Heroine(24)

“No es bueno. He has a teacher from the Midwest and speaks Spanish with a Wisconsin accent,” Ian agrees, shuddering. “But he will learn, now that he has a proper instructor,” he adds, giving Carolina a nudge with his elbow.

She tells him off a little too quickly for me to decipher it, then we all clasp hands and say a table prayer in Spanish. I’ve done it a hundred times, at least, but I’m surprised to find my tongue falling silent once or twice, the familiar words not coming. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been away from the Galarzas too long, or if it’s the 80 I helped myself to before heading over.

“?Qué te dijo el doctor?” Carolina asks me, as we fill our bowls.

“I’m cleared to start conditioning,” I tell her, and Clarita breathes a deep sigh of relief. I don’t add that Ferriman suggested I consider a different position. Our lineup has been set in stone since seventh grade, the chemistry of our starters carefully proportioned. Me not catching would be like substituting the Virgin Mary into Ian’s carvings of the three kings.

“Gracias a Dios,” Clarita says. “I am happy for you, Mickey.”

“And for Carolina’s sake,” Ian adds. “She can shine on her own, but the two of you together have a special polish.”

That’s the truth. The pitcher is only as good as her catcher, and Carolina and I work together, hand in glove. We use our own signals, a silent communication from mound to plate forming a thread that the ball follows, back and forth, flowing free and easy. That doesn’t happen naturally; you’ve got to have a good pair to make it work. And while the speed Carolina can put on the ball is what gets attention, there’s still got to be someone with the cojones to stop it.

What I do might not be sexy, but it’s useful.

“?Cómo está tu brazo?” I ask, watching as Carolina reaches for the soup pot again, using her uninjured arm. The other one rests on the table, and I realize she’s been babying it.

“Carolina está bien,” Clarita answers for her, and my friend’s jaw tightens.

“The doctors, they wanted to give her stronger . . . pastillas.” Mr. Galarza looks to his wife, spinning his hand in the air, unsure of the English.

“Painkillers,” she says, shaking her head. “I told them no, ella no lo necesita. Poison will not make her better.”

“Poison?” I ask, not catching Carolina’s warning glance in time.

“Sí, es veneno,” Clarita says. “My brother sits in a prison in Puerto Rico because of un dolor de cabeza.”

“A headache?” I ask, unsure of my translation.

“Sí, una migra?a,” Ian says. “Pain that split his head in two. The doctors gave him the pastillas, and . . .” He shrugs, ending the story without finishing the sentence.

“And that was it for him,” Clarita says. “A man who steals is not a man, and when he steals from familia, he is no longer mi familia.”

I feel my blood warming, my tongue loosened by my own pastillas. “He must have been in a lot of pain,” I say.

“It was not the pain, but the poison,” Clarita says sternly. “The drugs were more important to him than everyone; now everyone has found more important things than him. His wife left him, and his son has a new father who does not share that weakness.”

I glance at Carolina, who is tipping her bowl up to get the last of her soup.

“Now he wishes his only problem was una migra?a,” Ian says, trying to lighten the mood, but his wife will have none of it.

“This is why mi hija will not take pastillas. She is strong, and smart. Carolina does not need it.”

I look down at my dinner, jaw clenched.

Because if Carolina is strong and smart, then what would the Galarzas have to say about me?





Chapter Eighteen


choke: to render unable to breathe by filling, pressing upon, or squeezing the windpipe; to affect with a sense of strangulation by passion or strong feeling; to fail in a critical situation

“Hail the conquering hero!” Big Ed shouts at me when I walk into the market, a bitter end-of-February gust blowing me most of the way in. That became my official greeting right after I lost the crutches.

“Heroine, Ed,” I correct him as I settle onto my stool.

“How’s lifting?” he asks, pouring my coffee.

“Pretty good,” I say, and it’s mostly true. I’ve had a couple setbacks when I pushed too hard, got optimistic with the weights. But always the Oxy took the edge off. I’ve even started experimenting with squats. Slowly, it’s true, and with no weight and the trainer keeping a steady eye on me.

But I did it.

“I heard the Gatts twins both signed with Ashland,” Ed says.

“Heard that too,” I say. “Baylor Springs always has D1 and D2 scouts crawling all over them. Money likes money.”

“And there’s more of that in the suburbs. But OSU came all the way out here to the sticks for Carolina,” Ed reminds me, like I could forget.

“Yeah, but that’s Carolina,” I tell him. OSU wasn’t the only Division One school to send scouts to take a look at our pitcher, but they usually only stayed for a few innings, and I guarantee their notes included only her name. All of us are good, some of us are great, a few might be gifted. But Carolina is exceptional.