Heroine(36)

I love making a fool of them.

So does Carolina, and we’ve worked out exactly who we want to burn with the changeup this year, a carefully curated list that includes the pitcher from Peckinah who threw at me twice last season and the shortstop from Palma Falls who cleated our first baseman, and if a wild pitch were to hit the dad from Left Bank who screams at his daughter no matter how good she does . . . well, I can’t be expected to stop everything.

“Nice,” I yell at Carolina when she puts a fastball right in my glove. I swear I don’t have to move it a centimeter. I know how to frame a pitch so that it looks like a strike, even if it’s a little to the inside or out. But right now there’s no ump behind me, and that thing hit dead center, regardless. I toss it back, still crouched, every muscle in my body flickering to keep my balance and make the throw, a thoughtless act that I’ve always taken for granted.

I can still do this. I can still be Mickey Catalan. And my friend is still Carolina Galarza, a taut line of energy between us that the ball travels over, back and forth, then again, an easy journey each time with zero interruptions.

“Take a break?” Carolina calls, and I’m about to tell her that I’m okay when I see that she’s holding her arm oddly, at an angle. I flip my mask up, cool spring air evaporating the sweat on my face quickly.

“Yep,” I say, coming to my feet.

It happens easily enough, although I know my weight is planted more firmly on my left leg than my right. At my very last physical therapy appointment both Kyleigh and Jolene had given me shit about it, told me that it might get me through the day now but eventually I’ll be a crippled old lady if I don’t distribute my weight evenly. They didn’t understand that getting through the day is what matters to me right now. The day, the week, the season.

I walk out to the mound, tossing the ball from one hand to the other, face mask pushed on top of my head, shin guards creaking as I go. Coach has me wear all my gear when I’m catching for Carolina, game or no game. I never complain, knowing full well that if one of her fastballs were to hit me in the chest it could stop my heart.

“You’re walking funny,” Carolina says when I toss her the ball.

“You look funny,” I tell her. She rolls her eyes but lets it go, swiping the ball from the air.

“Well?” she asks, and I don’t need clarification.

“Changeup is spot on,” I tell her. “Inside corner looks good. Lots of batters will swing at it.”

We both know any bat that gets around on her inside pitch will go foul, and usually fly, the majority of them picked off by our third baseman. Carolina got good at this last year, and her no-hitter record owes a lot to that pitch.

“And?” she asks, thumbnail picking at a loose stitch in the ball.

“And you’re slowing down after the first five or so fastballs,” I tell her. “It’s still got a zip, but you’re not getting three up three down anytime soon.”

It’s harsh but it’s true, and me telling Carolina we don’t even need infielders would be a lie. Last year there were a few games where just me and her could’ve taken the field and been fine. But now . . .

“You shouldn’t gun for the top of the lineup,” I tell her. “They’ll get hits off you.”

I know she doesn’t want to hear it, just like I didn’t want Coach telling me to walk that first week of conditioning. Carolina’s chin sticks out and her fingernail digs into the stitch she’s working at, like tearing it out is the goal.

“Hey.” I reach out, taking the ball back and resting my gloved hand on her shoulder. “You’re fine.”

“Dammit, I’m not,” she says, ducking out from under my touch. “I hurt, Mickey.”

Carolina looks me straight in the eyes for a moment and I realize how long it’s been since she has. There’s something different in her gaze now, the pupils still the same dark brown, yet shadowed more deeply, with a surprising glimmer of tears.

“Whoa, hey,” I say, unsure of myself. I’m suddenly stupid and awkward, one hand trapped in a glove, my bulk added to by straps and plastic, metal and grips. I’m with my best friend, standing in my favorite place in the whole world. I shouldn’t feel this way. Not here, not now, not with this person.

Maybe it’s the fact that she’s about to cry, and Carolina Galarza does not cry on the pitcher’s mound. Maybe it’s because I’ve got exactly what it would take to fix it out in my car in a Doritos bag, but I’m afraid if I offer it to her she’ll echo her mom, tell me it’s poison, and that I’m weak.

Plus it would be one less Oxy for me, and Ronald’s pills won’t last forever.

“I hurt, too,” I tell her. And while it’s not the sharp pain I knew from before, the snap of a body tearing apart at the seams, it is spreading. Not from my hip, like I’m used to, but my spine, radiating out to my skin, where sweat starts to pop even though I feel a chill.

“Yeah? You hide it good,” Carolina says, pulling up the neck of her practice shirt to wipe a tear away before anyone sees.

In the outfield Coach yells, “Dammit, Becker! Where did your depth perception go?” We turn together to watch Mattix toss a ball and hit it as far as possible in the opposite direction, out toward the cow pasture, where more than a few heifers have accidentally been involved in a game or two.