the school day rings, I swing by my locker to drop off my stuff before heading to the locker rooms to change for softball tryouts. I keep an eye out for Tristan but he’s nowhere to be seen.
Is he avoiding me? Or just busy?
I haven’t spoken to him since lunch, and after that horribly embarrassing speech I gave (if you can even call it a speech) I’m worried he’ll want nothing to do with me.
The school secretary comes over the speaker system while I’m stuffing my schoolbag into my locker. “Attention, students. I have a couple of announcements before I reveal the results from today’s election.”
I drum my fingers anxiously on the edge of the locker. Not that I’m expecting anything. Not that I even have the right to expect anything after that humiliating experience.
“First off,” the secretary continues, “the cheerleaders would like to thank you for supporting their bake sale today. They raised over one thousand dollars!”
Well, I’m glad my poisoning wasn’t for nothing.
“Also, a reminder that the auditions for the fall musical will start tomorrow afternoon. The deadline for signing up to audition is four o’clock today. This fall the drama department will be bringing us the hit musical Rent!”
Rent! Oh, I love that musical! I’ve sung “Take Me or Leave Me” in the shower so many times, my shampoo bottle probably knows all the words by now.
“And finally, here are the results from today’s election.”
I stand up a little straighter and tilt my ear toward the ceiling. She announces the results of the freshman and sophomore classes before finally getting to the juniors.
“In a landslide victory, claiming a whopping 89 percent of the vote, the junior class president and vice president are Kevin Hartland and Melissa O’Neil!”
I slam my locker door closed.
Everyone knows that Mondays are the armpit of the week, but I’m telling you, this one really takes the cake.
3:35 p.m.
Coach slaps a batting helmet onto my head and gives me a friendly pat on the back. “Look, I know you field like an all-star,” he says, “but your batting average last year was not up to varsity standards.”
“I know,” I say, grabbing a bat. “But I’ve been practicing all summer. I’m better this year.”
Okay, this isn’t technically true. My dad and I did go to the batting cage a few times in June, but I spent most of my time with Tristan and his band. Coach doesn’t need to know the specifics though. I just need to wow him right here, right now.
I need a win today. Any win.
“I’ll have Rainier pitch you a few. Show me what you can do.”
I step up to the plate and take a few practice swings.
Focus, Ellie, I tell myself. You don’t get another chance. This is it.
Jordan Rainier, the starting varsity pitcher, winds up and delivers me a fastball. I smash it easily. It goes sailing above the third baseman’s head and drops to the ground. I let out a sigh of relief.
“Good,” Coach calls from the sidelines. “Again.”
Another fastball. BAM! Another solid hit.
Coach signals to Jordan, tapping the inside of his elbow twice and then tugging at his ear. “One more fastball,” he tells her.
Jordan winds up and the ball comes hurtling toward me, slowing just as it flies over the plate. I swing a second too soon, nearly stumbling from my missed swing.
That wasn’t a fastball. That was a changeup. He tricked me.
I hear Coach clucking his tongue. “Listen to the ball, Sparks! Not my voice!”
I nod. “No problem.”
He signals to the pitcher again. I try to tune it out.
Listen to the ball.
Jordan coils up again. I watch her body language, noticing the shift in her stance as she unwinds. It’s different from the last three pitches. A curveball. But curving which way?
The ball comes at me, blindingly fast. I blink, missing the trajectory. I swing at air as the softball whizzes by my left ear. I bash the ground with my bat.
That’s okay. I hear my dad’s voice in my head. You’ve got the next one.
But Coach claps his hands twice. “Good work, Rainier.”
“Can I have one more try?” I beg. “Please?”
He shakes his head regretfully and I can tell the news is not good. “The JV team still needs a good fielder like you.” Then he slaps me on the back and turns away. “There’s always next year.”
The First Cut Is the Deepest
7:02 p.m.
As I make my way to the fairgrounds, I blast “Ticket to Ride” by the Beatles over my car stereo. It’s