Heroine(56)

“So you want me to call this guy or what?”

As if on cue, my stomach flips, unhappy with its load of Imodium and Advil, plus the few bites of chicken sandwich. Sweat has started to bead on my lip as I open the door, welcoming the air that hits me.

“Yes,” I yell back. “Do it.”





Chapter Thirty-Five


collapse: a falling together suddenly, as of the sides of a hollow vessel—or—a sudden and complete failure; a breakdown

I can’t take it.

I stop at the gas station and guzzle down a bottle of water before I even pay, catching a mean side-eye from the clerk. I toss her a few dollars—trying hard not to think about the fact it’s the last bit of cash I have—and bust it back to the school. Sweat has already soaked through my bra by the time I hit the locker room, met not by my teammates but by their half-open gym bags, a busted ponytail holder on the floor, and the lingering smell of deodorant. I duck into the shower for as long as I think I can spare—about ninety seconds—to make it look like I’m wet, not sweating, and throw my uniform on.

I’m tucking my jersey into the front of my pants as I jog out to the field to see that Carolina has paired off with Nikki to warm up. The Bellas pointedly ignore me when they come into the dugout while I’m unpacking my gear. I stick my bat into the holder, tuck my helmet under my usual spot on the bench, and am retying my spikes when Coach glances up from the book.

“How’s the leg, Catalan?”

“Good,” I say, tossing a shock of wet hair out of my face.

“Good,” she replies, either not realizing that I didn’t warm up, or letting it slide. I’m guessing the first one.

The bus from Peckinah pulls into the lot, girls spilling out to eye us as they take their dugout. This game will be no contest and we all know it. Peckinah hasn’t beat us since perms were in style, but that doesn’t mean they can stop trying, since we’re in the same county league. I wonder what their coach says to them in the locker room . . . Let’s just get this over with? Try not to get killed?

The bleachers are filling up and Mom spots me, her eyebrows coming together in a question when she sees my wet hair. I wave, but ignore it when she beckons me to come over, instead bending down to strap on my shin guards. Black dots swirl in my vision when I straighten up, and I stagger a bit. Lydia immediately reaches out to steady me, but she doesn’t make eye contact or ask if I’m okay.

I get through two innings without much problem. I’m sweating like a pig, but it’s the first hot day of the year and I’m wearing ten pounds of gear, so no surprise there. I allow myself a little bit more water, wincing as it hits my nearly empty stomach. Dehydration isn’t my only problem. Getting pissed off and throwing away my lunch was stupid for a lot of reasons, but right now the most important one is that my body is burning energy with no fuel in my gut.

We’re up 5–0 by the beginning of the third and I feel a little wobbly in the knees when I crouch to take Carolina’s first pitch. We still haven’t talked using words, just pitch calls and the occasional irritation from her when she shakes off a signal of mine she doesn’t like. Pretty soon I realize her face isn’t crunched together because she’s pissed at me, and she’s not refusing to throw the fastball just out of spite.

Carolina’s hurting.

The first batter gets a double off her, and she walks the second—something almost unheard of. I call time and go to the mound, carrying the ball with me instead of throwing it. The infielders move to come in, but I wave them off. This is best kept between the two of us.

“How bad?” I ask.

“Not good” is all she gives me.

I roll the ball in my palm, thinking. “Top of the order coming up,” I say.

“I know.”

“Want me to tell Coach to warm up the relief pitcher?”

Carolina snags the ball out of my hand. “Want me to tell Coach to put Nikki in the catching gear?”

It’s as straight of an answer as I’m going to get—if you’re fine, I’m fine.

“Fair enough,” I say, flipping my mask back down and reclaiming my spot behind the plate.

I don’t know the name of their leadoff batter because Peckinah doesn’t have the kind of players whose stats you pay attention to, but I do know she struck out the first time she was up, and judging by the explosion of breath that came with that last swing and a miss, she’s pretty pissed about it.

She still looks it as she settles into the box, kicking dirt back on me and holding her palm out to Carolina to keep her in check. It’s the kind of batter I hate, so I signal to Carolina to throw one inside to back her up a bit, and there’s a bit of a smile on my friend’s face when she nods in agreement.

Carolina goes into her motion, a fluid move that somehow turns a softball into a missile. I’ve seen it so many times it’s almost my own, so I can spot it when something isn’t right. Timing off by a fraction, releasing just a little too soon, the ball sails into me with no spin, hardly any speed, and right in the middle. It’s an easy kill and the batter knows it, snapping her bat around fast and sending the ball right back where it came from.

Right back at Carolina.

She’s not ready, not fully there in the moment. Pain does that to a person, superseding anything except its own feedback, and Carolina’s brain has too many signals coming at her right now to process what she’s got to do. I’m already on my feet and ready to run to the mound, fully expecting my friend to catch it in the teeth. Somehow, she gets her glove up, deflecting the shot but not catching it, the ball clipping the end of the webbing to hit her right in the elbow.