Heroine(35)

I don’t care, and that’s the glory of it.

So when Josie pulls a wad of cash from her pocket and Edith goes back to her bedroom for the safe, I don’t question it. I don’t say anything when Derrick crushes up an Oxy for Luther, then holds Josie’s hair while she snorts another. She does the same for me, her fingers cool on the back of my impossibly hot earlobes.

I’m afraid it’ll hurt. Burn the inside of my nose, like the time I choked on Pepsi and lost it out of everywhere. But it’s not like that at all. It’s like silk reaching up into my face, sliding past my eyes to cradle my brain and rock it, slowly, gently, into a drifting peace.

I’m not worried about saying something stupid or looking dumb, even when Josie starts raiding Edith’s closet and we end up wearing her clothes. In the bathroom, I allow Josie to streak a shaky slash of lipstick across my mouth, and zip up her dress for her, something that Edith wore to the prom in 1973.

She looks gorgeous, and I’m high enough to be happy for her, knowing that we’ll walk out to the living room and the boys will only look at her. I don’t look beautiful, exactly, but as I study myself in the mirror I can admit that I don’t look like Mickey Catalan, either. Josie had put some shadow around my eyes that makes them stand out, and my constricted pupils make them bluer than usual.

“Let’s go make some boys happy,” Josie says, swinging the door open dramatically. But whatever effect she was hoping for is immediately lost when she starts braying laughter, the feathery layers of her dress rippling around her. “Oh my God.”

She grabs me, pulling me out into the living room, where we find Edith putting final primps on both Derrick and Luther, who are wearing matching powder-blue leisure suits.

“Bob loved this suit so much he bought two,” Edith says, brushing off Luther’s shoulder, which she can barely reach. Derrick’s is too big on him, loose and floppy, but Luther looks amazing, even if his neck bulges out a little over the light-blue collar.

“Fashion show! Fashion show!” Derrick says, spinning, whiskey spilling out of the glass he took from Josie.

“Hey!” She lurches toward him, awkward in heels that are too tight for her. “That’s mine. Stop taking my shit, Derrick!”

“You look nice,” I’m saying to Luther, somehow having crossed the distance between us. Usually I’m crafting the words, weighing each one to see if it’s right or wrong, the topic at hand having changed by the time I’m ready to contribute. But right now I’m saying what I think, as I think it.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Catalan,” Luther says.

I hug him, suddenly and forcefully. It’s rare to be around guys who are bigger than me, but Luther definitely is, and that’s part of the reason why I go for it. He’s warm, and my face rests nicely against his chest, the impossibly slow beat of his heart next to my ear. I feel small, safe, and feminine, tucked in next to him. I’m not turned on, or thinking about anything other than safety, warmth, and the incredible feeling of arms stronger than my own around me.

I don’t care that Derrick and Josie are pointing at us, or that Edith makes us all line up to take a picture as if we were actually going to prom. I don’t care that the zipper on this dress is only halfway up because my shoulders are way broader than Edith’s were in the 1970s, or that my hand comes away with makeup on it when I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I can’t remember the last time I wore a dress, or if I’ve ever had makeup on in my life. I’m doing things I usually wouldn’t, saying things I normally couldn’t.

Right now, I’m not me.

And I’m so damn happy.





Chapter Twenty-Four


withdrawal: a collection of psychological symptoms as well as physically painful symptoms following the discontinued use of a drug

Being so damn happy on a Saturday when you’re high and with friends is one thing; going through withdrawal two days later while trying to perform on the diamond is another.

“?Estás bien?” Carolina calls from the mound.

“Fine,” I yell back. My brain is slippery, and I don’t trust my tongue.

Up until now Mattix wouldn’t let me get down in a crouch. She’s had me sitting on a bucket, the plastic edges biting into my ass. It threw Carolina off, her speed still there, but her control had slipped. One curveball came so close to Bella Left that she had to throw herself out of the box, kicking dirt into my face.

Now, two weeks out from our first game, Coach finally gave me the go-ahead to get down behind the plate. I know Carolina is worried about my leg, and it’s not unfounded. Without the Oxy I feel an ache, but it’s not the explosion I remember. It’s deeper, more sinister, like a wound that healed on the surface but is hiding a rot that’s going to break through sooner rather than later.

I signal Carolina for a changeup and she gives me a perfect one, slinging her arm around like she’s about to take somebody’s head off, then floating it in, nice and slow like we’re playing in a church league. I’ve seen batters take a swing before the ball is even halfway to the mound, their swing timed for her amazing speed right when she takes the heat off.

Coach trusts me to spot the batters who will fall for it, and I usually know the type. The girls who make a show of hitting their cleats with the bat before they step into the box, like a little bit of dirt on their spikes might slow them down. They always dig in then, heel turning into the soft grit of the box, keeping one hand up for a time-out so that Carolina is prevented from going into her windup until they’re ready.