took three tries before he convinced me to try some pot. I didn’t want to do more drugs after that wild party, but he said that pot wasn’t really a drug. Pot was an herb, he said, and was legal in most states. Something God had put on earth for people to use for their benefit. I had no idea whether pot was legal or not and didn’t really care. I took a few tokes to please him. Then I relaxed.
To my surprise, being high felt wonderful, far better than I had ever expected. And it was strong weed. Everything seemed better when high. After we smoked it, Dakota leaned over and kissed me on the lips, and this unleashed something sensual and animalistic in me, although outwardly I resisted him. As he unfurled the condom, I squirmed and tried to talk him out of it. I didn’t actually say no, and I didn’t put up much of a fight, either. I felt trapped.
He drove me home soon after.
In my bed that night, I cried myself to sleep because of what had happened. I blamed myself. My virginity had slipped away from me, virginity being something I’d held near and dear because of my religious upbringing. Even Drew had agreed to wait until I was ready to have sex with him. Dakota and I were both to blame for it happening—or at least that’s what I convinced myself. I didn’t want to think of myself as a victim.
Three days later Dakota disappeared. A day before he vanished, however, I walked out of the school’s front doors and saw Willow jumping in his Jeep. Maybe he was giving her a ride back to the neighborhood, but that’s not what I suspected. I suspected the worst. And it pissed me off that both of them would betray me like that.
And that’s what worries me.
* * *
It soon became apparent that we were a very good softball team. Or, I should say, we were an okay team with one star player. Game after game, Willow stymied teams with her dominant fastball, knee-buckling curveball, and mesmerizing changeup. When I asked her where she had learned to pitch like that, she told me her parents had sent her to a softball sleepover camp every summer. Her parents, she said, liked to keep her super busy with activities. No girl in Shepherd’s Bay had ever gone to a softball sleepover camp. When spring came, we just picked up our bats and gloves and played ball.
Reporters showed up and interviewed her after every game. College scouts started to show up in the stands and take note of her performances, and the rest of us prayed we might also get noticed. Willow pitched one perfect game and two no-hitters. The only hits she ever gave up were singles or bunts down the line.
And could she ever hit. During an away game, she hit one so far over the fence that even the fans on the opposing side stood up and cheered.
But the abuse she suffered during most of these games was enough to make me cry. Fans and players alike called her all kinds of terrible names in order to ruffle her feathers. It never worked. In fact, it usually had the opposite effect. It steeled her and made her more determined than ever to win at any cost. I hardly ever saw her break down or let the name-calling bother her. Her face settled like granite, her nerves were unfazed, and she remained that way throughout the game. Her icy ferocity awed me.
It awed me because I knew she hated the sport. Her father, Gil, roamed freely around the field and the players’ benches. He shot footage of the opposing team’s reaction to her and recorded the nasty words the fans in the stands shouted. All the controversy and drama made him extremely happy, despite the emotional toll it had to be taking on his daughter. He captured the beefy red faces of the opposing parents shouting at her. He filmed Willow flipping the fans off after striking out the side. I often wondered if these parents were mugging for the camera or were merely upset that their children were being thoroughly embarrassed by this wealthy, skinny beauty queen with the ice-blue eyes.
Gil let me watch a lot of his footage, even though I had no desire to see it. It was all Willow all the time and not much else. A huge letdown. He went against