The Distance to Home (8 page)

I cup my hand like I'm holding an invisible baseball. “Would you…could you help me pitch again? I haven't practiced in such a long time.”

“Sure,” Hector says. “Do you want to practice at the stadium?”

I don't know if Zack is there before the games or not, but I don't want to take any chances. I shake my head. “How about at the park? I bet Brandon can give me a ride.”

“Deal,” he says.

I stick out my hand to shake on it. “Deal.”

As I walk back toward Mom and Casey in the car, I whisper it again and again.
“Mofongo. Mofongo. Mofongo.”
I wonder if it's like a hamburger or chicken fingers.
Mofongo
sounds sort of like
fungi,
like mushrooms. There'd better not be any mushrooms in it, because then I'll never want to eat it. I'll have to look it up on the computer when I get home, if I can ever figure out how to spell it.

I know I'm super-f of ice cream—never mind all the junk food I ate at the Bandits game—but for the first time in a while, I feel the littlest bit lighter.

“C
ome on, QD! Strike 'em out!” Mr. Miller yelled from the sidelines. We were one out away from advancing to the regional tournament in Indiana. Only one out away. And I was on the mound.

I felt the stitching on the ball with my pointer finger.
One more strike, Quinnen. One more,
I told myself. I wound up and threw. The batter, the only girl on the opposing team, held her ground. She didn't swing. She knew it was outside, barely.

“Ball two,” the umpire said.

“Turds,” I muttered under my breath. The score was 2–1, Panthers, with nobody on base, but all it would take was one really good swing from this girl, and the score would be tied.

Nope. Not going to happen,
I thought.
Not on my watch.
I stared her down and wound up again. She swung. Swung and hit it. A little dribbler down the first-base line. Easy out. But Damien bobbled it somehow. He bobbled it, and she was safe. Safe at first.
No, no, no!

“Shake it off, Quinnen!” Coach yelled from the sidelines. I really, really, really couldn't let the next batter get a hit. I had to stop this now.

I took a deep breath.
You've got this; you've got this,
I told myself. I let my breath out.
Okay. I do. I can do this.
I let one fly.

The batter swung. The ball went up, up, up, straight up. Katie flung her helmet off and jogged backward. Our entire team watched as the ball landed in Katie's glove with a little
thunk.
I'm sure the umpire said something about us advancing to the tournament in Indiana, but none of us were listening. We were all running to Katie, high-fiving all over the place. Good thing she was wearing all that padding; otherwise, she would've been covered in bruises.

Katie squealed when I got to her, my raised hands up for double high fives. “We did it!” she screamed, hugging me.

“Watch out, Indiana!” I said.

“You did great, kiddo.” Coach patted me on the back. It was hard to tell under all that beard, but I'm pretty sure he was smiling.

“Thanks.”

“I think a win this special calls for an extra-special treat. Who's down for some pizza at Antonio's?” Coach asked.

People all the way in Indiana could probably hear us screaming.

Casey's mom came over and squeezed my shoulders extra-hard. “Geez, Mrs. Sanders. Watch out for my arm,” I said, laughing.

“Wouldn't want to mess with that,” she said. “Your mom and dad must be awfully proud of you.”

Well…maybe,
I thought. I knew Dad was, but sometimes I wasn't so sure about Mom. Sure, she'd come to my games and cheer, but it never felt like she cheered as loud as Dad and Haley. I wondered if she wished I was in the drama club or on the math team instead, like her when she was my age.

“They're coming to the tournament, right?”

I nodded.

When we first realized we'd be going to Indiana if we won this game, Mom and Dad scheduled the time off from work. They wanted to make sure they would be there for my really important games. But what if we hadn't won today and were eliminated?

As I learned when Haley disappeared on me, you never know when you're going to have a big moment until it's happening.

“Let us know if you need a ride to Antonio's,” Mrs. Sanders said.

“I will.”

I checked my phone to see if Haley had called or sent me a text message during the game. She had special plans for her friend Gretchen's birthday today, but she was going to come pick me up afterward since Mom was working and Dad had an out-of-town meeting. Haley told me she felt bad about missing my game but that it wasn't up to her when Gretchen scheduled her birthday bash. I guessed that was true.

No missed calls. No new text messages.

By the time I had taken off my cleats, put on my flip-flops, and gathered up all my stuff, half the team had already left with their families.

“Is Haley coming to get you?” Katie asked. She chewed on the plastic straw of her water bottle.

I glanced out at the parking lot, expecting to see her car pull in. “Yeah. She should be here any minute.”

“Do you want us to wait with you until she gets here?”

I shook my head. “No, that's okay.” I checked my phone again.

“See you at Antonio's,” Katie said. “I'll save you a seat.” As she followed her parents off the field, I carried my bag over to the edge of the parking lot and sat down on the bench. It was bad enough that Mom or Dad couldn't pick me up like all the other parents, but now Haley had to be late, too? And where was Gretchen having her party, anyway? I didn't remember Haley telling me.

Cars pulled out of the parking lot one by one. I dialed Haley's number and pressed the phone to my ear. It went straight to voicemail. “Haley, everyone's leaving. I'm the only one who hasn't been picked up. Are you coming?”

I held my phone in my lap so I wouldn't miss the call or text back. There was only one car left now. Coach's.

I had the worst feeling in my stomach, like I'd eaten way too much ice cream.

Where are you, Haley?
I wondered, folding my legs up against my chest and hugging them tight.

Coach's car door opened and he walked out toward me.

“Your folks running late?”

I shook my head. “My sister,” I said. “I called her, but nobody answered.”

“Haley usually comes to the games, right? Rainbow chair?”

“Yeah,” I said. “She used to.”

“Did you try calling your parents?”

I shook my head again. “No. I guess I can try.” I dialed Dad's cell phone number. It rang and rang. I was about to leave a message when he picked up.

“Quinnen?”

“Dad? My game's over, but Haley isn't here. She didn't come to pick me up.”

“Did you try calling her?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But her phone is turned off or something.”

Dad's voice got a little higher. “I'm at least an hour away, Quinnen. I'm sure Haley's on her way. Maybe she just got tied up.”

“Daddy, Coach has to stay with me until someone picks me up. Everyone's at Antonio's by now.” I couldn't hold them in any longer. Tears splashed out onto my cheeks. I turned my head away so Coach wouldn't see me cry. There's no crying in baseball—everybody knows that. I rubbed my fist against my face so Coach would think I was scratching an itch on my nose.

Music blared out the window of a car coming down the road. I didn't have to look up to know who it was. “Never mind,” I told Dad. “Haley just got here.” I hung up the phone.

Coach patted me on the back. “Don't worry about this. I had a teenage brother, too, when I was your age. See you at Antonio's, kiddo.”

Haley hadn't said she'd be bringing all of her friends, but the car was full of them. I dragged my bag over to her car and tossed it in the trunk. I didn't even know which back door to open. It didn't look like there was room in the backseat. Or the front seat.

Haley rolled down her window all the way. The music was so loud I could barely hear her. “Whose lap do you want to sit on?”

I didn't want to sit on anybody's lap. I glanced in the backseat. Gretchen, Larissa, and some other girl I didn't know took up all the spots. One of the other camp counselors, Heaven, was in the front seat next to Haley.

I opened the door on the side with Larissa. She was always nice to me.

“Hop on,” she said. “At least you don't weigh much.”

“There's no seat belt,” I said once I got settled in on Larissa's lap. I hadn't sat on a lap since I was little and used to sit on my grandma's lap. Larissa was a lot bonier than Grandma.

“We're not going far,” Haley said.

“Are you giving everyone a ride home?” I asked, hoping somebody's house was just down the street, so I could sit buckled in on a seat like a normal person. I didn't think Mom would be cool with this seating arrangement.

“I'm taking everyone to the movies,” Haley said.

The movies?

“But my whole team is at Antonio's,” I said. “I thought we were going to…” But there was no point in finishing my sentence. Haley had her blinker on to turn right. Left to Antonio's. Right to go to the movie theater. “Haley, come on.”

“Majority rules, Quinnen. If you want to go to the movies, raise your hand.”

Everyone but me raised a hand.

“If you want to go to Antonio's…” Haley was laughing as she gave the option.

“Just stop, Hales. I'm not going to raise my hand.”

“I was just trying to be democratic about the whole thing.” She smiled at me in the rearview mirror, but I wasn't buying it.

For the rest of the ride to the movie theater, all I could do was stare out the window as Haley and her friends laughed and laughed about something that had happened at Gretchen's party. They wouldn't even give me the details so I could laugh, too. It was like they wanted it to be an inside joke. Like, even if they explained, I wouldn't get it.

Outside, there was a boy a bit younger than Haley, running down the street with a little brown curly-haired dog on a leash. I kept thinking I'd rather be that dog right now than be in this car with my sister and her friends, with all of them laughing. I'd rather be a dog on a leash.

And I didn't even like dogs.

T
he morning I'm supposed to meet up with Hector to work on pitching, Mom knocks on my bedroom door.

“Yeah?”

“Can I come in?” she asks, already opening the door. I don't know why she bothers asking. She always opens the door anyway.

I'm lying on my bed, holding a baseball in my hand. Mom sits down next to me.

“I was wondering…,” she says. “I've always wanted to play tennis.”

Okay. I wait for her to explain where I come into this.

“I checked with the rec center, and they still have some spots open for tennis lessons. Is that something you would want to do with me?”

“Tennis?” I sit up so I can see Mom better. She's tapping her fingers on her lap, and it looks like she got a manicure recently. She really wants to play tennis? With me?

“Yes, tennis,” she says. “Leila Mahoney and her mom just signed up. I think it would be nice for you to try another sport, since…”

That's the other thing we never talk about. How baseball sign-ups came and went last winter. How every time Mom or Dad offered to take me, I shrugged it off.

Every time I'd make up a reason, they'd just do that thing where they'd give each other a look, like I wasn't in the room with them. They let me call the shots. Maybe they shouldn't have.

I overheard them talking about it with Miss Ella after one of my sessions. “These things take time,” Miss Ella said to them.

Maybe enough time has passed.

I tuck the baseball behind me so Mom can't see.

“I'm not really friends with Leila,” I finally say.

Mom's smile goes away. “That doesn't mean you can't become friends with her. Don't you miss spending time with other girls your age?”

In my head, I see me and Katie Miller jumping on her trampoline. And that one time we snuck outside during a sleepover and blasted her brother Andrew with a squirt gun through the open window. His pajama pants were so soaked it looked like he'd wet the bed. And then Katie and I were laughing so hard
we
almost wet our pants.

“No,” I say.

“Quinnen…”

I shake my head. Tennis players always wear all white and look so clean and preppy. “Can you really see me playing tennis?” Ever since I was five, I've always done a sport. Baseball in the spring, soccer in the fall, basketball in the winter. I'm not very good at soccer or basketball, but I like being on a team, and Dad likes that I play. But tennis?

Tennis is a Haley kind of sport. And since Mom can't ask Haley to play with her, she's asking me.

“I thought it would be nice if we could find something to do together. Just the two of us.” Mom stands up, shaking her head. “But if you don't want to…”

“Sorry,” I say.

Mom closes the door tightly behind her.

I grab my glove from under the bed. No matter how much I wear it, the leather won't stretch out to fit my bigger hand.

“So why are you meeting up with Hector?” Brandon asks as we drive across town to the park. Dad's been letting him borrow the truck to get around town. Maybe he thinks he can sell it for extra on eBay once Brandon becomes famous.

“I told you, it's a secret.” I pretend to zip my lips.

“I bet I can weasel your secret out of Casey,” he says, turning at the end of the street.

“No way. Casey doesn't even know. I didn't tell him.”

“Wow. Keeping secrets from your boyfriend, huh?”

“Are you crazy? Casey is
not
my boyfriend.”

“Right. Sorry. My bad.” He's smiling. What does he have to smile about? Brandon is so like Haley in that way: always hassling me about Casey. He never lets go of it, even though he has absolutely no proof.

He pulls into the parking lot at the new park in town. It's got a track, a playground, two ball fields, soccer fields, tennis courts, a basketball court—you name it, it's here.

I spot Hector waiting over on the bench. He even brought a few bats.

Brandon unlocks the door. “Well, you come get me when you're ready to go. I'll be over by the track, getting my workout on.” He flexes his biceps.
Good grief.

I head over to Hector. My too-small glove is on my left hand. It feels weird. And not just because it's too small. It feels like it's been forever since I've had a glove on outside at the park.

Someone must have just mowed the fields. There are all these chopped-up bits of grass around the edges.

“Hey, Hector.”

He shields his eyes, even though he's wearing sunglasses, and waves at me. “You want to throw the ball around a little first?”

“Sure.”

We jog into the outfield. Hector runs backward until he's about as far away from me as the distance from third base to home plate. He throws the ball at me—hard and fast—and I reach my glove out for it. The ball smacks into my mitt.
Ouch.
I want to shake my hand, but I don't. I don't want Hector to think he has to ease up with me.

I throw the ball back to him. It comes up short and he has to dive to catch it.

“Sorry!” I shout.

“No te preocupes.”

“What?”

“No worries.” He throws the ball to me again. This time, it doesn't sting so hard. Or maybe I'm just getting used to it.

Soon we're playing catch, throwing the ball back and forth so many times I lose track. My right shoulder is starting to hurt, but I don't care. It's the good kind of hurt, the kind of hurt I've missed.

After I throw the ball to Hector for what feels like the hundredth time, he jogs back to me. “You ready to pitch?” he asks once he's close.

I look over at the pitcher's mound. Someone must have raked the base paths and dusted off the top of the mound earlier this morning. It's so clean and perfect.

“Okay.”

I walk over to my old spot. I'm not wearing my cleats, just my sneakers. But I pretend I'm wearing my cleats. Pretend I'm digging them in the littlest bit. Holding my ground.

Hector crouches down behind home plate, where Katie always squatted.

I grip the ball tight in my hand.
I'm pitching,
I tell myself.
I'm really pitching.
It's been eleven months, almost an entire year.

I release the ball. It bounces in the dirt in front of Hector.

“Not bad,” he says, throwing the ball back to me.

Yes, bad,
I hear. The voice comes from somewhere deep inside me. I heard that voice last summer. Believed that voice when it told me:
This is your chance, Quinnen. Do it now.
That stupid, stupid voice.

I'm trying to tell that voice to can it when I hear another voice—no,
voices.
People laughing.

The sound comes from over by the parking lot. And there's more. Bats clinking against each other. Baseballs thumping in gloves. Someone popping bubble gum. I turn back to see who it is.

The Panthers. At least, some of them. Katie Miller and Joe and Tommy and a bunch of kids I don't know. New Panthers.

That voice in my head is right. I don't belong here. Not anymore.

With the ball still in my hand, the glove on, I take off, running toward Brandon and the track, running to anywhere that isn't the ball field.

“Quinnen!” Hector yells after me. It doesn't take long for him to catch up with me, by the bleachers around the track. I'm panting, but he's barely out of breath.

“What's wrong?” he asks. “Why'd you run?”

All I can do is shake my head. He would never understand. He would never do what I did.

“Quinnen, it's okay. You can tell me.”

They're far away now, but I can still hear them. Hear Coach Napoli yelling out instructions for drills. Hear the balls pinging off the bat. I think I can even hear Katie Miller. Is she the only girl on the team now? Or does she have a new friend who's replaced me? I'm sure she does.

I have to squint to look at Hector. “That's my team,” I say. “My old team, the Panthers.”

“Panthers.” He says it back to me slowly.

Panthers forever.
Katie and I wrote it on our arms with a Sharpie last year. Mom didn't think it would ever wash off, but it did. It's long gone from my arm now.

If I practice and practice with Hector, if I can be good enough again, would they take me back? After what I did?

“We can try again. Another day,” Hector says.

I slide the ball back into my glove and sit down on the hot metal bleacher. Hector sits next to me. Neither of us says another word as we watch Brandon jog around the track. Around and around and around.

That night, I'm lying on my back on my bedroom floor, softly tossing a baseball up in the air and catching it with my glove.
Thwump. Thwump. Thwump.
The catching is easy. It's the pitching that's hard.

My radio is tuned in to
After Midnight,
and the volume is turned down low enough so only I can hear it. “This is
After Midnight,
with your host, Marcus Allen Andre. Remember, you can always call in with your requests.” A song with a jazzy saxophone starts playing.

There's a knock at my door. It's awfully late for Mom or Dad to be knocking.

When I open the door, I find Brandon on the other side. “Hey, squirt,” he says.

That's got to be the grossest thing one person could ever call another person. Unless you're talking water guns, most things that squirt are disgusting.

“I'm busy,” I say.

“You are so not busy.” Brandon barges into my room holding an unopened sleeve of Oreos. “I thought you might want a cookie or two.”

I can't exactly say no to a cookie, even if it's Brandon doing the offering. “Fine.”

He rips open the sleeve, hands me the top three cookies, and heads over to my desk. “Has anyone ever told you you're a slob?” He pushes some of my piles to the side.

“Has anyone ever told you you're a turd?” I say. “Oh, wait!”

Brandon chuckles. “You got me there. I'll get you back for that later. I'm the king of pranks.”

With a mouthful of cookie, I say, “Foh freally?”

“The other day, me and José—you know, the shortstop—we put Saran Wrap on the toilet seats in the locker room.”

I swallow. “No way!”

“It's hard to do. You gotta get it real smooth, 'cause if they see any ripples, they'll know something's there. It's kind of an art.”

“Kind of?”

“I'm not going to lie. It gets them every time.”

I don't understand why he's in here. Why he knocked on my door, why he brought cookies, why he's telling me a funny story. He's been living in my house for a little over a month, but the whole time it's been like he couldn't care less about me.

“Did you get in trouble for it?” I ask.

“Well, you see, they don't know it's me and José. It's not like they bring in a detective to find out who did it.”

“But then you don't get the credit!”

“Eh, I get enough credit.”

I have to laugh. No matter what it is, Brandon always has to be the best at it.

Just then, the song ends. I reach over to turn my radio off, but not before Marcus Allen Andre comes on and announces the show.

“You're listening to
After Midnight
?” Brandon's eyebrows are raised.

“No,” I say. “It was set there. It's…”

“Dude, it's the radio in your room. Who else listens to it?”

There's no lie that will cover it, so I pop in the last cookie.

“It's okay. I mean…actually, my girlfriend listens to that radio show, too.”

“She does?”

“Yeah. She likes all those cheesy requests, and something about the announcer's voice helps her sleep when she's stressed out.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, flips through a few things, and holds it out to show me. “That's her—Amy.”