The Natural History of Us (The Fine Art of Pretending #2)(9)
This was the strangest girl I’d ever met. If this was her idea of flirting, she must have a lot of older brothers. Regardless, they were good tips, so I said, “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Touching the brim of my hat, I spun on my heel and jogged onto the field, ready to show the man that I idolized what I could do.
Making this team was everything to me. It meant finding my place in this school, proving myself in front of one of the best catchers to play college ball, and maybe getting Dad to take notice. Baseball was one of the few things he loved more than money, so it was possible he’d make a couple games. And now, even though she was obviously not my normal type, Sunshine had given me one more reason to do well today.
I wanted her to watch me kick ass.
MONDAY, MAY 12TH
3 Weeks until Graduation
?Senior Year
JUSTIN
FAMILY AND CONSUMER SCIENCES 1:50 P.M.
“Sorry for the interruption,” Coach Stasi says as she walks back through the door and closes it behind her. “While I was gone, I trust that you looked over the packet and found your one true love?”
She says this like it’s a joke instead of what it really is—a bloody disaster.
“For those of you who didn’t just skip right to the end, you may’ve noticed the first group date is tomorrow night. Now the school is footing the bill, but I know it’s still extremely short notice. A local restaurant has agreed to open their doors early for us and this is the only night they can do it this month.”
On the whiteboard, she writes the name Carmela’s, a local Tex-Mex restaurant, and circles it. “I realize many of you have practices and jobs, so if for any reason you’re unable to attend, just schedule a time to see me with your partner and we’ll find another way to complete the first assignment. After all, compromise is what marriage is all about!” She smiles again then points to us with the dry-erase marker. “Write that down.”
Coach goes on to talk about other assignments and lessons, and how they will all be used to help write the on-going final paper, but it all goes in one ear and out the other. I can’t hear past the echo of Peyton’s laugh, or see beyond the furious twirling of her hair. Her foot tap-tap-tapping on the ground. Those old familiar tics cut a gaping hole in my chest and I suck wind to keep from doing something incredibly stupid. Like call out, Sunshine.
Damn, I miss her.
“So, any word from the old man about the game?” Carlos asks, and when I look over, he sets his phone down with a relieved smile. Things must be better in Gabi-land. At least for now.
Not wanting to let on how much Peyton has affected me, I strive for casual. “You mean other than the list of training suggestions he slipped under my door, or the reminder that scouts are still watching?” The grin falls from my friend’s face, and I shrug. “No, but I’m not surprised.”
Saturday night, our team won the bi-district championship. Since my father’s company is the team’s biggest booster, you’d think he’d have been there. You’d think wrong.
“Maybe he’ll show for the area round.”
“Yeah, I’m not holding my breath.” The last time anyone in my family saw me play was freshman year, and that was only because Dad’s boss was in town. Fake interest in your son’s ability while schmoozing the bigwigs. That’s rule one in Mitch Carter’s parenting playbook. “Besides, Abuelita screams enough for two of him.”
His goofy grin slides back as he says, “More like curses the umpire, you mean.”
Carlos is one of the few people who know what a dick my father is and his loco en la cabeza family pretty much adopted me years ago. They’re the ones who cheer my name at games, hound me about my grades, and relentlessly nag me about girls. And I mean relentlessly.
“She’s already planning a graduation party,” he says, pretending to write down whatever notes Coach is putting on the board. “The whole family’s gonna be there.” He pauses a moment, shifts uncomfortably in his seat, then adds, “She, uh, she also said you should bring a girl—as long as it isn’t a ‘hussy.’”
He lifts his fingers in air-quotes and rolls his eyes in a, “hey, she’s my grandmother and she’s crazy,” sort of way, but I suddenly sit up straight as an idea hits me. That woman’s a genius.
Planting my feet on the floor, I grab the packet. I thumb through the long list of group dates, taking note of all the partner-time required (a lot), and a rush of endorphins floods my bloodstream. My heart pounds just like it did when I tagged out Jefferson to win last night’s game, and when a relieved exhale parts my lips, I hear Carlos say, “Uh oh.”
“What?” I ask distractedly.
“You’ve got that psycho look in your eyes.” I raise my eyes and he waves a finger back and forth in front of my face. “The same one you had before we egged Crestmont High last week. You’re planning something.”
Adrenaline bounces my knee. “Maybe I am.”
My hand beats out a rhythm on my thigh as I realize that this is exactly what I’d been waiting for. The answer to the itch under my skin. My extreme restlessness. It’s not a new feeling—if I were honest, it’s been on a low simmer for years. Being with Aly just brought it to a boil. I’ve been numb ever since I lost Peyton, and this… this insane project is my chance to finally make things right.