Whatever Life Throws at You by Julie Cross Page B

machine. He yawns and then adds, “I should get going. Jim will be back soon, right?”
    I tug the wires from my leg and sigh. “Yeah, any minute now.”
    He pats me on the head like a little sister. “I’ll see you later, Annie. Lock the door behind me, okay?”
    After he’s gone and I’ve locked the door, I go into Grams’ room, crawl into bed beside her, and spill all the details of my secret unrequited crush on Jason Brody. Maybe if I say it aloud I’ll be able to get rid of it sooner. I’m worried about the inevitable rejection that may come from these feelings, but even more than that, I’m worried about falling hard for someone—not just Brody, anyone—and not being able to let go. I’ve seen what that’s done to Dad’s life. He’s ruined by it. I’d rather be alone than be head over heels in love. It’s like being drunk. Your IQ drops a hundred points and you make stupid choices.
    By the time I finished telling Grams everything, I’d made up my mind—crushing on Brody had to stop, for both our sakes.

Chapter 9
    Lenny London: I will eat my words only when they come in 5 different fruit flavors.
    23 hours ago
    Jason Brody Royals Pitcher: “Kids should practice autographing baseballs. This is a skill that’s often overlooked in Little League.”—Tug McGraw
    22 hours ago
    Annie Lucas: What’s the deal with overshoes? So you put them over your shoes? Why do I need a whole poem about this mundane, old-fashioned task? My brain isn’t wired to understand poetry. Can I please be excused?
    3 hours ago
    Carl London: Watch me on ESPN tonight with my sis, the amazing Lenny London! 7pm ET.
    1 hour ago
    M ajor League Baseball’s Hottest Rookie Pitcher Proves to Be Quite the Lady’s Man… Nineteen-year-old rookie pitcher Jason Brody, recently signed for half the season with the Royals, hasn’t wasted any time showing fans that fast isn’t exclusive to his pitches. A source counted four different women entering and exiting the player’s hotel room during the team’s three night stay in Atlanta this week.
    I stare at the photos of three different bimbos putting their lips on Brody’s lips. God I hope he’s getting daily testing done.
    Disgusted, I toss the magazine aside in the dugout and turn my attention back to practice. I’ve only got a week until state and my hamstring’s feeling way better. I can’t let my mind get bogged down with obsessing over Brody’s “groupies.”
    After an easy four-mile run around downtown, I’m eating an apple and relaxing in the dugout. Frank is standing right outside, making pages of notes on his clipboard. I get up and move beside him, crunching my apple. “You know what your designated hitters were eating before practice today?”
    “What?” Franks asks. “Animal bi-products? Whales? Something else that will cause a team-related scandal?”
    “Hot dogs,” I say, and when he doesn’t react, I repeat it, “Hot dogs, Frank! If I ate a hot dog before track practice, even the lightest workout, I’d be puking my guts out.” I gesture toward the players swinging bats around. “I’m not seeing any puking out here.”
    He narrows his eyes at me. “What’s your point, kid?”
    “They’re lazy.” I throw my hands up like this is so obvious because it totally is. “They can’t run for shit and they’re not all hitting home runs every time they’re at bat. Could be useful to have a little speed for those doubles and triples?”
    “They’re big guys,” he says. “They’re not made to run fast.”
    “Okay,” I correct. “How about faster ? Think about it… five seconds—hell, one second—can make the difference between being safe and out. Add that up for an entire season, and I bet you’d get at least four or five more wins on the Royals’ record.”
    He sets his clipboard down on an empty bench and turns to me, arms folded across his chest. “From my experience, designated hitters are the biggest prima donnas in baseball. They’ll all