Heft - By Liz Moore Page 0,112

Kane looks at his watch and says, Seven flat.

But Marcus Hobart runs it in 6.93. I should be faster than him. He pitches. I should have been faster.

Thanks, guys, says Mr. Kane. We’ll be in touch with you, OK? Good hustle today.

He shakes both of our hands. I look again at his sunglasses, hanging around his neck on a cord. Take me with you, I want to say.

Sarah says, Bye! Very cheerfully.

Then both of them grab their things and go.

I almost run after them. I almost say to Mr. Kane, You have to give me another chance. You have to let me show you—in the spring. I’m so much better in the spring. Let me work out and then let me show you again. Let me eat right for a month.

But I don’t. I sit on the bleachers—the twelve- and thirteen-year-olds watch me but don’t say anything—and take off my cleats. I pull my sweatpants back on, shivering a little because I’m sweaty and cooling down, and then I pull my sweatshirt on and then my sneakers. I haven’t called Lindsay yet, but I don’t want to hear her voice because I think it will break me. So instead I send her a text. Done.

Marcus Hobart comes out of the locker room.

Nice meeting you, he says, and he shakes my hand. I’ll see you around, OK?

But I know that I won’t. See him again.

While I’m waiting I tell myself that maybe it wasn’t so bad. That maybe they need us both. We play different positions, I tell myself. Maybe it’s fine. But in my heart I know. I know it’s not good enough. What I did, how I played. I know it’s not nearly good enough for the majors.

When Lindsay picks me up I think she knows before I get in the car.

Hi, she says. She doesn’t ask questions. This is why I like her: Because she is an athlete. Because she understands.

Do you want to come over for the afternoon? she asks.

OK, I say.

And I sink into the seat of her father’s Lexus, smooth inside, leathery and soft, a whisper of a car. Comforting in ways it shouldn’t be.

My mother drew the bull’s-eye. She propped the mattress up and drew the red bull’s-eye on it for me. My mother, wearing sweatpants and a robe, her feet bare in our grassless backyard, and there I was behind her, tossing a baseball into the air. And catching it. Oh I caught it. Oh I always did.

• • •

“I’m gonna be back,” said Yolanda.

“Very good,” I said.

I was sitting in my armchair & Cash Cab was on. I would not look at her.

“You look thinner,” said Yolanda.

I shifted but did not reply.

“They want me there when the baby comes,” said Yolanda. She was holding her bags.

“Of course,” I said.

“My mother apologized,” said Yolanda. “For the things she said. My father too.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“They even said I could go back to school if I wanted,” said Yolanda. “If I can keep working. They’ll help watch the baby.”

“Excellent.”

“I can work for you on weekends. I can bring the baby with me.”

“Perhaps.”

“Am I still invited to your dinner party?” asked Yolanda.

“Don’t,” I said. It was too much for me.

“What?” she said. “You’re having one. The Dales are coming. Don’t stand them up.”

But I knew when she left that she would not be back. No one comes back you see.

“See you then,” said Yolanda, & opened the door.

Before she left she looked at me for a minute. “What are you going to do?” she said.

“O you know,” I said, but even I didn’t.

“There’s fruit salad on the counter,” she said, & then, finally, she left.

It was the first time I had been alone for the night in a couple of weeks. After she left, the house let out a sigh of relief & settled into itself somehow. I could hear things I hadn’t been noticing. The heat went on. The radiators clanged. I wandered a little bit for no reason, peering into corners & out of windows. I went into the bathroom & looked at myself in the mirror. I turned my head from side to side & decided that Yolanda was right: I did look thinner. I went out of the bathroom and stood at the foot of the stairs & looked up them into the dark stairwell. I turned the light on & off again. I walked to the piano and ran my finger over the black of it, just as Yolanda had