Thrown a Curve (14 page)

I tried to push away my feelings so I could focus on pitching.
Just get the ball over the plate. Relax, and get it over the plate.
The next batter made contact, and his weak pop-up was easily caught by our shortstop, holding the runners at second and third.
Thank goodness! At least we had one out now.
I was breathing hard. The next two batters grounded out to end the inning.
Phew, that was close.
At least they hadn’t scored . . . yet. I hurried back to the dugout to hide.

As I rounded the fence, I saw Sacamore standing on the other side of it, looking concerned.
Great! Not again!
He waved me over to him.

“Taylor, relax out there,” he said, his fingers sticking through the chain link fence.

I shrugged. “I can’t stop thinking about stuff,” I said. “It’s messing me up.”

“What stuff? Did you talk to your dad?”

“Yeah, that was a disaster. And now Justin is blowing me off or something. I can’t do anything right.”

“Taylor, there was more to that secret I started telling you about under the bleachers. No matter what else is going on, you have to remember that you’re good at baseball. You’re a great athlete. Maybe nobody has ever told you that before, but it’s the absolute truth. If this is the only thing you think you have going for you, then use it. Put all your positive energy into pitching. Make it your passion, and everything else will fall into place.”

I thought about what Sacamore was saying, and I smiled. No one had ever told me I was good. He had a point. I
was
pretty good. But today, I was destroying myself out there. But just
because everything else was going wrong didn’t mean baseball had to go wrong, too.

I sat down on the bench, slipped my jacket onto my right arm to keep it warm, and put my head on my hands. I sat there, trying to breathe and relax. It was usually considered bad luck to talk to the pitcher between innings, but to me, at that moment, Sacamore’s talk was the good luck I needed. I sat there and tried to think about nothing except getting the ball in the strike zone. “Just pitch,” I told myself. “Just pitch.”

I heard the scuffling of feet around me, and I knew it was the second inning. Jamie tapped me on my leg with his glove—his way of saying “It’s time.” After adjusting my hat and tossing my jacket on the bench, I jogged confidently to the mound. I had found the focus I’d always needed.

I threw the next inning as if there was a string going from my arm to Jamie’s glove. A whole series of perfect strikes—three batters up, three batters down.

The next innings went just as quickly. I didn’t let anyone get on base. In the fifth inning, my arm was starting to feel like mush. I got two quick groundouts, and then I walked a guy. I struck out the next batter for the third out, making my strike-out total for the game ten batters. As I hustled back to the dugout, I heard it. A small section of the crowd was clapping. I looked up and saw the top row of the bleachers standing up and clapping softly. Some boys, girls, and parents were standing there. I didn’t recognize any of them, but they were cheering for me. Before I reached the dugout, I tipped my hat just a little to thank
them. They had no idea how much it meant to me. A smile stretched across my face. I didn’t care about looking tough in front of the team. I let myself feel good for once.

Perez took me out before the next inning, which was fine with me. He was always afraid I’d throw my arm out. I sat on the bench, spitting sunflower seeds with Louis, happy as a pig in slop.

Louis turned to me after a while. “Dresden,” he said quietly, “nice pitching out there.”

I nodded, spit, and simply said, “Thanks.” But inside, I was doing cartwheels. Tony walked by, stuck his hand out, and gave me a quiet low-five, so only Louis and I could see.

We won the game 6-0. It was my first win, and my first shutout. After the game ended, I headed back to the locker room to collect my stuff. I actually held my head high as I walked back toward the building. I wanted to find Sacamore and hug him, to thank him for giving me a chance. Instead, I ran through the halls like a crazy girl, banging my glove against the long row of lockers and jumping up to smack the lights. Winning wasn’t everything, but it definitely
was
something!

The locker room was buzzing. The softball team had won by ten runs, and all the girls were dancing to the radio in celebration. I walked in and had to laugh. Trudy was standing on the benches with Denise Rodriguez, singing at the top of her lungs.

“Hey, Taylor!” Trudy said. “I heard you guys won, too! Congratulations!”

“Thanks. Same to you guys,” I said.

“We rule!” Denise screamed as she jumped down and skipped toward the showers.

“You’re coming across the street to celebrate with us today, right Taylor?” Trudy said, giving me a friendly tap on the arm.

I was so high from the win, I said, “Sure. I could eat some pizza.” And I actually went.

When I got to the pizza place, all the girls were squished into two booths in the corner, downing slices of pizza. Trudy and Denise waved me over.

“Taylor, back here!” Trudy yelled. She was always so chipper.

“Hey, Trudy,” I said, squeezing in next to her.

“Help yourself,” she said, shoving a paper plate toward me.

I folded the pizza in half and took a bite. We ate pizza all the time at home, but it never tasted as good as this.

“So, I’ve got a good trivia question for everyone,” Trudy said.

“Okay, go,” one girl said.

“What pitcher has the most career wins?”

Everyone started yelling out names. “Ryan.”

“Johnson!”

“Are you talking about softball or baseball?” I asked.

Trudy laughed. “Oh yeah, like there are so many famous softball players. Baseball, silly.”

I held up my hands as if to say “duh.” I knew the answer. “Oh. Well then, Cy Young.”

“Ding, ding! You win!” she said. She proceeded to take an ice cube from her drink and put it down the back of my shirt.

“Oh, you little . . .” I said, reaching into my own glass and flinging a cube her way. A few other girls followed suit by grabbing for ice.

“Hey, knock it off!” yelled the man behind the counter. “You girls can finish your food outside!”

We were all cracking up as we grabbed the pizza box and ran out of the restaurant.

Still laughing, I said to Trudy and Denise, “I should get going.”

“Here,” Trudy said, reaching into her purse for a pen. “Give me a call. We might see a movie or something on Saturday, and you can come.” She wrote her number on a napkin and handed it to me.

“Uh, okay,” I said. “See you guys.”

T
he next morning, I hurried to Bio class, suddenly remembering we had a test on that stupid dead pig. I had let my lab partner do all the dissecting, and all I knew about the pig was that it smelled like vomit. The hall was packed with people rushing to class, and I was trying to maneuver my way through the crowd. I bumped into a few people, and then I found myself face-to-face with Justin.

“Hey!” he said enthusiastically.

I was still rushing forward but said, “Hey, I got a test.”

“OK, talk to you later. I heard you had a good game,” he yelled as I reached the stairs.

I waved and ran up the stairs. When I got to Bio and had the test in front of me, I finally had time to think. I answered everything I knew in about ten minutes, so I had time to relax and pretend I was thinking about dead pigs. That had been a bad way to see Justin. He probably thought I was ignoring him. This getting-to-class-on-time thing really interfered with my social life. Maybe I should write him a letter about what was going on. Yeah, right—a letter? What was I thinking?

Before I knew it, the bell was ringing. I tossed my test with the others onto Mr. Dewey’s desk and then walked to Algebra
class, still thinking about Justin.

Later that day, which was a Friday, I headed to Sacamore’s office, as usual. Maybe I’d experienced a “breakthrough” when he talked to me by the dugout. I’d begun to believe in myself, and it had worked. I remembered the good feeling I had after really putting my heart into the game.

I knocked on his door and slowly opened it. He was sitting at his desk, scribbling something.

“Hey,” he said casually. “Big T . . . Come on in, sister.”

I still thought he was a weirdo, though I was starting to like his hokey greetings. He made me feel as if there were more good guys out there besides Justin Kennedy. I sat down on the couch and put my feet up on the coffee table. I sighed, thinking of Justin.

“Why the sigh, Ms. Dresden?” Sacamore asked, looking up from his paperwork.

I’d never really told him about Justin. I’d said we were friends and all, but I’d never told him about the relationship stuff. Sacamore
did
help me with the baseball thing, though. Maybe he could help me with Justin. I figured I’d give it a shot.

“Remember at the game, when I mentioned Justin?” I asked.

“I recall that,” he said, nodding.

“Well, we were always friends, and I thought we were getting more serious than that. And then he told me it was okay if we were just friends.”

“You don’t want to be friends?”

“No, I do. That’s not what I mean . . .”

“You mean, you want to be more than friends?” Sacamore asked.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“But he doesn’t?”

“He doesn’t
what
?” I was getting confused.

“Want to be more than friends?”

“Well, I think he did, but he thought I didn’t, so he said he’d let me off the hook and we could just be friends.”

“Uh-huh,” Sacamore said. “I’m completely confused.”

“Yeah, join the club,” I said.

We both began to laugh. It felt really good to laugh—it wasn’t something I did a lot. I looked at Sacamore as he was laughing. His eyes squinted shut, and his dimples showed through his five o’ clock shadow. At that moment, I believed he truly cared about helping me.

Sacamore sucked back the laughter and gave a typical therapist solution. “Well, Taylor, as I always say, if you have a problem with someone, the only way to remedy it is to talk it over with them and be honest about your feelings. If you like this guy, tell him. What bad could come of it? He said you’d always be friends.”

“Yeah, I know. We could always talk, but it seems harder now. And the last time I tried your talking thing, it wasn’t exactly successful.”

“You mean with your father?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you share with me what happened with him?”

I shrugged. “I tried to ask him straight out why he didn’t like me, and he denied it. He said he was a busy man and I was being silly.”

“Go on.”

“He got pissed and said he was the only parent around, if I hadn’t noticed,” I said, mimicking him sarcastically.

Sacamore perked up when he heard that. “That’s it, Taylor.”

“What?”

“He answered your question.”

“He did?” I said.

“Yes. He let you know he’s upset about being the only parent.”

I put up my hands and asked, “How’s that telling me why he doesn’t like me?”

“Because it doesn’t sound like he’s angry with
you
. It sounds like he’s angry with your mother.”

My mother?
I’d never thought about him being mad at
her
. I always thought he was glad she was gone. I thought he’d wanted her to leave. He never acted like he missed her.

“You think so?” I asked.

“Could be.”

“But that doesn’t explain why he treats me like garbage,” I said, still confused.

“No, but it should show you he has other things on his mind, just as you have other things on yours, like Stacy, school, baseball . . . He may not realize he’s ignoring you. Just as you may
not have realized you were ignoring Justin with all those other things on your mind.”

“I wasn’t ignoring Justin,” I said defensively.

“Does he know that? Does he know how you feel about him?”

“No, not exactly . . . but he knows I care,” I said softly.

“Are you sure? It’s a two-way street, Taylor. Your father may think he’s sending you the message that he cares, but he’s so preoccupied with other things that the message isn’t coming across clearly.”

Wow!
This guy was making a lot of sense—but maybe too much all at one time. “Whoa,” I said, “information overload.”

He smiled. “Pretty heavy stuff, huh?”

“You said it,” I answered.

He glanced up at the clock. Our time was almost up. “So listen, Taylor. When you leave here today, just remember one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Remember that we all have our own problems. If someone hurts you, it may not be intentional. They may just be thinking of something else.”

“I got it, Mr. Sacamore,” I said, moving toward the door.

“Good luck with Justin,” he said. “And don’t give up on your dad.”