I had to go—now. I cranked the ignition over.
“Why don’t you stop by more often, Mike? We could reminisce.”
Oh yeah. Just what I wanted to do. Remember my old man. How funny he was. How he drank himself to oblivion. How he chose death over life.
Like hell, I thought as I pealed out. Every time I go in there, it makes me wonder why. Why’d he do it? Why was that his choice? “You can choose to die, Dad. It’s your life to take. But why did you have to take us down with you?”
Me, Ma, even Darryl.
Thanks, Dad. I hate you.
Xanadu was sitting in my seat pouting at me when I straggled into Geometry. “I tried to call you,” I said, sliding into Bailey’s desk in front of her and swiveling around. “The phone number you left was all garbled on our machine.” From my shirt pocket, I pinched out the Suprette receipt where I’d written the numbers. I handed it to her. “This was my best guess.”
She read it and widened her eyes. She’d taken extra care to put on eyeliner and eyeshadow today. Not heavy. Not necessary. Gray-blue shadow, the color of her eyes. It glittered. Sparkled. She glittered. She didn’t know what defective was. “Not even close,” she said, uncapping a Flair with her teeth. She was wearing lipstick. Lip gloss, more like. It was all glimmery and slick. She drew a line through the numbers and wrote new ones below.
Mrs. Stargell hadn’t arrived yet, which was unusual. The bell had already rung. “I drove out to the Davenports’ last night, but you weren’t back yet,” I told Xanadu. After Nel’s, I’d driven straight to their place, circling around for two solid hours, watching for the hearse. I was afraid someone would call Reese Tanner and report suspicious behavior out on the county road.
“Good morning, guys and dolls.” Miz S bustled in. “Did everyone have a nice weekend?”
Xanadu rolled her eyes at me and I smiled.
“I see we have people missing still. Has anyone talked to Bailey or Beau since Friday? How is their dad doing?” Mr. McCall had gotten gored by a bull, which was why the B boys were out calving.
From the back, Skip Greer spoke up. “He’s still wrapped, but he’s able to move around some. Bailey’s helping with inoculations today. He says he expects to be back tomorrow.”
“Shit,” I heard Xanadu mutter. “He’s not even coming?”
It made me wonder again about her ride home. What had happened? Obviously nothing. She’d called me from Sublette.
“How about Shawnee?” Miz S asked. “I went over to see her Saturday and she seemed fine. Have you talked to her, Deb?”
Deb Pastore said, “Yeah. She had a doctor’s appointment this morning. She’ll be back tomorrow.”
Mrs. Stargell closed her roll book. “I hate to get into the Pythagorean Theorem and trigonometric ratios without Bailey and Shawnee here. It’s such a beautiful day, let’s go outside and read.”
That woke everyone up. There was a flurry of activity as people gathered their books and packs. Xanadu touched my shoulder and said, “Did she say outside to read?”
I twisted my head. “She reads. We listen.”
Xanadu wrinkled her nose.
“She does this all the time,” I said. “She reads to us. She says she wants us to develop an appreciation for the arts.”
“Did anyone tell her this was Math class?” Xanadu crossed her eyes.
I cracked up. She was so funny.
We herded down the hall in clumps. Xanadu walked beside me. “She’s a real head case,” Xanadu said, motioning to Mrs. Stargell ahead of us, who’d linked one arm in Deb’s and the other in Skip Greer’s. “Does she really think we won’t take off?”
As in ditch? Nobody ditched. This was Coalton.
“Miz S is cool,” I told her. “She grades easy. Plus, you don’t want to get on her bad side because she’ll call a conference with your parents and make them come to school. She doesn’t put up with crap.”
Xanadu widened her eyes. “Thanks for the warning.” She clenched my wrist and held on. She could hold on forever, it felt so good and warm. Or slip her fingers down into mine, through mine. I relaxed my hand in case she was considering it. But she only squeezed and let me go.
We gathered under the big elm in front, which wasn’t giving off shade this time of year. A hawk circled overhead. Miz S said, “Don’t spread out too far. My voice isn’t what it used to be.”
Xanadu kicked off her sandals and wriggled her toes in the greening lawn. Her toenails were painted. Deep, dark red. I sat back, propping on my elbows next to her and extending my legs. There was a slight breeze, but the air smelled of change. A storm brewing in the west. Rain, maybe. Or snow.
Miz S said, “I thought we’d read poetry today.”
A couple of people groaned. I didn’t. I liked hearing poetry when Miz S read it. She didn’t just read; she performed. She opened the tattered cover on a thick black book and skimmed the table of contents. “Here’s one I think you’ll like.” She licked her finger and paged forward. “‘Because I Could Not Stop for Death,’ by Emily Dickinson.”
Xanadu swung her head toward me. “She’s joking, right? Emily Dickinson? Please.”
Clearing her throat, Miz S pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and held the book out in front of her face.
“Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.”
Her reading was dramatic, with intonations and voice inflections. Xanadu glanced at me once over her shoulder and stuck out her tongue in a gag. Lifting her long hair up with both arms, she let it fall down her back in raining ribbons. I wanted to reach out and feel every strand, run my fingers through the silk.
“He slowly drove—He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—”
I lay back on the grass, hands under my head. My abs contracted instinctively; hold, hold, let it out slowly. Focus. Control. I tried to focus on Miz S’s rising pitch, the tenor of her voice, the meaning of her words. The part about not stopping for Death.
“We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess—in the Ring—”
Without warning Xanadu lay beside me, her face inches away. “Pinch me if I snore,” she murmured. Stretching her arms over her head, she yawned and arched her back. Her breasts rose and fell. She was close. So close. I could slide my leg to the left and touch hers. We were both wearing shorts. Skin on skin contact. Her shorts were blue, stretchy, fitted across her soft, smooth thighs. Mine were boxers, loose, hanging off the edge of my muscular quads. Did she notice? I flexed.
Six inches, that was the distance between us. Why did it feel like miles?
She shut her eyes and licked her lips. I could lean over and kiss her. Touch her nipple.
Xanadu sat up fast as if she’d read my mind. My face flushed and I rolled away from her, scrabbling to sit. I didn’t dare meet her eyes.
“Mike,” I heard her whisper urgently. She lunged forward and clenched a hand over my shoulder. “There he is.”
“He” was Bailey. He’d parked his truck at the curb and emerged, Beau from the passenger side. Bailey checked his watch, said something to Beau, and in step they sauntered up the main walk.
Deb Pastore shrieked, “Bailey, we’re over here!”
Miz S choked on “Eternity,” the last word. She slit-eyed Deb over the book.
“Sorry.” Deb blushed. “I just wanted to get his attention.”
A couple of people went, “Oooh.” Deb hid her face.
Bailey glanced over at us and hitched his chin. He and Beau parted ways. Bailey strolled across the lawn.
“He is so tall,” Xanadu breathed. “And utterly, totally hot.”
So are you, I thought. Steaming hot. Bailey appraised the group, his eyes roving the clumps of people. They slowed on Xanadu. On her hand gripping my shoulder.
Yes, I thought. Get a good look.
As I lifted my hand to cover hers, she withdrew it.
“Here, Bailey,” Deb piped up. “You can sit next to me.” She swept her legs underneath her long skirt to make room for him. I hadn’t heard there was anything going on between Bailey and Deb Pastore. But then, I wasn’t all that interested. Jamie’d know. I’d ask him. Pray they were a couple now.
Miz S said, “Welcome back, Bailey. How’s your dad?”
“Doin’ good. Thanks.” His head dropped and he removed his Stetson.
“Now,” Miz S continued, “I’d like to read ‘Oh Mistress Mine’ by William Shakespeare.” She paused, waiting for Bailey to settle in. Next to Deb. Oh yeah. I saw Bailey sneak a peek at us. Leaning in closer to Xanadu, I deliberately fused my shoulder to hers. Get a good look, Bailey. Back off.
“Oh mistress mine! Where are you roaming?
Oh! stay and hear; your true love’s coming…”
I knew this poem. We’d studied Shakespeare last year in English. O mistress mine. Your true love’s coming. Was Xanadu listening? Your true love’s coming.
She flattened out on her stomach, facing Bailey, her chin resting on her hands. I don’t know what got into me. My lips began to move. My vocal cords engaged. I mocked Miz S: “What is love? ’Tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter…”
The sudden silence made me stop, and shut up.
“If you’d like to continue Mike, I’m sure we’d all appreciate hearing your interpretation of the Bard.”
I died. “No, ma’am. Sorry.” Everyone was gawking at me. Xanadu twisted her head around and smiled.
In that moment, I knew I loved her.
The bell rang and we all scrambled to our feet. I waited while Xanadu slipped on her sandals. Then she took off.
I had to jog to catch up. In the main hall, Xanadu bumped right into the back of Bailey, hard. It made him stumble forward. She went, “Oh sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
When he turned around, she blinked in recognition. “Oh. Hi, Bailey,” she said.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hey, thanks again for the ride home.” She placed an open hand against his arm. “You know, since we live so close, you should stop by after school. Like, every day,” she intoned, crossing her eyes.
Under the brim of his hat, Bailey looked at her and smiled. Beside him, Deb Pastore stiffened. Deb glared at The Hand. Xanadu did an unexpected thing then. She moved her hand slowly to my arm, snaking it underneath and crooking her elbow in mine. “Later,” she said, to Bailey, tugging me down the hall. The last glimpse I had was Deb Pastore frowning at our backs.
Xanadu said under her breath, “Ooh, that was fun.”
For who? I wondered.
“Mike, can you come see me now?”
I jumped out of my skin as Dr. Kinneson ambled up beside me. “I know you have P.E. this hour, but I forgot I scheduled a meeting during your homeroom.” She added coolly over my head, “Hello, Xanadu.”
Xanadu cut Dr. Kinneson a look. Apparently they’d met.
“You’d better get to class,” Dr. Kinneson told her. “You’re going to be late.”
Xanadu snapped, “I was going. God.” She dropped my arm and stormed off ahead of me.
Dr. Kinneson motioned with her wrist for me to follow her. I’d rather have chased down Xanadu, resumed our close encounter of the physical kind, but I didn’t think I had an option.
Wrong. I had an option: Follow Dr. Kinneson or die.
Chapter Nine
“I invited the recruiter from Kansas State to come watch you play last week.” Dr. Kinneson motioned me to a chair in her office. “He’s a friend of my husband’s. They went to Penn State together.”
She had all these diplomas on her wall that I couldn’t read from my seat. A picture of her and her husband sat on the bookshelf behind her. He looked like Denzel Washington.
“Jerry’s very interested in your future. Jerry Wesson—he’s the recruiter—he’s been following you. A lot of coaches from other universities have too, of course. He’d like you to play for K State, though between you and me,” her voice lowered. “I think you can do better.”
Better than what? Her words were swirling around in my brain. I was having a hard time concentrating with the door closed. I hated closed doors. Hated being closed in, trapped. Did Dad feel trapped? Is that why…?
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Dr. Kinneson folded her hands on top of the desk. “I mean, on a softball scholarship you can take your pick of colleges and universities. You were planning to go to college, weren’t you?”
I let out a short laugh.
She looked offended. “What?” she asked.
“College? Me?”
She frowned. “Of course you. Why not?”
I sprawled back in the chair. Feigned attitude. “I’m not exactly college material, Coach. Er, Dr. Kinneson.” I crossed an ankle over my knee. The sole of my Nikes was worn through and you could see my bare foot. I dropped my shoe back to the floor.
“That isn’t true,” she said. “You have a solid B average. You could go just about anywhere you wanted on an athletic scholarship, Mike. To a school with a softball program, which I’m sure is what you’re looking for. There are dozens of good colleges and universities with competitive teams. Elite schools.”
I couldn’t suppress an audible exhale of breath. “Thanks, anyway.” I pushed to my feet. “Not interested.”
“Sit down,” she snapped.
My butt hit the chair. Geez.
“Look at me.”
My head lifted.
“What are you going to do with your softball?”
What’d she mean? Like, throw it? Or throw it away?
“What are your goals?” she asked. “Do you want to play professionally?”
“I don’t know. I never thought about it.” Which was a lie. The biggest lie of my life.
“What do you mean, you never thought about it?”
I used to think about it. But I quit. Dwelling on the impossible was destructive.
“You need to think about it,” she went on. “You’re good enough, you know.”
That wasn’t the point.
“Even if you didn’t play, you could still get into college. You’re smart and talented and you work hard.”
I shook my head at the floor. “I don’t think college is in my future, Coach—uh, ma’am.”
“Why not? Look at me.”
Why was she sniping? What had I done to make her mad?
“Why not?” she barked again.
A hundred reasons. The money. Wasn’t that enough? The week after Dad’s funeral, it all fell apart. I had the application for competitive league all filled out and ready to send. I went to Ma to ask for the money. Except—I couldn’t. She was in bed, comatose. Plus, she wasn’t acknowledging my existence. So I asked Darryl. I said, “I need you to write me a check for competitive league. Dad said I could go. He said I could try out for a travel team.”
Darryl’s face went white. Like I’d hit him in the gut.
“Dad’s been saving the money,” I told Darryl. “It’s in his savings account. Just write me a check, okay?”
Darryl took the application I was shoving in his face and skimmed down the page. His eyes stuck on the bottom line. Then, he laughed. He laughed hysterically.
I ripped the app from his hands. “Dad’s been planning for me to go, to play competitive,” my voice rose to be heard over Darryl’s donkey laugh. “I have to if I want to go pro. He’s been planning it. He wants me to go!”
Darryl sobered fast. “There’s no money,” he said. “There’s no savings.”
“What?”
“There’s nothing.” Darryl got up from the kitchen table to leave.
“No.” I grabbed his arm. “We’ve been planning this. Me and Dad. He’s been saving for me.”
“Are you deaf!” Darryl wheeled on me. “There’s no fucking money. He didn?
??t leave us anything, okay? Except the business. The fucking business. He didn’t even put money away for his own funeral. Who do you think buried him? Who do you think paid for that fucking headstone?” Darryl’s shrill voice cracked. “Who? Who paid for his fucking worthless life?” Darryl stormed out.
I was left to wonder. Who? Who did pay?
Later, I figured it out. Coalton.
I swore I’d never take another penny from anyone in this town. Mike Szabo pays her way. She isn’t a charity case.
My dream of going pro died with Dad. I’d play through high school, then hang up my glove. Face reality. Get on with it.
“Listen, Mike,” Dr. Kinneson’s voice brought me back to the present. She stood suddenly and charged around her desk like she was going to attack me. She stopped just short and held onto the edge of her desk, eyes boring down on my face. I felt like a caged animal, a criminal. “You have a way out of this town, Mike. A guaranteed future. You absolutely cannot waste this opportunity.”
“Who said I wanted out?”
She acted like she didn’t hear me. “You have so much ahead of you, you can’t even imagine. I can help get your name and face out there, get college recruiters interested in you, but you’re going to have to want this, commit to it long-term. It’s up to you.”
Nothing was up to me. He’d made my decision for me.
“Mr. Archuleta says he’s talked to you about this before. About trying out for the KC Peppers or the Shockwaves. I understand your financial situation, but there are ways around that.”
Don’t. Don’t blow. Breathe in. Out. Yeah, Coach Archuleta had talked to me. He’d talked a blue streak. He even offered to pay my way. No thanks.
She circled back around her desk and opened her top drawer. Withdrawing a glossy white folder, she said, “There’s a softball camp this summer I’d like you to apply for. Jerry says it’s brand-new, open only to top flight players. You get personalized instruction, a batting coach, a catching coach. It’s three weeks of intensive training. I know you’ve been working out on your own, strength training, but at your level you need a personal trainer. You can’t get that here.” She shook her head and added, “They expect so much of you girls these days. Small towns don’t have the facilities or resources. But, Mike,” she looked at me hard, fixed on my face, my expressionless eyes, “this camp is doable. The recruiters who come to observe are thick as thieves, Jerry says. You’re sure to attract attention. He says you have the raw talent—anyone can see that—but what sets you apart are your leadership skills. He says that’s what recruiters are looking for. And the commitment, the hunger. Do you have the hunger?”