The Lost Girl of Astor Street(5)

Walter holds the wrought iron gate open for me. “Folks will think I’m high class, strolling with a Presley’s girl.”

I glance down at my long black skirt, the sweater, and bow. “Blast. I forgot I still had on my uniform.”

“You look fine. Though I’m not fond of seeing your knuckles in that shade of gray.”

“I bring it upon myself.” I clasp my hands behind my back as the wind bites at us. I probably should have grabbed my coat. “Tell me all about how your season is going. No splints or black eyes, I see.”

“That’s because I’m warming the bench.” Walter’s words have a bitter edge to them. His jaw is set, and his eyes focus farther down tree-lined Astor Street.

Time to dust off my you-can-do-this speech. “I know that’s frustrating, Walter, but you told me yourself that’s just part of the game. It’ll be your turn soon. I’m sure of it.”

Mrs. LeVine is climbing the steps of her front porch, her handbag over her shoulder. She either doesn’t see me or pretends not to. Having lived only three houses down from me since I was two years old, she’s had a front row seat to all the antics that make me a less-than-ideal friend for her prized daughter. I have no doubt that my tendency to walk alongside a man of Walter’s position is on her extensive list of my flaws.

Walter takes a deep breath. “I’ve actually decided to give up baseball.”

My feet stop walking, but Walter presses a hand into the small of my back and urges me onward, around the corner. “How can you even think that, Walter? Since I met you, being a baseball player is basically all you’ve talked about.”

“I know. But I didn’t really know then what it would be like.”

“What do you mean? You love it.”

“When I get to play, yeah.”

It’s a good thing Walter’s hand is pressing me forward, guiding me around a mother pushing her baby in a pram, because I’m so busy staring at him, trying to decode him, that I might have run into them. I’ve known Walter since I was thirteen, when my mother fell ill and Joyce took the live-in housekeeping job. But the boy I’ve known these last five years, so determined to strike out on his own, to provide a living for himself and his mother, is a stranger in this moment.

“Everyone warms the bench sometimes, Walter.”

He winces. “Not everyone.”

“You’re nineteen, and this is your first team. Don’t you think it’s a bit premature to give up on baseball because you’re not a starter yet? Not everyone is Babe Ruth.”

Walter looks away, his chin jutting defiantly. “The money isn’t good either. And you should see the dives we sleep in when we’re on the road.”

“But it won’t always be like that.”

“I don’t want to be poor all my life.”

“Who does? We’re not talking about your whole life. We’re talking about now.”

“I should learn a trade or something.” Walter kicks at a pebble that’s dared to wander from a garden and onto the sidewalk. “Build me some kind of dependable future.”

“Dependable future?” A laugh bubbles out of me. “I’m sorry, are you really Walter Thatcher? Because I’ve never heard you use a phrase like that before. I figured you’d only start talking like that when—” My feet stop walking again, and I press my hand over my mouth.

This time Walter doesn’t force me onward. He stops and gazes at me.

“That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve met someone.”

His only response is to stare back.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

He holds my gaze as he takes in a breath. “Yes. There is someone.”

“I knew it!” Walter continues walking, and I sashay alongside him, tugging at his hand. “How’d you meet? What’s her name? What’s she like? Did she come to your games and swoon over you? Or—” I gasp again. “Or does she not like baseball? Is that why I’m hearing all this talk about giving it up?”

Walter smiles, looking more like his normal self. “No, she likes baseball. It’s more that . . . Well, she comes from a family with money—”

“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” I link my arm through his as we start up State, the street that runs parallel to mine. “A rich girl.”

“You wouldn’t know it, though, from talking to her. She’s very humble.”

I roll my eyes. “You must really be over the moon. People always say that about girls with money, and it’s so rarely true. Except for Lydia.” Wait a minute. “Is it Lydia? It is, isn’t it?”

Walter chuckles. “No, it’s not Lydia.” He squeezes my arm. “I know she’s your best friend, and I don’t want to offend, but I wouldn’t describe her as a girl who you can’t tell comes from money.”

“Lydia’s so sweet, though. So selfless.”

“She is, yes.” Walter hesitates. “But in a rich girl kind of way.”

“How can you say that? She’s up the street this very minute helping out Mrs. Barrow with Cole. If that’s not sweet, then I don’t know what is.”

Walter smiles at me like my oldest brother, Tim, does when he finds me amusing. “I don’t want to fight about Lydia.”