Redemption by Stacey Lannert

was mean. I even had to wear green goo.
    Tired of drama, I decided to try baseball that summer. Mom came to all of my games. She even made Dad attend sometimes. I thought joining the team would be lots of fun. But mostly, I hoped I would finally make some friends in Alhambra. I was still batting zero with my country peers.
    I was young, and I didn’t take all the factors into consideration. For one, Alhambra had a boys’ baseball team. All the athletic teams were male because the school was so small. If girls wanted to play, they had to be tough enough to go against the boys. So different teams—soccer, track, and basketball—sometimes had one girl. The boys usually liked that girl as much as they liked striking out.
    As it turned out, I wasn’t the only girl on the team—I had to go and be the second. The boys didn’t take too kindly to Kyla, but they accepted her because she’d been hanging around since T-ball days. Thanks to me, their team had two girls.
    I don’t know what I was thinking. During one of the games, I almost threw in the towel. I was at bat, getting ready to hit. I wound up and immediately dropped my Louisville Slugger. The pitcher had clocked me in the hand with the baseball. Meanwhile, the umpire called it a strike.
    At least our coach was on my side. “Are you blind?” he yelled. I was playing it tough. I blinked. I made an angry face. If I really wanted baseball suicide, all I needed to do was cry.
    “I heard a clink,” the umpire said.
    My mom ran over to make sure I was okay. At that point, my toughness melted along with my pride. I cried hard because my hand hurt like hell. Mom brought me ice while the coach argued with the umpire. The umpire won, and I was still out.
    Mom said I could sit out the rest of the game if I wanted to, but I went back in and played till the end. That’s the only way I could regain my reputation. I had started the game, and I was going to finish it. My parents didn’t raise a quitter.
    They always taught me persistence—to just keep getting along any way I could.
    I was out in left field and at least I could move my fingers a little bit. If I had given up at that moment, then the boys who hated me would’ve won. So I finished the rest of the season with my chin up and my batting helmet—and gloves—on. I was careful not to get in the way of any more balls. I was glad when baseball was over.
    I hadn’t endeared myself to the boys in my school, and the girls were so “country” that I had a hard time adjusting. At least I had track. I could always run. I could jump, too. I was excited for our school’s track and field days at the end of the year. The grandiose titles of Mr. and Miss Peanut would go to the two children who earned the most first-place ribbons in a series of competitions. I was good at sports, but I never dreamed I’d win the coveted title. I just know that this arrogant snob of a fifth grader named Keith was hot when I beat him in the short-distance run. I don’t know why it bothered him so much; he could still beat me in the long run. I creamed him in the dashes, though, and he hated me for that. He always got Mr. Peanut, and that year was no different. There was one change, though: I stood next to him in the winner’s spot. I was the underdog, and the surprise Miss Peanut winner. I had overthrown the reigning queen, Carla. I was proud of myself on the inside, but I couldn’t be truly happy because everything I did made those kids hate me more. I felt so alone in Alhambra. My daddy—when he was Daddy, not when he was Tom—and my dog were the only two things I really had. I felt accepted only when I was at home with them.
    It didn’t matter how much, or how little, my mom did for me. I resented her, though I didn’t yet hate her. Sure, she might come to my baseball games, but she hadn’t come to my rescue. She was just starting secretarial school and sliding into her own world. She was building a life of her own that didn’t