But I want that too. I want it so badly.
"Deal," I say, reaching out my hand for his. He chuckles and shakes his head, pushing off from the desk and taking my hand in his. He shakes it, but steps closer to me, towing my hand up to his mouth, turning it over to press his lips on my wrist. I swear when he turns away, I'll be able to see a brand from it, I still feel it so strongly. I actually look when he leaves, but it's only my skin-no visual memory of his touch. But my heart remembers. My stupid heart, and the thump in my chest and the numb feeling I have in my toes and fingertips.
I swallow, move into my seat, and pull out my notes on lighting. We spend the rest of the afternoon learning new ways to use shadows to tell a story, but all I think about is how I want to crawl into one. I think about how even if I blow this and weasel my way into a school dance date with Wesley Stokes, I don't have anything to wear, and I wouldn't know what to do when we got there.
I resolve myself to swinging at the very first pitch I get and putting it over the fence to end the misery of living with expectations. And then I regret knowing I will. I simmer in regret until the bell sounds and Wes and I link fingers at the door and walk down the hallway and outside to the gym to change. When his hand leaves mine, I feel lucky and terrified all at once.
Taryn comes in last-she's always late to practice, late to the games, late to coach's meeting. She says that's why she's stuck in right field. But really-she's just not the strongest player. I come in late. And before I met Wes, I used to skip practice all together. But I still played short and batted fourth. Sometimes, skills get you a pass in life. I rode mine for a long time.
Lately, though, I've been trying harder. I've wanted more-more from myself, more out of life, more …
More expectations.
I don't know if it's because of Wes, or if the timing was just fate that I decided to make a change in my life. I would like to think I'm strong enough to fight for things on my own. But I also know that I didn't really care about much, until the boy who saved me once, showed up to do it again.
I take my time lacing my cleats, pulling my socks up high around my knees. My pants are snug against my thighs; my sliding shorts padding me underneath. Taryn is still getting dressed, so while I wait for her-while the rest of the girls have gone and I have this small window in front of the bathroom mirrors alone-I stand still and look at myself.
My chest is flattened under the thick stretch of Lycra. My hair is pulled back tight, the few loose strands around my hairline glued down with water I splashed on them with my hands. As I turn to the side, I take in my figure. I curve, but more in the way that screams of speed and muscle. My arms are still blue with bruises in spots; more green, really. And where they're not, I'm scratched up like a tomboy who spent the day wrestling fish barehanded from the rocky river-bottom.
I turn back to the mirror and step forward, resting my hands on either side of the sink, letting my face get close. My freckles are faint, and my blue eyes are muddied, but when I stare closely, holding my breath, I can still see her-I can still see the girl Wes … Christopher … saved years ago.
"She's in there," I whisper, my eyes held open until they start to tear.
I back up and shake my head, clearing myself of that sad feeling that was starting to crawl inside. I breathe in slowly and turn to my right. I don't look like a girl who goes to a dance. And this is the first time I've ever really cared about the outside-what people see and how I fit into their mold.
"You ready?" Taryn yells from the locker room end.
"Coming!" I shout back, lingering on my reflection for one more second-just long enough to clear my head and get on my game face.
I snag my equipment bag on my way to the front door and meet Taryn there to walk along the dirt path that divides the baseball side of our school fields from the softball side. I catch a vision of Wes on the mound, my father standing next to him with a clipboard and the speed gun. It's too far to see their eyes, but their hats are both tilted toward me. Wes reaches up and adjusts his, and I let myself smile because I know it was for me-a sign saying hello. And then I think about our deal, and the girl I saw in the mirror, and I look away.
"I guess Trinity really sucks," Taryn says. I glance out to the right side of the field where the other team is throwing, girls dressed in bright green with bows and matching shoelaces. They all have matching jackets, and when I look over at their dugout, their equipment bags all have their numbers stitched on them.
Private schools.
"They look like they have money," I say, dropping my bag on the dugout bench and looking at my own cleats-my laces worn and knotted. I wouldn't trade my shoes for theirs for anything in the world.
"Whatever. Remember last year when we snuck a smoke behind their school before the game?" Taryn says, grabbing a ball from the bucket and leading me out to the field to throw.
I laugh under my breath at the memory, nodding to her when I'm ready for her to throw.
Last year's matchup with Trinity was when my bottom began. I took myself out of the game, pouting from a bad call, and that night was the furthest I went in a make-out session with Kyle. I kissed him and let him get my shirt off in his back bedroom while our friends all got drunk in his living room. I felt ashamed during, and the shame only amplified when I pushed him away after an hour of him hoping things would go somewhere. I don't know how he doesn't hate me, but I'm glad he doesn't.
That's when I started skipping practices and sleeping in, blowing off class. I skirted by with mostly Cs, and one D last year. My grade point average is shit. But I wasn't going anywhere. I didn't want to go anywhere, other than some place that wasn't in my father's home.
I didn't think about limitations. I only thought of not giving a damn about much. But I kind of want to go somewhere now. I kind of give a damn. My stomach twists knowing that my spiral could have cost me the opportunity to go anywhere at all-to go anywhere Wes might go.
"They're ending early," Taryn says, nodding over my shoulder and flipping the ball to me underhand. I catch it and rest it in my glove on my hip, squinting into the sun as I look out at the baseball team huddled around home plate.
"He never ends early. He's probably just lecturing them more," I say, still captivated by the scene on the other field.
Our coach calls us to the dugout, so I join the rest of the team, but I watch as the boys grunt out a chant and begin to move from the field, grabbing their bags and unlacing their shoes. A few of them begin to walk across the field, but it doesn't hit me until I see Wes walking alongside my father-heading this way.
"Holy fuck," I say under my breath.
"What?" Taryn says, flipping her hair up as she kneels on the bench beside me, looking through the back holes of our dugout. She locks onto what I see a second later. There are maybe twenty guys on my father's varsity team, and they are all headed this way.
Every single one of them.
Taryn's laughter starts to brew in her chest, and soon the raspy rhythm of it is filling my left ear, her hand slapping my arm.
"Holy shit, they're coming to watch us!" She leaps from the bench and rushes to the other end of the backstop so she can talk to TK as he walks up to our small set of bleachers. I stay where I am, on the opposite end, working the rough edges of my glove around my hand.
Wes stands behind the bleachers, resting his hands on the top of the back seat. My father is next to him, but only Wes looks my way. He lifts his hand and smooths his hair under his hat, sliding it back in place before giving me a slight nod.
I feel sick.
Thank god we're in the field first.
Our coach gathers us for some warm-ups, and I only half listen to his assessment of the other team. It doesn't matter what his assessment is. I only know one way to play-my way. The Eric Winters way. It's just that it's been a while since I've played in front of my father.
I catch my father's eyes over my coach's shoulder. He's watching intently, even though he can't hear anything. As we take warm-ups, I notice him lean over and give commentary to Wes.
It doesn't take long for muscle memory to kick in, and I glide side-to-side, my feet find their natural rhythm for every fielding attempt, for every throw. My head kicks in with my father's voice.
You are better than that. Throw it harder. Don't leave room for errors. Nothing gets by you. Come on!
I toss my final warm-up throw to our catcher, Shelby, and the ball snaps in her glove. She flicks her mask off and glares at me, but I look away. I took that out on her. I'm not proud. But I'm also not apologizing.
We take the field, and Trinity only gets a hold of one pitch, sending a line drive at my knees that I snag easily and flip up to the pitcher on my way in. I notice my father lean to Wes, and I sit alone at the end of the bench in our dugout to think about what he could have possibly said.