of my life off of two hours ago.
Little good that did.

I push off again. Before I release, I twist my hand like I’m opening a door and attempt to bring forward as much power as I can muster from my legs.
I can do this. I can throw a rise ball as hard as Amber.

The ball thumps against the padded fence. I grab another ball out of the royal-blue bucket and look up at the pink sky, wiping the sweat off my forehead. As I do so, the wind picks up, sending a chill through my white number seven jersey. But I’m not stopping. Not until I get it right.

The first thing I did after Coach Kate criticized me for not playing as well as Amber was text Coach Malone to ask for some additional sessions. The second was to come out here. If Coach Kate doesn’t think I work hard enough, I’ll show her.

I push off the mound again and the ball tails up.

Thump.

Still not hard enough. Still too high.

I reach into the bucket and grab another ball.

Explode off the mound
recites in my head. Words Coach Malone uses over and over.
Use your hips. It’s all in the legs.

I push off again.

Thump.

Still not hard enough.

I bend down to grab another ball from the bucket.

“Hey, hottie!” someone catcalls from the stands.

Since it’s not the first time I’ve been heckled, I ignore it. I don’t have time for silly games.

I wind up and fire as hard as I can.

Thump.

Damn.

My arm is heavy. So heavy, it feels like it’s been dipped in concrete. I wipe the sweat off my brow again. When I do, my fingers tingle.

“Ky!”

This time I look over at the stands.

Zachary.

I quickly wave, bend over, and grab another ball out of the bucket. I don’t have time for him right now.

“Why are you working so hard? You just nearly pitched a no-hitter,” he yells.

I shrug and stare at the bucket next to me. “I don’t have time to talk.” I grab another ball.

Zachary must realize that this strategy isn’t going to work because he jogs out toward the mound. “Ky,” he says, grabbing my arm.

I can’t help myself—I look up. And. . . butterflies. Even in black mesh shorts and a sweat-stained gray Beachwood Academy Basketball tee, Zachary sends flutters through me. I pull my arm from his grasp.

“Don’t you think you should take a break? This can’t be good for your arm.”

“Why do you care? You always say you don’t like softball.”

“Don’t you mean cotton ball?” he jokes.

“Really? Like that’s going to win my heart. Don’t you have a freshman girl to go kiss for points?” I accidentally on purpose throw the ball at Zachary’s abs.

He catches it. Then he walks up to me, making as if he’s going to hand the ball back. But as he’s about to reach me, he whispers, “There’s only one girl I want to be kissing. . . .”

“Shut up.” I jokingly push Zachary away. “How about you set up in the batter’s box? That way I can strike you out. I could use the pick-me-up.”

Zachary puffs out his chest like a peacock. “You never strike me out.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, I do. I’ve done it like a hundred times, and you know it.”

“A hundred times?” he asks, taking note of my exaggeration. His brown eyes twinkle.

“Well, maybe not a hundred times, but you know what I mean.” I playfully push him again.

Zachary steps in front of me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “Look, I came to your game today because I know how much you care about the starting position.”

“Guess you’re the only one . . .”

“
A
, that’s not true. And
B
, even if it were, come on, we’ve always been there for each other.” He pauses. “You just helped me get through all the stuff with my dad the other day.”

“That was different. That was . . .”

“No, that was
us
. That’s what we do.” He gently rubs my cheek with the back of his hand.

The thing is he’s right: it is. I remember how Zachary was the only one there for me three years ago when my mom just “had” to go away during an ASA tournament. And when the first cracks in my parents’ marriage began appearing. And when . . . The memories are too numerous to count.

Zachary senses I’m getting lost in my thoughts. “It was great to see you out there again,” he says, smiling.

I’m melting.

“And I know how much all this means to you.”

I’m a puddle.

“You’ve been working so hard at cotton ball since you were a kid.” He gives me a playful knock on the chin.

“You were doing okay until you mentioned cotton ball.” I pick up the bucket and begin to carry it toward the team room.

Zachary tries to grab the bucket from me.

I don’t let go. “What? Do you think because I’m a girl I can’t carry the ball bucket?”

Zachary shrugs. “Nah, I just thought a little chivalry might win you over. Speaking of which, are you going to the prom with me or what?”

I hold my hand to my heart in mock rapture. “How can I refuse an invitation like that? So well thought out and with such concern for me? Wow. You’re such a romantic, Zachary Murphy.”

Zachary smirks. “I make up for it with my good looks . . . and other natural abilities. . . .” He jabs me in my side, winking.

“Whatever.” I wiggle away from his touch. “Race you to the team room!”

I sprint as fast as I can before Zachary even has a chance to realize what’s happening. The grass crunches beneath my feet. Even though I have a head start, I can feel him gaining behind me. Finally, I pull open the door to the team room with every ounce of strength I possess. That’s when I see a blur rush past me. My arm suddenly feels light. I look down. The bucket is gone.

“Beat ya!” Zachary calls out. He’s placed the bucket where it belongs.

“That’s because you cheated!”

“So did you!”

“Come on,” he says, pulling me along.

We tread back across the field, giggling along the way. I look up at the stars now glimmering in the dark sky and press my index finger to my chin. “Hmm . . . Let me think about the invite.”

“You know you want me.” Zachary chuckles.

“You’re making this really easy . . .” I tease.

“You and me, babe.”

“Ah. No.” I smile and begin to jog ahead of him. “Rematch?”

Zachary yells to me. “I don’t know what you’re running away from. You live in my backyard.”

I laugh and pick up my pace.

“I’m not giving up on you yet,” he shouts. “And I would still look into Amber’s transfer if I were you.”

“Whatever,” I yell, jogging backward. “Don’t worry about me and cotton ball anymore. We’re doing just fine.”

twenty-one

I stand in front of my bedroom mirror, fiddling with a series of pretend updos for prom exactly two weeks before the big night. Not that I’ve decided to go with Zachary or anything. But just because prom is supposed to be “the most special moment of a young woman’s life,” or so my mom says. And I figure it can’t hurt to prepare.

I’m interrupted by the buzzing of my phone. I check the screen. Missy.

“I’m parked out front of that house where I’ve been dropping you off. But it’s dark. What gives?”

“Uh. Uh. I’m not there. . . .”

“Whatever. Anyway, want to check out prom dresses with me tonight in Beverly Hills? I’m in desperate need of some inspiration for the marketing ideas I’m working on. I can’t let Hannah take credit for everything now that Banana Fad is taking off.”

Ugh.
I balance the phone against my ear and peek out the guesthouse window. Zachary’s room is dark. He left me an hour ago to work out.

I should have skipped playing with my hair and spent the time practicing my pitching.

Meanwhile, Missy continues to babble. “I need to hit the stores stat and brush up on my fashion.” She lets out a dramatic sigh in my ear.

With everything that’s been going on lately, I’m tempted to tell Missy that I wish her and Hannah a happy life together. But then I think, what would Vi say about my staying home on a Saturday night?

After all, the last Saturday night Vi saw me out, she thought I was pretty lame to be grabbing frozen yogurt. And it’s not like I’ve been out much lately.

I pretend to catch my breath. “Look, I’m out running. Meet me on the corner of Beach and Driftwood.”

“See ya in two,” Missy says, and hangs up.

Quicker than Amber can say rise ball, I don full running gear. I pull my hair up in high ponytail, replace my skinny jeans with black Nike shorts, and pull a white Henley over my tank. Then I slide on my running shoes, shove my white iPod buds in my ears, and run into the bathroom to throw some water (aka instant sweat) on my face. I manage to sneak out the door before Dad even notices.

I take off down the street, sprinting as fast as I can, and pull the brakes at the stop sign.

A few seconds later, headlights flash across my face as Missy pulls up in her black BMW.

She rolls down the window when she spots me. A breeze of Dior perfume hits my nose.

“What are you doing, Sporty Spice?” Missy asks. “It’s Saturday night.”

I rest my hands on my knees, pretending to be out of breath. “You can never be too in shape,” I say, faking heavy breathing.

She unlocks the passenger side door.

“Forget something?” Missy pulls a pink petal out of the back of my ponytail as I settle into the passenger side. She shows it to me. “Don’t Zach’s parents have cherry trees in their backyard?”

“Oh . . . it must have been the wind. And what, are you a botanist now?” I grab the petal and toss it out the window.

“Please tell me this didn’t come from Zach’s place.” Missy stares at me, her mouth wide open.

“No, I already told you. I was running. And the wind must have carried it over.” I smooth down the back of my hair, trying to root out any straggling petals.

“Nice try, Super Fly.” She tilts her head. “And anyway, why would you be rolling around Zach’s backyard when you could be macking it with Brett Davidson?”

“I don’t know why you always bring Brett up. It’s not like he’s into me.”

“Not into you? Kylie Collins, do you see the way he looks at you?”

“Yeah, like:
Can you please help me with my math homework?
”

“More like:
Can you please have my babies?
”

I pause, thinking about whether there could be any truth to what Missy’s saying. He did try to talk to me the other day. . . . But then I realize the obvious response. “If he likes me so much, then why hasn’t he asked me to prom?”

“Maybe because you’re always shooting death rays from your eyes.” Missy does an impression of me.

“Ugh, seriously, Miss? Now, you’re just making things up.”

“Ky . . .” she says, her eyes narrowing.

“Okay, so maybe I have been a little standoffish lately.”

Missy bursts out laughing. “I don’t even know where to begin with that one. A little? Standoffish? Lately?”

“Very funny. So, what shops do you want to hit tonight on your so-called quest for fashion inspiration?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.

Missy sees right through me. “Maybe we should start with you telling me what’s really going on between you and Zach.”

I look at the window so that my eyes can’t give me away. As much as I want to tell her the truth, I can’t risk her blabbing to Hannah. “There isn’t anything to tell,” I say.

Missy lets out a loud breath. “Whatever,” she says. Then she hits the gas and merges onto the Pacific Coast Highway.

A few hours later, Missy has decided to ignore my indiscretions and focus on the matter at hand: clothes. “I’m loving this one,” she says, pointing to an electric minidress. “I just adore the color.”

“Yeah, it’s great,” I say, sipping the Frappuccino I just bought with a gift card. To distract myself, I pull out the straw and lick off the whip cream—thanks to my dad’s stupid rules, I won’t be buying any items during today’s excursion. Apparently, I have “more clothing than any girl my age could possibly need.”

“Can you believe the pre-prom assembly is this Monday?” Missy says, pulling her sketchbook out from her oversized Tory Burch bag. “It’s crazy to think that prom is actually almost here.”

My Frap crawls up my throat. “I know. We’ve waited our whole lives for this. . . .”

“Remember when we used to lie on your bed and talk about who we were going to go with and what we were going to wear and how we were going to be on prom court and . . .”

Under my breath, I say, “And how we were going to go shopping with our moms . . .”

Missy hears me anyway. “Yeah, I know. Isn’t it funny how things work out?” she exclaims. “Who would have thought that I’d end up part of a design team?”

“Not me,” I say, snidely.

Missy doesn’t catch my tone. “Not me either!”

I decide to play nice. “Well, you always knew who you’d be going with. Right?”

She looks guilty, but she doesn’t say anything.

Missy’s not budging, so I decide to change the subject. “You’re so going to make prom court on Monday,” I say, biting my bottom lip.

A new expression appears on Missy’s face. Excitement. “Hello?” she says. “We’re totally going to be on it together. Like the eighth grade Snow Ball and Toddlers & Tiaras. Remember the pageants?”

I release my lip. “Pageants weren’t my thing.”

“They were your mom’s thing.” She grins, but then frowns. “Sorry. How is the mom?”

“Don’t want to talk about it.” I pick my Frap off the table and sip the last of it.

“Gotcha.” Missy pulls the drink from my grasp.

As she does, I realize that I’ve been mindlessly scraping the bottom of the cup with my plastic straw.

She places her sketchbook back into her bag and ushers me out of the store. “Okay, so then let’s just forget about Mommy Dearest for a second and say that you’re so going to win prom princess.”

We step out onto Robertson Boulevard and I turn to face Missy. “Miss, I appreciate the pep talk and everything, but we both know that given recent events . . .” I pause.

Missy uses this as an opportunity to interject. “If you’re about to say that you’re not going to get prom princess because of some silly softball position and Z—”

“Some silly softball position?” This time it’s my turn to cut her off. “You didn’t think basketball was silly.”

She throws my empty cup into the nearest recycling bin. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. I just said
you
should be prom princess. I’m on your side.”

Oh yeah, she’s really on my side.

Missy sees that I’m still seething and tries to change tactics. She points to a vintage pink dress visible through a store window. “You would look amazing in that color.”

“Miss, don’t try to butter me up,” I say, crossing my arms.

“No, really.” She pulls her sketchbook back out and jots down a few notes. “I’d love to work with Hannah to design a dress like that for you.” She shuts her book.

I let out a deep breath. “Honestly, Miss . . .” I pause. “It’s not about the dress. Or even just about softball. I have other stuff. . . .”

Missy shoves her book back into her bag and looks at me with concern. “Like what? Like Zach? Like living in someone’s guesthouse?”

“It’s not about the house either . . .” I say.

She freezes. “Is it about the big D?”

“Sort of.” I take a deep breath. “I just want to go shopping with my mom. Since she’s moved to Manhattan, she’s never around and I figured shopping for a prom dress would bring her, I don’t know, home. . . .” I feel my cheeks burn.

Missy looks lost. Then she gives me a hug. “I had no idea,” she says. “I’m so sorry, Ky. I know this has to be really hard. Especially since you and your mom were always so close. I’ll stop bugging you about the dress.”

A few people clutching Chanel shopping bags walk by us as we stand in silence for a few seconds. Missy does what she always does when she’s confused: glosses her lips.

Then she pipes up. “Okay, so this is definitely not the right time to tell you this. But you know how before you were just joking about how I always knew who I’d be going to prom with . . . ?” She grows quiet.

“Yeah, and you didn’t say anything. . . .”

“Well, you were right.”

My heart stops in my chest.

“Don’t be mad, but this morning, Andrew surprised me at my front door. . . .” She trails off.

“And?” I slow my pace.

“And I looked like total trash, but uh, that’s besides the point. . . .” She pauses again.

“And!” I fake shout, turning to face her. My stomach flips.
Please say you said no. Please say you said no.

She sighs. “And when I opened the door, all I saw was a ton of yellow roses. Like a million. Anyway, there was Andrew and he handed me the roses and there was a tiny note attached to the bunch. It said, ‘Roses are yellow. Violets are blue. Will you make my prom dreams come true?’” Missy pauses, looking at me for a response.

“What about your whole revenge plan?” I ask, confused about how things could have taken such a drastic turn.

“Forget about revenge. Isn’t that romantic?!?” she squeals.

For a second, I don’t say anything. Then I squeeze Missy’s hand, collecting myself before I throw up. “That’s great, Miss.”

“I know. I’m so psyched. . . . Now I really have a reason to get a Banana Fad dress of my own! Isn’t this exciting!”

Yeah, exciting.

Missy detects that I’m not entirely happy for her. “I’m sorry. It must be tough to hear this with the whole Zach thing.”

The Zach thing?
“So, let me get this straight. All is forgiven with Andrew even though he was a cheater too. But not with Zachary?” I place my hand on my hip.

Missy’s eyes widen. “But Andrew didn’t win the contest.”

Gotta love the logic.