of the way home. Now I’ll have to tell my mother the car pool didn’t work out, and she’ll want to know a million details.
In my driveway I say, “Could you get out for a second so I can apologize properly?” I seem to be doing a lot of this lately.
“Don’t worry about it,” Rocky says.
“No, please.”
“Fine.” She leaves the car running, gets out, and stands in the front yard, hands on hips.
“I don’t know why I said that. Everyone wishes you were on the team. It would change everything. Kat says we could dominate if you were playing short. And I could get good enough to play first, if you were there helping me.”
“You don’t need me,” she says. “You only need to listen and watch.”
“Isn’t there some way, Rocky?”
She shakes her head and glances back at the car. “No. I don’t play anymore.”
“But…”
There’s so much I’ve learned about Rocky from other people that I have to remember not to bring up her brother or aunt helping out since
she
hasn’t told me anything.
“I gotta get going,” she says.
I follow her to the driver’s side. “What about throwing with me. At your house. You could teach me to throw better, like a girl.”
Her eyes narrow. “You want me to teach you to throw like a girl?”
“A
real
girl. Like you.”
She laughs. “I don’t think so.”
“You could help me learn about positioning and crucial defensive playing.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She gets back in the car and slams the door. “Go take a hot shower. You’ll need it. You’re gonna be sore tomorrow.”
She backs out of the driveway with a screech and tears off into the sunset. But before she makes the turn off my street, she puts her arm out the window and waves to me.
We’re still hanging on by a thread.
Not only am I sore on Tuesday, but Wednesday, too. Waiting to find out if Rocky will throw with me sometime this week and if I’ll play against Fort Worth Country Day in our first game tomorrow makes the pain worse. Neither prospect looks too good. Rocky hardly talked to me the whole way home yesterday. And during the drills at practice today, Julie Meyers played first with the rest of the starting lineup.
I try to remember what Rocky told me. Listen to the coach and watch what the experienced players do. Try to be thinking about softball the whole time, not Nate or the fitting I have for a bridesmaid’s dress for my sister’s wedding or the fact that I seem to be off Sally Fontineau’s radar at the moment.
But then I overhear Gwen and Joy talking about Sally’s mother getting pissed off that Sally brought the car home late, since their BMW was in the shop. How many cars do they have?
Gwen says, “Her mom had to be at some fund-raising event downtown so she chewed Sally out for being irresponsible, once again. When Sally reminded her she was late because of softball, her mom went ballistic.”
“What happened?”
Gwen shrugs. “She went on and on about how Sally wasn’tgood enough to play in more than two innings last year, so why would she subject herself to that again? You know Mrs. Fontineau. We’re not talking
Little House on the Prairie
here.”
“God.”
“I know. Then she told Sally how worthless it is for girls to play sports and that she should worry more about getting herself into any college that’ll accept her so she’ll have something to do after high school.”
I stand there trying not to listen. I’m supposed to be listening to Coach. I’m up next in the three-player line-relay drill we’re doing. But all I can hear is Gwen talking about Sally’s mom. Nate’s mom.
My mother would never say something so mean to me.
I’m in a rotation with Kat, who absolutely fires the ball at me. I catch it, turn, and whip it as hard as I can to Jenny Yin. Which isn’t very hard. Or perfectly on target. But it gets there, and I trot off to get behind the last person in the next line. Coach is
In my driveway I say, “Could you get out for a second so I can apologize properly?” I seem to be doing a lot of this lately.
“Don’t worry about it,” Rocky says.
“No, please.”
“Fine.” She leaves the car running, gets out, and stands in the front yard, hands on hips.
“I don’t know why I said that. Everyone wishes you were on the team. It would change everything. Kat says we could dominate if you were playing short. And I could get good enough to play first, if you were there helping me.”
“You don’t need me,” she says. “You only need to listen and watch.”
“Isn’t there some way, Rocky?”
She shakes her head and glances back at the car. “No. I don’t play anymore.”
“But…”
There’s so much I’ve learned about Rocky from other people that I have to remember not to bring up her brother or aunt helping out since
she
hasn’t told me anything.
“I gotta get going,” she says.
I follow her to the driver’s side. “What about throwing with me. At your house. You could teach me to throw better, like a girl.”
Her eyes narrow. “You want me to teach you to throw like a girl?”
“A
real
girl. Like you.”
She laughs. “I don’t think so.”
“You could help me learn about positioning and crucial defensive playing.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She gets back in the car and slams the door. “Go take a hot shower. You’ll need it. You’re gonna be sore tomorrow.”
She backs out of the driveway with a screech and tears off into the sunset. But before she makes the turn off my street, she puts her arm out the window and waves to me.
We’re still hanging on by a thread.
Not only am I sore on Tuesday, but Wednesday, too. Waiting to find out if Rocky will throw with me sometime this week and if I’ll play against Fort Worth Country Day in our first game tomorrow makes the pain worse. Neither prospect looks too good. Rocky hardly talked to me the whole way home yesterday. And during the drills at practice today, Julie Meyers played first with the rest of the starting lineup.
I try to remember what Rocky told me. Listen to the coach and watch what the experienced players do. Try to be thinking about softball the whole time, not Nate or the fitting I have for a bridesmaid’s dress for my sister’s wedding or the fact that I seem to be off Sally Fontineau’s radar at the moment.
But then I overhear Gwen and Joy talking about Sally’s mother getting pissed off that Sally brought the car home late, since their BMW was in the shop. How many cars do they have?
Gwen says, “Her mom had to be at some fund-raising event downtown so she chewed Sally out for being irresponsible, once again. When Sally reminded her she was late because of softball, her mom went ballistic.”
“What happened?”
Gwen shrugs. “She went on and on about how Sally wasn’tgood enough to play in more than two innings last year, so why would she subject herself to that again? You know Mrs. Fontineau. We’re not talking
Little House on the Prairie
here.”
“God.”
“I know. Then she told Sally how worthless it is for girls to play sports and that she should worry more about getting herself into any college that’ll accept her so she’ll have something to do after high school.”
I stand there trying not to listen. I’m supposed to be listening to Coach. I’m up next in the three-player line-relay drill we’re doing. But all I can hear is Gwen talking about Sally’s mom. Nate’s mom.
My mother would never say something so mean to me.
I’m in a rotation with Kat, who absolutely fires the ball at me. I catch it, turn, and whip it as hard as I can to Jenny Yin. Which isn’t very hard. Or perfectly on target. But it gets there, and I trot off to get behind the last person in the next line. Coach is
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