Stealing Bases Read online

  When I see my teammates begin to run in from the field, I scoot across the bench, farther away from Chloe and Sophia and closer to Emily. At least, she’s only benchwarming because of an injury.

  I wave at Zoe as she comes into the dugout, having just finished up another inning catching for the ever-amazing Amber. (Who, to add salt to the wound, is on her way to pitching a perfect game.) “Here.” I point to the spot I just vacated. “I kept it nice and warm for you.”

  “You’ll be back out there in no time,” Zoe says, plopping down between Emily and me. She drops her catcher’s mask on the bench between us. “And anyway, rest up because we’ll need you next week for the Desert Invitational. I can’t wait!”

  “Yeah. Sure. I’ll keep telling myself that. . . .” The sounds of the other girls chatting and giggling starts to distract me. Emily has even been drawn into conversation with Sophia.

  Zoe puts her hand on my shoulder, pulling me back in. “No, seriously, Ky. We’ve all said it before: the only question is how you’re going to get all prettied up for prom in time.”

  “Zoe, I appreciate that you’re trying to cheer me up and everything, but honestly, I’d probably be fine showing up to the tournament in full hair and makeup. It’s not like I’m going to have a chance to get dirty.”

  I watch as Amber shuffles back onto the softball diamond. Like a kid on a playground, she’s all giddy. When she sees me, she grins and waves. “Hey, pitching partner!”

  I attempt to smile back, but I’m pretty sure my face just looks like a contorted grimace.

  Zoe smacks my knee. “Will you stop it? You know you’ll pitch at the Desert Invitational. . . . I mean, we can’t play all our games on one arm. And you know Coach isn’t going to put Sophia on the mound.”

  “Uh-huh . . .” I say. “Don’t you need to go back out on the field?”

  “Fine,” Zoe says. “But this conversation isn’t over.” She jumps up from her seat and motions that she’ll be watching me as she makes her way back to the field.

  Now that the majority of the girls have left to go play their positions, Sophia takes this as an opportunity for us to catch up. “Can you believe Amber’s throwing a perfect game?” She adjusts her messy ponytail.

  I’m tempted not to respond, but I decide the better of it. “I know,” I say, raising my voice in the hopes that someone will hear me. “But we’re only through five innings.”

  “Still,” Sophia says.

  Emily leans over, her wrist still wrapped in a bandage. “Guys, shhh . . . or you’ll ruin Amber’s chances.”

  “You don’t actually believe that silly superstition, do you?” Chloe asks, sliding over to talk to us.

  “Who doesn’t?” Emily says, disbelieving. No one wants to be responsible for jinxing a perfect game. One mention might be the end of it.

  Not that I would know. I mean, it’s not like I’ve ever thrown one.

  Emily continues. “Did you see the guy in the stands with the UCLA polo sitting in front of Zoe’s mom?” She points to the crowd with her uninjured hand.

  “Anyone can have a UCLA polo,” I reply. I scan the stands and spot the guy they’re talking about.

  “But he’s not just anybody. He’s a recruiter. And the woman next to him is from the University of Arizona. I remember them from last year.” Emily pauses, picking a discarded batting glove up off the ground.

  “They must have a break in their schedule today.” Chloe winks. “Looks like they’re here scouting.”

  “For real?” Sophia’s eyes widen. “Who do you think they’re here for?”

  “Amber. Obviously,” Chloe answers.

  The more time I spend with Chloe, the less I like her.

  “You okay, Ky?” Emily asks. “You look, I don’t know. Kind of red.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, feeling my face flush. I look out at the field and am met with an unwanted image: Amber and Danielle holding hands and jumping up and down after another hitless, scoreless inning.

  They run, no, skip, back into the dugout. Clearly, they also saw the recruiters because the first thing I hear is Amber say, “Can you imagine? Me at UCLA?”

  No . . . not her. Me.

  “I can already picture you as a Bruin,” Danielle replies, giving Amber a hug.

  They squeal some more and resume jumping up and down.

  And I can’t help it: I bite my bottom lip until I taste blood.

  twenty-six

  “Safe!” the umpire shouts.

  I jump up out of my seat. Yes! One of Richland’s batters just made it to first base. Amber’s chances of a perfect game are officially destroyed.

  “Well, I guess we can’t add Amber to the B-Dub history books,” I think. Only my thought accidentally comes tumbling out of my mouth.

  Chloe glances at me and sneers. “Don’t sound so happy about it.”

  “I’m not. That sucks,” I say, shrugging.

  But obviously I am. Having to stare at Amber’s perfect-game ball in the school trophy case for all eternity would have been just too much to bear.

  Still, Amber manages to strike out the next batter.

  I start to worry that people are going to forget that she did make a mistake when Coach Kate calls us in from the field. Then, to my surprise, she yells, “Kylie, grab your glove!”

  I bounce up off the bench, do a calf stretch, and join my teammates outside the dugout. Finally, I’m going in.

  But my excitement is short-lived.

  Murmurs of “Did you see that?” and “Amazing” taunt me as I make my way toward Coach. Ugh . . . I can’t believe that even now, when it’s my turn, people are still talking about her.

  I wait for Coach’s instructions. When she’s finished going over the lineup with Coach Jackie, she looks at me. “We’re up by five. You’re going in next inning. Go warm up with Emily,” she says.

  A little swirl settles in my stomach. I jog toward the pitching cage and wait for Emily as she quickly suits up in the dugout. Even though her wrist isn’t yet strong enough to play on, it has healed enough for her to help out with practicing.

  “There she is . . . the Beachwood Academy fallen star,” an annoying squeaky voice announces behind me.

  When I turn around, I spot Rob Hamilton, a reporter from the school newspaper, the Sand Dollar. He stares at me from the other side of the pitching cage fence. In one hand he holds a silver voice recorder. I visibly shudder. Rob says that “the newspaper is the most powerful club in the school.” I just think he’s a tabloid journalist, a weasel who starts fires, then walks away.

  He holds the recorder up to his mouth. “I’m here with Kylie Collins, the Beachwood Academy pitcher best known for her junk pitches. Collins, how does it feel to be demoted to second string?”

  Is he for real? He’s going to do this right now? Right before I take the mound?

  He holds his recorder over the fence, urging me to give him a statement.

  Hello? Does he realize that he’s not exactly a broadcast journalist?

  I refuse to fall into his trap. Quickly, I turn my back toward him, balance my glove between my knees, and adjust the ribbons wrapped around my ponytail.

  But Rob doesn’t take no for an answer. “What are your thoughts on Amber McDonald, the Southern California powerhouse who transferred here this spring?”

  “No comment,” I say, still facing away from him.

  “Really? You don’t have anything to say about that rise ball of hers or the perfect game that she nearly pitched?” He continues to prod.

  I stay silent.

  “Does it hurt?” Rob asks, tucking his yellow pencil behind his ear. “It must. But I guess we all knew this was coming. . . .”

  That’s it. I drop my glove and take a step toward Rob, eager to show him what a “second string” can do to his face. As I’m about to grab his recorder (and hopefully his neck), Coach Kate yells, “Kylie, you’re in.”

  I shake Rob off. I’m not going to let him rain on my parade. Then I bend down, g
rab my glove, and am about to set up on the mound when I hear Rob say, “Don’t look so confident. You’re only going in now because you guys are up by five thanks to Amber.”

  “Rob, just get out of my way,” I reply.

  And that’s when he says the worst thing of all: “Even you can’t mess this up.”

  twenty-seven

  “Please open up to yesterday’s homework,” Mrs. Cunningham announces.

  I’m sitting on a hard chair, staring at the clock. How can I think about pre-calc when my mom is currently on her way here? To the West Coast! Sure, my performance on the mound yesterday wasn’t exactly top-notch. (I gave up three hits and one run.) But finally, I’m going to go prom shopping! And with no time left to spare, too, since prom is a little over a week away. Now I just have to figure out who I’m going to go with.

  “Let’s divide up into groups to go over the problems,” Mrs. Cunningham continues.

  As I move my desk over to Missy, I see that Hannah is already there. I can’t get over what a strange pair she and Hannah make. Where Hannah’s arms are covered with weird metal bracelets that look like they were fashioned out of loose wires, Missy has a single David Yurman birthstone cable bracelet wrapped around her wrist. In what twisted universe would two people who are so different be partners? They’re polar opposites.

  “Okay, what are we doing? I missed the problem,” I say, plopping on the chair.

  “I’m not feeling the lace right here.” Hannah points her pencil eraser at the top of a prom dress design, ignoring me. “I think it’s going to clash with—”

  “Hello, what problem?” I ask, louder this time.

  “One sec . . .” Missy says.

  “Let me see.” I snatch up the sketchbook and stare at a sketch of an electric-blue silk dress with black lace above the knees. It’s reminiscent of Madonna’s Like a Virgin vintage piece from the eighties. And strangely enough, I actually like it.

  I’m about to say as much to Hannah when I spot Martie looking at me from the doorway. Mrs. Cunningham walks over to meet her.

  “Kylie!” Nick catcalls from across the room.

  “What, loser?” I roll my eyes.

  “I heard that you got lucky yesterday. . . .”

  Immediately, my thoughts turn to Zachary. “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  Nick smirks. “Heard you actually played in the game against Richland.” Nick strolls over and straddles a chair in front of me. “How’d that happen?”

  “Heard you don’t have a date for the prom. I definitely know how that happened.” I tilt my head. Before I turn my attention back to pre-calc, I glance at Brett Davidson in the back of the room. He diverts his eyes like he’s been doing ever since that day when our convo was interrupted.

  Missy, Hannah, and Phoenix giggle behind me.

  “I have a date. . . .” Nick cocks his chin and puffs out his chest like a rooster.

  “Oh yeah. Who?” I ask.

  “January Lemmons,” he says.

  “Another freshman.” I roll my eyes. “Too bad I didn’t get to tell her how much of a jerk you are.”

  A few more classmates giggle.

  “Whatever . . .” Nick stands up and returns to his seat.

  I use this opportunity to meander back toward Brett. “Hey,” I say, waiting for him to make his move. When he doesn’t, I do it for him. “Is there something you wanted to ask me?”

  He looks up at me. “Uh. About that . . .” He pauses. “Yeah, but . . . I, uh, asked someone else.”

  So, he was going to ask me to prom. I take a deep breath and give him an answer that no one would expect from me. “No worries.”

  Brett looks at me to see if I’m joking. “What?”

  “You just made another decision I had to make a whole lot easier.”

  twenty-eight

  Before I can make a beeline to my dress-shopping extravaganza, Mrs. Cunningham calls out to me. “Kylie, Martie would like to speak with you for a second.”

  “Hi, Kylie.” Martie looks at me with concern.

  What now?

  “Hey, Coach,” I say, still feeling bad about the way I treated her a few weeks ago after the roster posting.

  Mrs. Cunningham gathers her books and leaves me and Martie alone together in the classroom.

  “Got a sec?” she asks.

  I adjust my bag.

  “I saw your game the other day.” Martie crosses her arms across her cotton polo. “You pitched well.”

  “Thanks,” I say, assuming she must be talking about the game I pitched against Bel Air. But still, it’s nice for her to talk to me at all after the way I acted. “Look, Coach, I’m sorry for—”

  Martie cuts me off. “Don’t worry about it. I know you were under a lot of stress. It’s water under the bridge.” Her deep brown eyes stare intently into mine. “What I want to know is, do you still love the game of softball?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then remember what I said: that’s all that matters.”

  I glance at the clock. Mom’s plane landed at LAX an hour ago.

  “I want to reiterate what I said last time we spoke: I heard you’re quite the second baseman for your ASA team.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I shrug.

  Dress shopping . . . Dress shopping . . .

  Martie smiles, looking satisfied. “Then here’s the plan. Approach Coach Kate this weekend during practice and tell her that you want to start training to be a utility player. Continue to work hard on your pitching, hitting, and fielding. That way you’ll be a more versatile player and a real asset to the team.”

  “But I’m a pitcher, not a second baseman.” I place my books and my bag on the desk next to me.

  “Yet.” She grins.

  “Look, Coach, I appreciate your help. Really, I do. And again, I’m sorry for the way I behaved. But I’ve got a lot on my mind right now.”

  “Just promise me you’ll think about it.” She gently smiles. “When the game changes, you have to change with it.”

  “Thanks . . .” I pick up my things and dart out of the classroom before Martie can get another word in.

  Once I reach the hallway, I sprint toward my locker, spin the combo, and swing open the door. Then I shove my hand in my Under Armour bag.

  I pull out my phone to let my mom know I’m running late, and see that the message indicator light is already blinking. I quickly touch the screen. Sure enough, there’s a text from my mom.

  FR: MOM

  SORRY, SWEETS. HAD 2 STAY NYC 4 WKND 4 WRK. C U SOON.

  My eyes fill with hot tears. How could she do this? I hurl the phone against a set of lockers across the hall. It ricochets off the metal, smacks the ground, and slides across the concrete floor. I lean my head and tap it against my locker.

  She promised! Why can’t she just give me one weekend? And how could she possibly think that a last-minute text is the right way to let me down?

  I open the door wider and stare at my flaming red face in my locker mirror. I attempt to take slow, cleansing breaths, and let go, like I hear my dad yapping about during his nightly sessions. I will not cry. She won’t make me cry again.

  “Did you drop something?” I see Zachary’s face appear next to mine in my mirror.

  I look at him through the reflection, his eyes full of concern, and it hits me: I didn’t do this. She doesn’t deserve my tears.

  twenty-nine

  “Just come on!” Zachary yells a few hours later. He rides ahead of me on his beach cruiser, having convinced me to meet him after practice with talk of how I deserve to be treated better and a confession about his father’s recent bender.

  “Chill out. I’m right behind you.” I attempt to keep up on the wooden beach path. After a tough late practice (during which I followed Martie’s advice and took a few ground balls at second—to surprising success) and all the drama with my mom, I’m struggling tonight.

  “Stop whining.” He stands up on the pedals, expanding his upper body like a k
night riding a chariot. A breeze rustles through his white Los Angeles Lakers tee and mesh shorts.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, pumping the pedals harder to keep up.

  “You’ll see . . .” Zachary makes a right off the path and onto the street. I follow him without questioning. Then, all of a sudden, it hits me.

  “Wait. Are we going to our old elementary school?” In the distance, the familiar building looms. The Spanish-style architecture is the same, but the school itself used to seem much bigger and scarier.

  “Just wait and see. . . .” Zachary veers off into the bus parking lot and bikes around the building toward the back. Once he reaches the fence that lines the playground, he dismounts his bike and leans it against the fence. He walks up to me and holds out his hand in an attempt to help me off my bike.

  “What do you think, I can’t do it myself?” I say, jumping off and kicking out my kickstand.

  He grins. “See, you don’t let me be romantic. And you complain about the way I invited you to prom . . .”

  “Yeah, I do. But that’s not the point. Helping me off a bike I’m completely capable of dismounting myself isn’t romantic. It’s male chauvinism at its best.”

  “Did somebody forget to drink her Caramel Frap this morning?” Zachary teases me, pulling me toward the playground. At first I resist, but then I follow him. He sits on the end of a purple-and-blue enclosed plastic slide. Then he pulls me to the spot next to him.

  “Remember this slide?”

  “How could I forget?” I blush, remembering our first “real” kiss here four years ago. Memories of that night begin to overwhelm me—too wonderful to ignore. So, I decide that perhaps sitting isn’t the answer. Instead, I climb up the steps and slip down the tiny slide, feet first. When I reach the bottom, I slam into him and push off with my feet like I used to when we played slide bumper cars. He playfully falls off the slide and onto the wood chips below.