Heroine(78)

The ump is looking at me and I’m up without having taken any practice swings. The bat in my hands couldn’t possibly be mine. It’s too heavy. Too shiny. Too much. The first pitch sails past me, impossibly fast. She’s not Carolina but she’s not fresh meat either, and maybe I could’ve hit off her last year but right now I couldn’t hit off a fourth grader in a church league.

The pitch is wide and outside, a small mercy. The next pitch is high, the third in the dirt. Coach is looking at me like why am I just now suddenly listening to her about taking until you get a strike? But then the pitcher throws the fourth ball and I’m in the clear, jogging down to first base like I’m totally fine with the walk, even though I could’ve put a bat on at least two of those pitches, and judging from the polite—but muted—clapping from the bleachers, I’m guessing everybody knows it.

Lydia comes on hard after me, ready to make something happen. She cranks it and it’s on the ground and I don’t even get a second to get ahold of everything inside me from the jog to first when I’ve got to go again, and faster this time. I’ve never been quick and Lydia could outrun me even on my best days, but this is far from one of those and she’s practically on my heels as I round third.

“Get the lead out, Catalan!” Coach screams at me, because she has no way of knowing there’s no lead in my pants but there might be shit in a second if things don’t go well.

Coach tells us to hear only her when we run, but when you’re coming down third baseline the batter on deck is the one telling you whether to slide and Bella Left is telling me to get down, down, down.

I hear her, along with the sound of the ball zipping through the air, right past my ear. If it’s a good throw it’s going to beat me to the plate and if it’s a bad one then maybe there is a God. Either way if I don’t get dirty Coach will have my ass, so I sink as I slide, right leg stretched, long and tight, left one folded under me, knee biting into the ground and tearing up the spot on my kneecap that’s been ugly since fifth grade, scars healing over scars.

I might be fucked up right now but I know how to slide.

The catcher is over me, ball in her glove resting on my hip, the ump hovering behind her, arms straight out on either side of him, calling me safe. Everyone goes nuts and I might be safe but anyone near me is in danger of getting puked on in two seconds.

The Dandridge catcher hauls me up, but I don’t even have time to thank her, bolting for the porta-potty beside our dugout, which is mercifully unoccupied. Even if I didn’t have to vomit, the smell in here would make me. I’m guessing it’s been sitting here all season, collecting everyone’s hot dogs and Skittles once their body is done with them. For whatever reason it’s the thought of Skittles that pushes me over the edge.

Carolina is standing outside when I crack the door, a bottle of water in her hand.

“What the shit?” she asks, but I only shake my head.

There aren’t words for this. Even if I’d absorbed that entire dictionary at Edith’s house I wouldn’t know them. They don’t exist. I take the water and go to the dugout, and put on my shin guards. Coach kneels in front of me as the other girls pull on gloves, the infielders adjusting face masks.

“Mickey,” she says. “You look like shit.”

“I’m fine,” I tell her, strapping on my chest protector like if I can just get the gear on she won’t be able to stop me from taking the field.

She reaches out, hand swiping my forehead, cool and dry. It comes back dripping. My own sweat looks sickly to me, heroin leaking out of my pores. Suddenly I want to cry, my mouth pulling down at the corners.

“Let me play, Coach.”

I sound sad and pathetic, a little girl asking for a chance. I don’t sound confident. I don’t sound like a first-string catcher on a team everyone expects to win state. I don’t sound like Mickey Catalan. I yank my helmet on, afraid to let her see me cry. Mattix reaches out again, her hand resting on top of my helmet.

“All right, Mickey,” she says. She sounds sad, like she knows this won’t end well. I shake it off and make my way to home plate.

“You okay, catch?” the umpire asks. I give him a curt nod, and ignore the searching look the Dandridge coach gives me. It’s bleak and assessing, like he hopes I’m going to crash and burn right here so they’ve got a chance.

Fuck that.

I crouch, everything inside of me shifting together. I’m aware of all my organs and can feel each one touching the next, all of it putting pressure right where I don’t want it.

Carolina throws out the first girl in three pitches, all of them perfect, right down the pipe. There might as well not even be a batter in the box. The ball zips between the two of us, almost too fast for anyone else to see. I stay as I am, the only thing moving my arm. If she can keep this up, I can too.

But the second batter gets the ball on one and it pops up. Pure reflex gets me on my feet and I flip off my helmet, looking to Carolina for a cue. She’s pointing straight up and I see the ball, falling back down to the ground just a little to my left. I barely have to sidestep and it falls, neatly, in my glove.

I can do this.

Everyone’s clapping and even Carolina has a smile for me as I toss the ball back to her, but Dandridge’s coach is creeping on me again, eyes raking over my face before I get the chance to pull the mask back on.