Heroine(79)

I crouch again, and this time my stomach protests. Not upward, but down, and I have to grit my teeth and tell myself that I am absolutely not going to shit my pants. Not here. Not now. Not ever. Mind over matter.

We’re three pitches in on the next batter—two balls, one strike—when I realize that I can’t will myself out of this. My insides are pure liquid, and as I jump to snag the next pitch—one that got away from Carolina on the release—I know that something just shifted inside of me. I clench everything I have and call time, choosing to walk the ball out to the mound, like I’ve got something to say to Carolina about the count, when really I’m just delaying going back down into a crouch.

I push my face mask up, the cool air touching every bead of sweat on my face, ignoring the heavy eye of the Dandridge coach as I cross the space between home and my friend.

“Hey,” I say, when I make it out to her. “Two down, you got this.”

“I do.” She nods. “What about you?”

I shrug, trying to be cool. “You don’t want me behind the plate? Tell Coach to put Nikki in.”

Carolina shakes her head. “She’s not Mickey Catalan.” I hand her the ball, our fingers touching for a brief second. “But you’re not really Mickey Catalan anymore either, are you?”

I’d already half turned when she says it, so I don’t see her face. But it’s a knife in the gut all the same, the last place I needed it. Her words twist and burn, and everything inside of me goes with it and willpower couldn’t keep me from the needle and it isn’t going to keep anything out of my pants, either. So I’m running for the porta-potty, gear slowing me down, legs awkward in my guards. Somehow I make it in time and the smell of rotten shit is almost welcome as I tear off everything I can before it all comes out.

I swear there can’t be anything left but somehow I’m still going, doubled over and half conscious and puking now too. The shin guards are splattered and my spikes will never smell like leather again and there’s snot and tears and vomit on the chest protector and thank God I threw off the helmet before I got in here because I would’ve puked right through the face mask.

There’s a knock on the door, timid at first but then insistent. Coach tells me if I can’t come out that’s fine, but they need the gear for Nikki. The entire game is held up because of me and everyone is looking when I crack the door, sliding out the gear piece by piece, giving over everything to my replacement, with a little something special smeared all over it.

I don’t come out.

Not in the fourth inning. Not in the seventh.

I stay there, ignoring the occasional knocks, insisting to anyone who asks that I am fine. I stay there, and I hear the last game of my senior year unfold. I stay there, sweat trickling down my skin, filling needle holes. I stay there, listening to my team win the league title without me, the smell of shit in my nose, and the taste of vomit in my mouth.





Chapter Fifty-Two


empathy: the action of being sensitive to, and experiencing the feelings of another

They’re playing “We Are the Champions.” They do that on the bus ride home when we win. Or they win, I guess. I can hardly claim a part of this victory. I don’t come out until I know the bus is loaded, my teammates’ accusing faces safely separated from mine by glass and metal. Mom coaxes me out with the reassurance that no one is there but her, and I crack the door, not meeting her eyes. I slide out and close it behind me so she can’t see the vomit on the floor, but I know she can smell it.

I keep my head down and she guides me across the parking lot, the sound of Queen and my friends’ voices following as we get into Dad’s minivan, bought new to go with his fresh start. Dad’s behind the wheel, Chad and Devra in the middle row. The back has been reserved for me, covered in trash bags they must have rushed to buy when I had shouted somewhere around the sixth inning that I wasn’t riding the bus back to the school.

I crawl to the back, collapsing onto the seat. Devra unbuckles and disentangles her hair from Chad’s grip to join me.

“You really don’t want to do that,” I tell her.

She props me up, reaches across my chest and buckles my seat belt. I’m too weak to tell her no, and I don’t care enough to fight her when she grabs my chin and makes me look her in the face, despite the smell of my breath. I can’t resist when she pushes up my sleeves, going past the elbow to my bicep, cool index finger running over the broken vein there. Next she pushes up the leg of my pants, heading right for the crook of my knee.

Devra does it all in silence, touching each injection spot lightly.

“What’s this from?” she asks only when she spots the trailing bruise from where Carolina’s pitch got me in the thigh, the first two imprinted stitches of the ball showing past where she rolled up my pants leg.

“Didn’t get my glove on it,” I tell her, my voice weak. I can’t hold my head up anymore, instead resting it on the back of the seat.

“Okay, Mickey,” Devra says, covering everything again as she puts my clothes back in place.

My head rolls to the side and I see that Mom is talking to Coach over by the dugout. They both have their arms crossed and no one looks happy. Mom is crying. Coach might be close. I might be too, if I had anything left in me. But it’s all out now. Snot, tears, shit, vomit, and the pretense of caring. Nothing matters anymore.