one on Nate’s family, and he does one on mine. The final version will be joined together. Another task I’ll probably complete for the both of us.
Toward the end of class, during a lull, Nate says, “So, are you starting today?”
“You know it.” I lift one shoulder and freeze that way. What did I just do? I can’t believe I told him that.
He looks surprised for a flash of a second, but then he recovers and says, “That’s so great. I’ll come by after rehearsal and see if I can catch an inning.”
Why did I say that? Did I forget that it’s possible to be caught in a lie?
Nate doesn’t seem to notice my horror. Instead, he startshumming, which he’s been doing a lot lately with
Show Boat
rehearsals heating up. It’s a bit corny, but I like that he hums, even if it makes it hard to concentrate during class. Maybe it’ll make him forget to come down and see me riding the bench in my spotless uniform.
In the locker room everyone dresses for the game in silence because the other team is here already, acting like they own the place. They stand at the long row of sinks and mirrors adjusting their hair and caps, perfecting their already perfect look: patriotic red, white, and blue uniforms, hair ribbons, shoelaces, and wristbands. We can’t seem to stop gawking.
The Fort Worth Country Day coach has this husky smoker’s voice and a kick-ass tan. She looks like she’s been doing this for a hundred years, and you can tell by the way the team listens to everything she says that she’s revered. The minute she yells, “
Time’s up!
” they leap to attention and gather at the far end of the locker room in front of a small green chalkboard. It’s almost creepy.
Coach marches into the locker room at about that time to get us psyched. When no one responds to her cheers, she says, “What’s the problem here?”
“We’re intimidated,” Debra Lester whispers. “They’re so big.”
Which is true. They’re huge. They look like they’re in college.
Coach doesn’t like this. She starts clapping and walks up and down the rows of lockers. “Okay, Lady Peacocks,” she shouts. “Get proud and show me your colors!”
I cringe, especially since the other team can hear.
We shuffle out through the gym as ordered, but it’s like she’sforcing us to do something we absolutely do
not
want to do. The sun makes our purple and green uniforms explode, and I have to shield my eyes.
The starters begin infield, throwing the ball around from their positions when Coach hits it to them. They don’t look half bad—until the Country Day girls appear at the top of the hill and descend in one massive red, white, and blue mob. The Lady Peacocks start dropping the ball, overthrowing it, missing it completely. Coach reels them in. She doesn’t want the other team to see that we’re nervous.
Their coach barks out, “
Infield
,” and the other team’s starters dash out to their positions and hurl the ball around the bases, yelling and grunting at each other. They look so confident.
Thank God I’m not starting
.
After a minute or two, Coach comes over to the bench and crouches down to our level. She looks into our faces. “Don’t watch the other team warm up; don’t look so scared; and start giving your team some support. Send it telepathically if you have to. Believe it.”
I happen to glance at Sally Fontineau. I’ve been avoiding this for a whole week, trying not to have any contact with her whatsoever. When she sees me, she rolls her eyes and pops her gum.
Coach notices the whole thing.
“Sally? Ella?” she says, making it seem like we’re sharing some secret code.
I’m shocked. Surely she can’t think I’m as indifferent as Sally.
But then, instead of reprimanding us, she says, “Hang in there. We’re a team, remember? This is fun.”
Sally looks at her fingernails. I look Coach right in the eye and nod my head, trying to project my I’m-a-worthy-part-of-the-team face.
Coach turns to go over
Toward the end of class, during a lull, Nate says, “So, are you starting today?”
“You know it.” I lift one shoulder and freeze that way. What did I just do? I can’t believe I told him that.
He looks surprised for a flash of a second, but then he recovers and says, “That’s so great. I’ll come by after rehearsal and see if I can catch an inning.”
Why did I say that? Did I forget that it’s possible to be caught in a lie?
Nate doesn’t seem to notice my horror. Instead, he startshumming, which he’s been doing a lot lately with
Show Boat
rehearsals heating up. It’s a bit corny, but I like that he hums, even if it makes it hard to concentrate during class. Maybe it’ll make him forget to come down and see me riding the bench in my spotless uniform.
In the locker room everyone dresses for the game in silence because the other team is here already, acting like they own the place. They stand at the long row of sinks and mirrors adjusting their hair and caps, perfecting their already perfect look: patriotic red, white, and blue uniforms, hair ribbons, shoelaces, and wristbands. We can’t seem to stop gawking.
The Fort Worth Country Day coach has this husky smoker’s voice and a kick-ass tan. She looks like she’s been doing this for a hundred years, and you can tell by the way the team listens to everything she says that she’s revered. The minute she yells, “
Time’s up!
” they leap to attention and gather at the far end of the locker room in front of a small green chalkboard. It’s almost creepy.
Coach marches into the locker room at about that time to get us psyched. When no one responds to her cheers, she says, “What’s the problem here?”
“We’re intimidated,” Debra Lester whispers. “They’re so big.”
Which is true. They’re huge. They look like they’re in college.
Coach doesn’t like this. She starts clapping and walks up and down the rows of lockers. “Okay, Lady Peacocks,” she shouts. “Get proud and show me your colors!”
I cringe, especially since the other team can hear.
We shuffle out through the gym as ordered, but it’s like she’sforcing us to do something we absolutely do
not
want to do. The sun makes our purple and green uniforms explode, and I have to shield my eyes.
The starters begin infield, throwing the ball around from their positions when Coach hits it to them. They don’t look half bad—until the Country Day girls appear at the top of the hill and descend in one massive red, white, and blue mob. The Lady Peacocks start dropping the ball, overthrowing it, missing it completely. Coach reels them in. She doesn’t want the other team to see that we’re nervous.
Their coach barks out, “
Infield
,” and the other team’s starters dash out to their positions and hurl the ball around the bases, yelling and grunting at each other. They look so confident.
Thank God I’m not starting
.
After a minute or two, Coach comes over to the bench and crouches down to our level. She looks into our faces. “Don’t watch the other team warm up; don’t look so scared; and start giving your team some support. Send it telepathically if you have to. Believe it.”
I happen to glance at Sally Fontineau. I’ve been avoiding this for a whole week, trying not to have any contact with her whatsoever. When she sees me, she rolls her eyes and pops her gum.
Coach notices the whole thing.
“Sally? Ella?” she says, making it seem like we’re sharing some secret code.
I’m shocked. Surely she can’t think I’m as indifferent as Sally.
But then, instead of reprimanding us, she says, “Hang in there. We’re a team, remember? This is fun.”
Sally looks at her fingernails. I look Coach right in the eye and nod my head, trying to project my I’m-a-worthy-part-of-the-team face.
Coach turns to go over
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