Heroine(46)

It’s not a question I’m supposed to answer. These are all the things she wanted to say to Dad, the words bubbling up now, after she’s hung up. I know how this feels so I let her go, let her talk about all the things that illustrate how I’m not an addict, most of them carefully orchestrated by me so that she wouldn’t know.

This tells me two things:

Mom can never, ever find out the truth.

And I’m getting really good at lying.





Chapter Thirty


heroine: a woman of heroic spirit; the principal female person who figures in a remarkable action

Game day.

Those two words mean so much to me, the equivalent of I love you for so many other people. I wear my jersey with jeans, and Nikki braids my hair in study hall. Varsity is away today and she’s coming with us, something that would have bothered me if I hadn’t made it through the entire game last week. But I did, so when Nikki asks if I want her to do my hair so someone else doesn’t have to on the bus—resulting in bumps galore—I say okay.

Not that it matters. The first time my catching gear goes over my head it’ll tear out the perfection that Nikki is concocting, a web of fishtail braids that is somewhat painful as she does it, but has other girls coming in close to comment over. I’m not used to being complimented on my hair, and it feels good. That, mixed with the warmth in my bloodstream as I grind an Oxy between my molars on the way to the bus, has me feeling like a million dollars when my feet hit the ground in Palma Falls.

I’m even able to ignore the awkwardness between me and Carolina, stiff at first, as we make our way out to the grass to warm up, then fading as we follow the routine, reestablished now that the first and third basemen have adopted Nikki into their throwing triangle. We know each other. We know these movements. We might not talk as the ball goes back and forth between us, but it’s a conversation nonetheless. She slaps my ass as we jog to the dugout and I stick it out farther, like I’m asking for another.

“Whatever, Catalan. Lydia says you’re just a tease,” Carolina says, tipping back her water bottle.

“Not that I’ve given up,” Lydia calls from the corner, where she’s tightening her spikes.

Coach leans against the edge of the cinder-block building, eyeing her lineup. “Catalan, you good for cleanup?”

“Yep,” I say, trying not to let pride sneak into the single syllable.

Last week she didn’t let me bat fourth, too worried that the strain on my hip from catching might make it difficult for me to rotate all the way around in the box. Behind the plate is my place, but I’ve got no problem standing next to it, either. I can place a shot where I spot a hole, and drop a fly in front of outfielders who expected me to power it over their heads.

“You got this,” Carolina agrees, holding out a fist for me to bump.

The bleachers are starting to fill, our side with faces that I know. Lydia’s parents—and grandparents, both sets—show up with their air horns, something Coach Mattix has asked them not to use. Last time she tried to make her case, Lydia’s grandpa kept setting it off every time she spoke. We just sat in the dugout, faces buried in our hands, red with suppressed laughter that we knew could not get out.

The three Bellas’ moms come together, carting a cooler that I know has postgame snacks even though we outgrew those forever ago. Guy Who Always Brings His Wiener Dog shows, yappy friend following on his heels. Woman with Victoria’s Secret Umbrella makes an appearance, carrying it along to shade her face from the sun. Even the Elderly Couple in Matching Scooters comes rolling in a few minutes before game time, which says a lot about fan loyalty. Palma Falls is a half-hour drive, and I’m sure it takes most of their combined energy to get out here, and back home.

The Galarzas show up in matching sweatshirts that say Pitchin’ Mom & Dad, and Big Ed rolls in right when the umpires do. I spot Mom as we’re gearing up, the top three in the lineup—Carolina, Lydia, and Bella Center—pulling on batting helmets, while I wait in the wings. Mom waves, but I spot a tightness in her smile that makes it not quite honest. As vehement as she was following Devra’s accusation, I’m sure whispers of doubt have started to surface, ones that contradict all her yelling.

Dad doesn’t show. I try not to care.

Carolina drops a sweet bunt and runs out the throw easily, bringing up Lydia, who scores an easy single. Bella Center gets a full count before fouling out when the third baseman snags her line drive that’s just on the wrong side of the baseline. That brings me to the plate, and everyone cheers.

My blood swells, pushing the Oxy through me faster and heating my veins. The sun bakes into my jersey so that I can feel every thread, am aware of each voice saying my name.

I don’t fuck around in the box, never have. Coach likes us to take at least one strike to put the pressure on the pitcher to make her throw, but if I think I can get the bat on it, I swing. Coach has given me an earful once or twice, but since this is the one thing I don’t defer to her on, she’s let it go. My batting average is solid, so she’s got no leg to stand on.

I do the same thing now. The pitcher is already rattled; with two on and staring down Mickey Catalan, she’s aware things are not going her way. Beside me, the catcher shifts, throwing a signal that I don’t need to see to know what it is. They’re going to try to get a fastball past me.