Pinch Hit (15 page)

Stu slapped his hands together as if he were knocking off some dust. “And
that
, I don't do. You want to be a rebel without a cause? Wait a couple years. Get a tattoo or pierce your nose or something. That'll teach the old man. But in the meantime, don't expect me or anyone with their brains planted firmly in their heads to risk their gullets by not looping in your dad.”

Stu let the script fall to the coffee table with a thud. “It's just not done.”

“Disneyland!” Sam's dad held up two tickets. “How about that? I got them for a door prize at the Save the Oceans fundraiser. Never told you. Wanted to surprise you. California Screamin'? Tower of Terror? You ready?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Uh, sure? You've been screamin' for California Screamin' for two years.”

Trevor opened his mouth to say that he'd been on California Screamin' so many times he never cared if he saw it again. Three times he'd been to private parties that they'd closed the park for, and even though the rides were fun, what Trevor really wanted to do was hit baseballs—curveballs to be specific.

“Dad, if you don't mind, could we just go to the batting cage?”

“What?” Sam's dad glanced at him in disbelief and the car seemed to slow down. “You're playing with me, right?”

“I just want to make sure I've got my groove for the game tomorrow. I told you, today I was a little off.”

“You have to take time and have fun, too, Sam.”

“Hitting is fun,” Trevor said.

Sam's dad nodded, but Trevor knew he'd disappointed the man. Still, he didn't know how long he'd get to pinch-hit for Sam, and if he only got to play in one game, he sure wanted to make it a good one. If it were his own father, Trevor knew the day would now be ruined. People didn't often change his father's plans, and if they ever did, things didn't go well. So, Trevor was surprised to see Sam's dad brighten up and actually start to whistle as he pulled off the highway and into a huge batting cage facility with a long row of cages curving around a central cluster of machines. Above, a black web of netting hung from several tall poles.

“You're right, Sam,” Sam's dad said as he cut the engine. “I admire your discipline. You know what you want, and you're going to get it. You're not afraid to work for it, either, to sacrifice. ‘Perseverance, dear my lord, keeps honor bright.'”

“No idea,” Sam said, knowing he was expected to guess which of Shakespeare's plays the quote was from.

“Troilus and Cressida
.”

“Right.”

“I'll get some tokens and meet you in the cage.”

Trevor nodded, removed his bat bag from behind the seat, and trudged toward the dusty cages in the heat. The thump of bats on rubber balls and hissing spit of machines used by other customers filled the air. While Sam's dad was buying tokens, Trevor examined the coin box and saw that with a simple switch he could choose to have curveballs thrown at him. When Sam's dad returned with a handful of tokens, Trevor fed the machine and got into position with his bat. The machine whirred and spit out a curveball.

Trevor swung and missed, but realized what he did. The yellow rubber balls didn't show a red dot, and that slightest instant of confusion kept him from connecting. He took a breath, because he didn't need to read these pitches; he knew they'd be curves. He just needed to work on the mechanics of hitting a curve. Reading the pitch would require a real leather ball in the machine, or an actual pitcher to throw to him.

If he was in his old life, either one would be easy. He could send someone out to get white leather balls with red laces to feed into his own machine, or he could hire a retired pro player to throw curveballs to him in his backyard. But as Sam Palomaki, he'd have to make do with what he had, and right now, that was just a dirty batting cage with grimy rubber balls.

He focused on keeping his weight back and tightened his muscles for a quick swing. The second pitch came. He swung, and connected.

Sam's dad sat outside the cage on a metal bench. “That didn't look off at all, nice contact.”

Trevor nodded and kept swinging, gaining more and more confidence as he went. By the time he'd used up all his tokens, Trevor had a nice sweat going. Between the batting cage and the practice before, his arms were tired, and he was ready for a break.

“How about lunch?” Sam's dad said.

“And then can we come back later?” Trevor asked.

Sam's dad hesitated. “You don't think that'd be overdoing it?”

Trevor rotated his arms, working out the fatigue. “After a rest I should be okay.”

Sam's dad shrugged. “In and Out?”

“Good by me.”

They got back onto the highway and went to the next exit where the In and Out Burger was. Sam's dad wanted to talk about his script and some meetings he had set up next week that he was excited about. It took all of Trevor's concentration to fake some enthusiasm, since he knew the best chance Sam's dad would ever have was through him and McKenna.

Still, he kept it up. After lunch, they returned to the batting cage. Sam's dad bought another handful of tokens and sat on the bench while Trevor went at it again. His determination paid off because by the last set of pitches he was actually able to give some direction to his hits, pulling them toward third or pushing them toward first by swinging a bit sooner or later. So he was feeling really good when he heard a cell phone ring and Sam's dad answer it. Without trying to listen, he heard Sam's dad talk and the name Klum jumped out at him.

“Mr. Klum, hello… Okay, Doug, sure… Right, Sam told me he got hit.... I did know that.... What? That doesn't sound like Sam to me.... No, I'm not saying that, but… Of course we'll sit down to clear the air.... Well, we're just finishing up at the batting cages.... They do work hard, don't they? Yes… We had lunch already, thanks, but how about the Jamba Juice over on Eagle Rock Boulevard?… Sure, fifteen minutes is fine.... No, I agree. See you then.”

Trevor stared at Sam's dad through the cage. “What was that?”

Sam's dad scowled. “Sam, did you threaten to fight the Klum kid?”

Trevor's mouth went slack, because he wasn't sure exactly what he should say.

“Doug Klum says you did, and that a bunch of your teammates heard you say it.”

Trevor thought of Scotty Needum's fat red face, and he clenched his teeth. “That kid hit me with a pitch, on purpose!”

“But
fighting
? That's not part of the game.” Sam's dad scowled.

Trevor wanted to swing his bat into the fence. His palms began to sweat.

“He's a jerk.”

“I know that, but I've taught you that fighting is never the answer for a problem.” Sam's dad shook his head. “I just hope you didn't cost yourself a spot on the team.”

Trevor's insides collapsed into mush. “You mean, not play tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Son, if you think you can go around threatening your teammates to fights behind the bathrooms before a big game, you may have cost yourself a spot on the Blue Sox
for good
.”

Stu scooped a handful of Skittles out of the bowl on the table and filled his mouth, chewing loudly and speaking fast at the same time. “Coulda saved me a trip. Not that it wasn't good to see you. See that set out there. Pierce Everette. I tell you, I remember when he was shagging coffee and splicing film together for Maury Rappaport at MGM, and look at him now. I heard the number on this flick is north of a hundred million.”

“Stu,” McKenna said, “I get it that Trevor's dad might want to know what you were doing with a script that came from Trevor, because a lot of people would think he was the one really behind it, so he'd want to know. But what if the script didn't come from Trevor? What if this came from
me
?”

Stu scratched the back of his neck and looked around. “You guys… You're what, kids? Aren't you supposed to be playing with jacks or jump ropes or something?”

McKenna stood, picked up the manuscript off the coffee table, and held it out to Stu. “Stu, would you mind looking at this for me. I'd like to play the role of the daughter. If you like it, would you shop it around for me? Maybe get an auction going?”

Stu's eyes went from Sam to McKenna and back to Sam.

Sam played his part. “I'm really behind this, Stu. The script McKenna gave to you. I'd like to see it get done. I won't forget the favor, either.”

“And, you want to see it happen because you like McKenna.” Stu spoke slowly, as if explaining it to himself. “You two are good friends. It's her script, though. Her idea.”

“That's right. This is all about McKenna. I'm just supporting
her
.” Sam was beginning to get a sense of just how powerful, and feared, Trevor's dad really was.

“You're a nice kid like that.” Stu slowly tucked the script under his arm and scooped up more Skittles. “I think I'm seeing it.”

“Great,” Sam said, feeling back on track and ready to move on. “So, there's one more thing I need your help at.”

“One more thing?” The clump of half-chewed Skittles rolled into the front of Stu's mouth before he tilted his head back to get it under control. “Somethin' easy, right?”

“I don't know how hard it will be.” Sam spoke softly, but with an urgency that caused Stu and McKenna to lean toward him. “Maybe easy, maybe more. I don't want you to do anything, Stu. Just get me the right person.”

“Person for what?” Stu swallowed and lowered his voice as well.

“To help me find my biological mom.”

“Your mom, as in the woman who gave birth to you? As in the woman who
isn't
Diana Goldman?”

Stu blinked at him, returned the script to the coffee table, then sat down on the couch and rested a gentle hand on Sam's knee. “Trevor. First thing is: I never heard whatever it was you said to me just now. Second, you may as well never mention it to anyone ever again, because if your dad found out—and the man has a strange way of finding out just about everything, trust me—he would never allow it.

“Not ever.”

“But why?” Sam asked.

“Why is the sky blue and the sun yellow?” Stu got up, tucked the script under his arm again, and gave it a pat. “McKenna, you can count on me. You know that. This I can do. How about I read
Dark Cellar
and let you know?”

“Today?” Sam said.

Stu turned. “You feeling okay? 'Cause if I didn't know better, I'd say you're coming down with something. You're not yourself. Still, I can get it done. What your hurry is, I can't tell, because we all know these things take time.”

“Sometimes they happen quick, though,” McKenna said.

The hope in her voice made Sam like her even more, if that were possible.

“You never know,” McKenna said suddenly. “If it can happen quick, it'll happen with Stu. That much we know.”

Sam turned to Stu. “Are you sure you can't help me find—”

“Hey! Hey!” Stu held up his hand like a traffic cop, speaking in rapid bursts. “Didn't hear it. Won't hear it. Use your head. Nothing good can ever come from
that
soap opera, and that's just your dad. We didn't even mention how your mom would react. Can you even imagine those fireworks?”

McKenna waved a hand, signaling Sam to let it go, so he dropped it, thanking Stu along with her and repeating how much he wanted to see “McKenna's” script get all the way to a green light.

“Green lights are what I do.” Stu walked out, then poked his head back around the corner. “They call me Mr. Greenlight. Did I ever tell you that? No? They do.”

Then he was gone.

“Wow,” Sam said. “Guy's like a Super Ball in a coat closet.”

“That's a real agent for you.”

“Are they all like Stu?” Sam asked.

“Maybe
like
him, but there's only one Stu. That, I promise you.”

Sam scooped up a handful of Skittles and let them drain through his fingers back into the bowl. “So, what do we do now?”

“Now, we wait. What you said was perfect. He'll read the script and he'll like it. He'll attach me to it and get some other actors, too, maybe a director.”

“No,” Sam said, “I don't mean the script. I'm talking about my biological mom. I thought you said Stu would help.”

“I thought so, but I guess I see his point.” McKenna flopped down on the couch. “If he helped and your—I mean, Trevor's—parents found out, it sounds like they wouldn't be too happy.”

“So what am I supposed to do, just give up?”

“How bad do you want to find her, your mother?”

Sam shrugged. It was a door he had never opened before in his life. He never thought about family beyond his own dad and the mom he never really knew. But now that the door was opened, he felt an unexplainable, burning need to go through it and have a mom to make proud. He wanted see where he'd come from,
who
he'd come from. And there was also something else, deep and dark. Sam wanted to know why. Why would his mom have given him and Trevor away?