Breathe (Songs of Submission #10)(17)

Did it only work in photos? Or—if I changed my attitude—would it work in person?

Only one way to tell.

I twisted up my hair, checking in the rearview for strays, and sang of the braaaavvveeeeee into the mirror.

Sounded good. I was ready to go.

seventeen.

MONICA

Another day. Another dressing room. I worked on my intervals and scales, tuning my voice to a vibrating fork, and checked myself in the mirror. I felt ready. My dress came just below the knee and two inches above the cleavage line, sleeves covering me tight to the elbow. The beads looked dull and lifeless in the flat light of the cinderblock room, but would flash in the stadium lights.

And the collar, well…the collar was another thing entirely.

It made me look like I’d been captured in the wild and brought to heel, and behind a closed door, alone, I liked the idea that I was an animal that needed taming.

Jonathan texted.

—We’re on the 110. I’m getting out and running—

—NO! not safe!—

A knock came at the door. I checked my watch. It was go time.

—Freeway’s a parking lot. It’s safer than crossing La Cienega with the light—

—Please please please be careful.

He didn’t answer. Someone knocked again and said. “Two minutes.” Gary. The pregame coordinator.

“I got this,” I said, smoothing my skirt. “I got this.”

***

Last year’s Cy Young Award winner stared, absently tossing the ball up and catching it. I felt as if I didn’t need a key at that point, because people’s eyes were burning a hole in the collar already. Since Jonathan had texted that he was running into traffic to deliver the key, I’d met eight players I admired, including one whose batting stance I wanted to correct every time I watched him at the plate, and the manager, who I wanted to slap over the previous year’s play-offs.

“My wife is a huge fan,” the pitcher said. “If you sign this, we can trade.”

Perfect little athlete smile as he handed me the ball. We were in the cinderblock hallway leading out onto the field. Jonathan hadn’t texted since he told me he was running across the 110 with the key to my collar. If he was a grease spot, I would kill him.

The pitcher was looking at my tits. I took the ball, and I gave him the one I’d passed around.

“You gonna pick off Fredricks tonight?” I asked while I wrote my name in Sharpie on the curved surface.

“That’s the plan.”

“You’ve got the best pickoff move in the league,” I said, handing it back. “If anyone can do it, you can.”

He handed me my ball back and looked me in the eye. “Thanks. That’s a nice vote of confidence.”

“Go get ’em, killer.”

Gary, the coordinator of the pregame activities, handed me a mic. “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

The umps and managers stood on the mound, talking about I didn’t even know what. After they broke and went to their places, the color guard would come out, and that was my cue to go in and sing.

“Wait!” came a breathless voice.

“Jonathan!”

He was huffing and panting down the hall in his dress shoes.

“Are you all right? Your heart!”

He waved away all my concerns. “Please. Easy run.” He held up the key, still panting. “But I got here in time.”

He was so perfect, chest heaving, broad shoulders back, jaw straight and sharp as he smiled. His green eyes shone with clarity and strength. My gorgeous man, by my side always. We were surrounded by people and not one of them could touch us.

“I’m sorry,” I said, putting my hand on his forearm. “You ran… it’s got to be half a mile uphill but...”

He tilted his head, waiting.

“Can I keep it on?” I touched the collar reflexively. “I’m sorry. I changed my mind.”

He laughed. I’d never heard a sound so right.

“Go,” Gary said, guiding me out.

“Go!” Jonathan reiterated.

“Thank you.” I kissed his mouth, tasting salt and feeling the scratch of his upper lip.

He put his hands on my cheeks and lengthened the kiss. “Get out of here, goddess. I’m watching.”

One quick kiss on his cheek, and I stepped past Gary onto the field. The expanse was bigger than I ever imagined possible, the crowd louder, the pressure more intense. Somewhere in Echo Park, a girl with a voice was listening, and I sang for her, so that when her day came, she wouldn’t be afraid.

eighteen.

MONICA

Jonathan had sent Lil home and driven me home in my car. I closed my eyes when he pulled down our drive, listening to the cracking of pebbles under the tires and the beating rumble of ocean waves.

The crickets around our house were sand-colored with back legs that bent away from their bodies and to the horizon, not toward the sky. They creaked all seasons of the year, as if they wanted to f*ck all the time. When Jonathan opened my door, their mating call filled my ears.

We’d skipped the game. We didn’t even have to talk about it. I could see if Fredricks got picked off in tomorrow’s news.

I took his hand and let him help me out. The dim spotlights that dotted the curved walkway were the only illumination.