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With our fingers frozen on unlacing our cleats, Logan and I snap up our heads. Chris’s face blanches. “That’s sacrilegious, Lace. Take it back.”
Next to me, Logan shoves his feet into his Nikes and tosses his cleats into his bag. “You don’t know the thrill of winning a good dare.”
“Dares aren’t fun,” she says, the reprimand thick in her tone. “They’re crazy. You set my car on fire.”
Logan holds up his hand. “I opened the window in time. In my defense, the upholstery is barely singed.”
Chris and I chuckle at the memory of Lacy screaming as she was doing forty on a curve. The short story: a hamburger wrapper, a lighter, a stopwatch, and a dare. Logan accidentally dropped the blazing wrapper and it rolled under Lacy’s seat. One patented I’ll-kick-you-until-you-drop glare from Lacy shuts us both up. “I wish you’d get a girlfriend so she can drive your insane ass around.”
“I can’t.” Logan waggles his eyebrows. “I’m Ryan’s wingman.”
“Wingman.” She spits the word, then points a sparkly fingernail at both me and Logan, but I don’t miss how it lingers on me. “One of you needs to find a girl and commit. I’m tired of this testosterone bull.”
Lacy hates the string of girls I’ve dated over the summer. She’s terrified I’ll influence Chris to drop her, though she should know better. Chris reveres her as his own personal religion.
“You didn’t approve of the one I committed to last time,” I say. “Why should I try again?”
“Because you can do better than evil.”
I drop my tone. “Gwen’s not evil.” Gwen and I broke up, but there’s no reason to talk trash about her.
“Speak of the devil,” mumbles Logan.
“Hi, Ryan.” I turn my head to witness Gwen in all her glory. A blue cotton dress swishes around her tanned legs, and she wears a new-to-me pair of cowboy boots. Hand-curled ringlets bounce at the ends of her long blond hair. Surrounded by her three best girlfriends, she floats right past, but keeps her green eyes locked on me.
“Gwen,” I say in return. Reaching the concession stand, she sweeps her hair over her shoulder as she refocuses her attention. I keep staring, trying to remember why we broke up.
“Drama!” Lacy purposely blocks my view of Gwen’s ass. “She was nothing but drama. Remember? You said, ‘Lacy, there’s nothing real about her,’ and I said, ‘I know,’ and I happily threw an ‘I told you so’ in your face. Then you said, ‘Don’t let me go back to her,’ and I said, ‘Can I rip off your balls if you attempt it,’ and you said …”
“‘No.’” I said no because Lacy would actually do it, and I prefer my balls attached, but I did ask her to remind me of that conversation if I became weak. Logan and I should ask some girls to the movies next weekend. Hell, if Skater Girl had given me her number, I might even have considered calling her. God knows she was sexy as hell and when it comes to Gwen, a distraction always helps.
“Come on, Logan,” says Chris. “I’ll give you a ride home.”
Near the dugout, Dad wraps an arm around Mom as the two of them chat with Coach and a man dressed in a polo shirt and khakis. I wonder if anyone else notices how Mom leans slightly away from Dad’s body. Probably not. Mom’s in homecoming-court mode, all smiles and laughs.
From over his shoulder, Dad indicates I should join them by giving me one of his rare I’m-proud-of-you smiles. It makes me unbalanced. Yeah, we won, but we win a lot. It’s what state champions do. Why the outpouring of pride now?
As I said, Dad and I are clones, except for the age and the skin. Years of rain, sun, heat, and cold have seasoned his face. Owning a construction company requires a lot of time in the elements. “Ryan, this is Mr. Davis.”
Mr. Davis and I both offer our hands at the same time. He’s tall, thin, and possibly my father’s age, except Mr. Davis doesn’t look weathered. “Call me Rob. Congratulations on a well-played game. You have a hell of a fastball.”
“Thank you, sir.” I’ve heard it before. Mom tells everyone God gave me a gift, and while I’m not sure what I think of that, I won’t deny I’ve enjoyed the ride. Too bad Dad and I couldn’t garner any interest at pro baseball tryouts.
I’m used to meetings and introductions. Because Dad owns his own company and has a seat on the city council, he’s into networking. Don’t get me wrong—Dad’s not the power-hungry sort. He declined running for mayor several times, even though my mom has been begging him to consider it for years. He’s just real into the community.
Rob tilts his head to the field. “Do you mind throwing a couple for me?”
Mom, Dad, and Coach share knowing grins and I feel like someone told a joke and left me out of the punch line. Or maybe I am the punch line. “Sure.”
Rob pulls a radar gun and a business card out of the bag. He keeps the radar gun in his left hand and hands me the card. “I came here today to watch a player from the other team. Didn’t see what I was looking for with him, but I think I found something promising with you.”
Dad claps my back, and his public showing of affection has me looking at him. Dad’s not a touchy guy. My family—we aren’t like that. I grip the card in my hand, and it takes everything I’ve got not to swear in shock in front of my mother. The man heading to the area behind home plate is Rob Davis, scout for the Cincinnati Reds.
“Told you that spring tryouts weren’t the end of it.” Dad motions for me to follow Rob. “Go blow him away.”
BETH
THE OLDER PRISON GUARD, the nice one, walks beside me. He didn’t put the cuffs on supertight like the other dickhead guard. He isn’t in my face, trying to scare the shit out of me. He’s not trying to reenact a scene from Cops. He just walks next to me, ignoring my existence.
I’m all for silence after listening to a girl come down from a bad acid trip last night.
Maybe it was today.
I don’t have a clue what time of day it is.
They gave me breakfast.
They discussed lunch.
It must be morning. Maybe midday.
The guard opens the door to what I can only describe as an interrogation room. Other than the holding cell I’ve shared with the fifteen-year-old who’s way too strung out for my taste, this is where I’ve spent the majority of my time since they arrested me for destruction of property. The guard relaxes his back against the wall. I sit at the table.
I need a cigarette.
Bad.
Unbelievably bad.
Like I would rip off my own arm if I could get one drag.
“What are you coming down from?” The guard stares at my fingers.
I stop tapping the table. “Nicotine.”
“That’s rough,” he says. “I never kicked it.”
“Yeah. It fucking blows.”
The police officer who arrested me last night—this morning—steps into the room. “She speaks.”
Yeah. Didn’t mean to. I clamp my mouth shut. Last night, this morning—who the hell knows—I managed to keep silent when they grilled me on my mom, my home life, my mom’s boyfriend. I refused to talk, refused to say one word, because if I did, I could have said the wrong thing and sent my mom to jail. There’s no way I could live with that.
I have no idea what happened to her or her boyfriend after they snapped the handcuffs on my wrist and sat me in the back of the squad car. If God’s hearing prayers from me, then maybe Mom’s in the clear and the asshole’s sharing a urinal with the other felons-of-the-month.
The officer resembles a twenty-year-old Johnny Depp, and he smells clean—soap with a hint of coffee. He’s not the one who tried to talk to me last night. Just the guy that arrested me. He settles into the seat across from me and the guard leaves.
“I’m Officer Monroe.”
I glare at the table.
Officer Monroe reaches over, unlocks the cuffs, and slides them to his side of the table. “Why don’t you tell me what really happened last night?”
Just one drag. Oh God, it’d be better than a deep kiss from a really hot guy. But I’m not kissing a hot guy and I don’t have a cigarette because I’m currently being questioned in purgatory.
“Your mom’s boyfriend, Trent—we know he’s bad news, but he’s smart. We’ve never gotten enough to put him away. Maybe you can help us and yourself. Help us put him in jail, then he’ll be away from you and your mom.”
I agree—he’s Satan. Other than the fact that he’s a washed-up has-been of a football player who traded tackling men on the field for beating the shit out of women though, I have nothing to tell them beyond rumors I’ve heard on the street. The cops who walk the south-side beat are well aware of our bedtime stories regarding The Asshole Known as Trent. The tantalizing tidbit that he hits me and Mom could get us a flimsy piece of paper with the words Emergency Protection Order on the header, but domestic violence offenders rarely sit inside jail cells for long, plus Trent burns EPOs and puppies for fun.
Even before my mother got involved with Trent, the police were after him, but he’s the walking, talking real-life version of an oil spill—impossible to pick up once he’s been released. Helping the police will only bring the ooze and his sickening wrath quicker to our doorstep.
“He lives in the same apartment complex as your mom, right? Wouldn’t it be nice to live with her again and not have to worry about him?”
Having no idea how he knows I don’t live with my mom, I fight hard not to glance at him. Refusing to indicate he’s right.
“We didn’t even know he was dating your mom. He, uh, sees other women.”
I keep from rolling my eyes. There’s a shock.
“Elisabeth,” he says after my nonresponse.
“Beth.” I hate my given name. “My name is Beth.”
“Beth, your one phone call has been standing in the lobby since five a.m.”
Isaiah! My eyes flash to Officer Monroe’s. The walls I built to protect myself crumble and fatigue sets in as the iciness I’ve clung to all night melts. Fear and hurt rush to take its place. I want Isaiah. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.
I blink, realizing the stinging sensation is tears. Wiping at my face, I try to find my strength—my resolve, but I only find a heavy emptiness. “When can I go home?”
Someone knocks. Officer Monroe cracks the door open and exchanges a few heated whispers before nodding. Seconds later, my aunt, an older and cleaner version of my mother, walks in. “Beth?”
Officer Monroe leaves, closing the door behind him.
Shirley comes straight to me. I stand and let her hug me. She smells like home: stale cigarettes and lavender fabric softener. I bury my face in my aunt’s shoulder, wishing for nothing more than to lie in the bed in her basement for a week.
A cigarette is a close second.
“Where’s Isaiah?” Though I’m grateful for my aunt, my heart was set on seeing my best friend.
“Outside. He called me the moment he heard from you.” Shirley squeezes me before breaking our embrace. “What a mess.”
“I know. Have you seen Mom?”
She nods, then leans in and whispers in my ear, “Your mom told me what really happened.”
The muscles around my mouth tighten and I try to stop my lower lip from trembling. “What do I do?”
Shirley runs her hands up and down my arms. “Stick with your story. They brought Trent and your mom in for questioning. With you not talking, they couldn’t find anything to arrest them on. Your mom’s twitchy though. If you talk, they’ll send her to jail for breaking probation and the destruction of property. She’s scared of going to jail.”
So am I, but Mom can’t hack jail. “What’s going to happen to me?”
Her arms drop to her sides and she places the table between us. It’s only a few steps, but it creates a gap resembling a canyon. I turned seventeen last month. Before tonight, I felt like an adult: old and big. I don’t feel so big anymore. Right now I feel small and very, very alone. “Shirley?”
“Your uncle and I don’t have money for a lawyer. Isaiah and Noah, even that girl Noah brings around, they offered what they had, but your uncle and I got scared once the cops told us you took a bat to Trent. Then I had an idea.”
My heart sinks as if someone yanked a trapdoor right below it. “What did you do?”
“I know you don’t want anything to do with your dad’s side, but his brother, Scott—he’s a good man. Left that baseball team and became a businessman. He has a lawyer. A fancy one.”
“Scott?” My mouth gapes. “How … what …” My breathing becomes shallow as I try to make sense of the insanity falling out of my aunt’s lips. “Impossible. He left.”
“He did,” she says slowly. “But he moved back to his hometown last month and he called me to find you. He wanted you to go live with him and his wife, but we blew him off. Your mom talked to him when he got persistent and she told him you ran away.”
My lip curls at the thought of him anywhere near me. “Good choice. So why involve Scott now? We don’t need him. We can figure this out without him or his fancy lawyer.”
“They said you were going to hit Trent with a bat,” Shirley repeats as she wrings her hands together. “That’s serious and I thought we needed help.”
“No. Tell me you didn’t.” I’m in hell. Or pretty damn close.
“We would have respected your wishes about him, but then this happened and … I called him. Listen to me, he has a great life now. Lots of money and he wants you.”
I start to laugh. Only it’s not funny. It’s not even close to funny. It’s the saddest damn thing I’ve ever heard. I collapse into the seat and rest my head in my hands. “No, he doesn’t.”
“He got the charges dropped.” Not a hint of happiness can be found in her voice.
I keep my face hidden, unable to look at her to see whatever truth she’s been building toward. “What did you do?” I ask again.
Shirley kneels beside me and pitches her voice low. “When I called him, your uncle Scott went to your mom’s apartment. He saw things he shouldn’t have seen. Things that can hurt your mom.”
I sway to the side as if I’ve been hit by a wave and the rushing sound of being sucked into the ocean whirls in my ears. My world is crashing around me. He went into my old room. Mom told me never to go in there after I left to live with Shirley. I never have. There are things even I don’t want to know.
“He didn’t tell the police,” she says.
Shocked by her revelation, I peek at her through my fingers. “Really?”
Shirley’s lips turn down and she scrunches her forehead. “Your mom had no choice. He walked into the station with his lawyer and made the demand—she either turned over custody of you to him, or he would tell the cops what he saw.”
My aunt stares at me, her eyes bleak. “She signed over custody. He’s your legal guardian now.”
RYAN
THANKS TO THE SHOWERS at the community center, there’s no need to head home. Clean and dressed in street clothes, I return to heaven.
Everyone has left the ballpark. The bleachers are empty. The concession stand closed. Kenny Chesney blares from the parking lot, meaning that Chris ignored me when I told him I’d catch up with him later. Chris is really good at three things—playing shortstop, loving his girl, and knowing what I need even when I don’t know it myself.
At least most of the time.
From the community pool, little kids squeal in delight in time to the sounds of splashing and the bounce of the diving board. My brother, Mark, and I spent most of our summers swimming in that pool. The other part, we spent playing ball.
