They both scrunch their faces to echo my disappointment.
“Sorry. That sucks,” June empathizes. They both lean back, I think a little disappointed in my definition of epic, but I draw them back in with my last bullet point.
“Oh! And do you guys know Cannon Jennings?”
The flat-lined mouths and blinking eyes staring back at me tell me they do, and that their impression matches mine.
“Right, well, so . . . he’s an ass.” I sum him up neatly, not going into all the details. I don’t need to bore my new friends—my only friends—with baseball politics and details of a sexist sports culture. My assertion seems to be on point, because within a blink they’re sharing their experiences with him.
“He literally patted me on the head once when I was sitting next to him at a basketball game. I was trying to get to know him and asked a question about the game. He turned to me with an open palm and patted me like a puppy.” Lola’s innocent features are suddenly fierce, a bit of a snarl to her lips; I like her even more.
“He led my friend Abby on for weeks, but then she got tired of his games,” June says. “It all worked out because now she’s filming a movie in Toronto, and thinks she’s totally meant to be with someone else.”
“You said games,” I echo, picking up on that word especially. “What do you mean, games?”
June shrugs and takes a bite of her sandwich, glancing up in search of an example.
“Okay, so like, when he’s at a party or hanging out with the guys, he acts one way, but then when you get him on his own, he’s totally a different person. He held my friend’s hand and cuddled up to her at parties then ignored her existence the next day. Abby says he’s moody, and I think that’s the best description. Maybe he’s only chill when he’s buzzed at a kegger. I don’t know.”
Her examples fit the mold I’ve made for Cannon in my head. Our kiss was a caught-in-the-moment thing, but still, the switch he flipped between attitudes is unreal. Maybe his behavior isn’t all driven by the fact I’m encroaching on his turf. Maybe he’s just a douchebag.
By the time our lunch hour ends, I feel relaxed and a little more accepted. When I look around at the other girls, I still feel as though I stick out in this place, but that’s not going to change. I like high-top shoes without laces and baggy sweatpants, and shirts stolen from my dad’s college collection. I don’t wear bras, unless they are sports bras, opting for camisoles or nothing at all. I want to feel I can breathe under my clothes, and I don’t want to wake up early just to change the girl I am. The only rule I might break is letting Lola curl my hair, and mostly on a dare because I don’t think it can be done. Plus, her hair is pretty freakin’ bomb.
The end of my day is pretty easy. I opted for study hall instead of taking an early release. I did it to be able to take weight training at the end of the day. It was the only way I could avoid spending two full hours hanging out in my dad’s office. It’s bad enough being his daughter, I didn’t need to add to the optics by being glued to his side. I’m riding the high of decent lunch company and the comfort of knowing that tomorrow I will have a place to sit, when the warm fuzzies turn into blistering acid. Cannon is sitting in the back of the study hall room, hat brim tipped down over his forehead to shade his eyes, probably so he can sleep. I recognize a guy from the New Year’s party sitting next to him, one of the twins I’ve heard about. I’m about to slip by unnoticed when the guy’s eyes land on mine, causing him to sit up straight and slap Cannon’s hat from his head.
“Dude!” The few people already here turn to look as Cannon chastises him, and I take advantage of his attention on his friend, darting to the other side of the room and making my way up front. I slip into a desk, pulling out my phone to double check my schedule that I have the right room. My hope is dashed quickly, though it was a longshot that there were two study hall locations at the same time. Tucking my chin into my shoulder, I peer behind me to see if Cannon has gone back to hibernating. His eyes are glued to mine the moment I glance in his direction. His mouth a hard line, and he gives a slow shake of his head as if he’s disappointed in me.
It’s the other way around, buddy.
Not wanting to let him in my head, or give him the satisfaction of feeling he matters, I shrug and shift my gaze to his friend. I nod a silent hello that makes his friend chuckle and nod back. I’m pretty sure he’s gotten the full story from Cannon, only neither of them have seen me play. Today is important, and I knew it would be. I’ve been in this position before, the one who has to prove herself to an overly skeptical crowd. The hardest part is that no matter how hard I work and how good I am, there are some who will still wear their blinders and refuse to acknowledge they maybe had me pegged all wrong.
Renewed, and amped with the familiar sense of drive, I turn back into my seat and pull my notebook from my bag, flipping to the middle to write my goals for the next five days. I got this habit from my dad. He’s always done it in his scorebooks and on lineup sheets. He doesn’t write down criticisms for his players, but
