Hollis throws the ball back and gives me a quick sign for the same pitch, again. It’s the right call, again. I nod, letting her know she’s right, but there’s no way in hell I’m throwing that pitch. My cousin needs this win a lot more than the rest of us. He’s the one who has to sit at the dinner table with my uncle tonight. Uncle Joel will brag when my dad calls tomorrow too, probably embellishing the tale of his son’s at bat against me, but I’ll text my dad to let him know I missed on purpose. My dad will get it. He knows how his brother is; Uncle Joel is . . . intense. Besides, family comes first.
Right now, winding up and bringing my arms in then separating them with my stride, family comes first. The claps echo in some faraway place, the sound growing faster as the ball exits my nimble fingers. The threads spin line over line. It’s an easy-to-spot four-seam fastball that my cousin can’t miss. Hollis is already shifting her knees to adjust, her glove moving back to the center of the plate in a prayer that Zack swings through and misses.
He won’t, though.
He doesn’t.
My cousin tosses his bat over his shoulder with his typical ego-driven flair as he holds up a fist and begins his slow trot around the bases. I maybe shouldn’t have made it quite so easy. The ball barely cleared the fence, but barely is always enough when it comes to home runs. My muffled ears clear and my Uncle’s whistles break through the barrier first.
I feign disappointment, pulling my hat down on my face for a moment during his victory lap. I smile behind it, just for a second, and that’s how I know I made the right choice. By the time I slide it back in place, Hollis has walked off the field and into the dugout, throwing her glove with enough juice to take out five or six bats balanced against the fence.
“Hey!” her dad shouts, snapping his fingers twice. She jerks her head toward him, her face stained with dirt, her eyes slits that glow with her anger. After a short standoff with her dad, her shoulders slump, and eventually, she looks down, pulling her mask and helmet off completely and undoing the knot in her hair. She stares at the water-stained concrete of the dugout for the next several minutes, and I’m glad, because the minute she looks at me, I’m going to quit thinking I made the right choice with that pitch.
10
Hollis
I’ve never understood why people pace. What does walking back and forth in patterns do to solve problems? Nothing, that’s what. It does absolutely nothing. Yet here I am, not even sure who I’m the most angry with, and I am pacing.
I bet my dad is in his room doing the same exact thing, maybe even having the same exact silent conversation with himself. This is all so pointless.
Cannon doesn’t trust me. That’s the one thing I keep coming back to. If I’m ever going to catch for him in a game, when it truly matters, he needs to trust me. That’s not the pitch I told him to throw today, yet he threw it anyway. My conclusions are either a lack of trust or he knew Zack would hit it. He did his cousin a favor, and maybe—maybe—I should understand the family bond thing better. But wouldn’t it mean more if Zack actually earned it?
There aren’t enough miles to be walked in this house to get my brain to stop. I need a better distraction, and homework is not going to cut it. I’ll be lucky to slow my mind enough by midnight to finish writing the lit paper that’s due in fourteen hours.
“Gah!” I grunt out, throwing my copy of Macbeth on the center of my bed. I stare at the cover and laugh maniacally, though quietly. How appropriate that I’m reading a story about the struggle for political power and how it tears people up from the inside out. Scotland’s got nothin’ on the politics of high school baseball.
Restless, I ditch the quiet solitude of my room, closing my door behind me so my mom doesn’t mention the boxes still to be unpacked. My dad has finally parked himself on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table and some microbrew bottle in his hand. My mom’s sitting at the kitchen table with the reflection of her laptop glowing in her reading glasses. I grab the van keys from the counter and try to be smooth, soundless, but they jingle just enough to turn my parents’ heads my way.
My mom pulls her glasses down to the tip of her nose and raises a brow.
“Stir crazy,” I answer her questioning look. “I won’t be out late, and I will drive carefully, and yes, I am working on finishing my room.”
That last bit’s a lie.
She grimaces and says “Uh huh, sure.”
“Thanks,” I say through an exaggerated smile, palming the keys and heading on my way.
“If you see Jennings, let him know I wanna talk to him before workouts tomorrow,” my dad says as I leave. I glance at him, but he’s already turned his attention back to the television.
“Which one?” I ask.
“Either,” he says before taking a long sip of his beer.
His ominous threat gives me a little boost as I leave the house. It’s tacky to be happy about other people getting in trouble, but I’m all right with being a little tacky right now. It’s better than some
