Dad gave me an indulgent grin. “I help with the field maintenance. You need to do your share.”
I opened my mouth to protest, and he held up a finger. “You wanted a ballplayer in the house.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know I’d have to work to have him.”
“You know what your mom always says.”
I groaned. “I know. Nothing ever comes easy.”
“That’s right.” He reached over and patted my hand. “Go call Ed.”
“Did you give him Bird’s name, too?”
Dad grinned one of those big Bruce Willis grins that crinkled his face. “You bet.”
Chapter 8
Tuesday afternoon I was at my desk, working on my column, when I heard Jason come home from work. I heard him go into his room and shut the door. I thought about crossing the hall, just to say hey. That would be the polite thing to do.
Only if we were supposed to treat him like family, then I should really ignore him. After all, I never went out of my way to welcome Tiffany home.
I heard Jason open his door, heard his footsteps in the hallway, then on the stairs. I wondered if he was going to raid the kitchen, but that made no sense. He’d just gotten off from work, and I’d overheard him mention to Mom that she didn’t need to worry about feeding him when he worked, because he got a free meal when he finished his shift.
Mom and Dad were both still at work. Tiffany was off cutting the ribbon at the grand opening of an appliance store, which meant it was just Jason and me. Tonight was the season opener, and for all I knew, he might be nervous about it. Maybe he’d want someone to talk to.
I closed my file and went in search of him. He wasn’t in the living room or the family room. Not in the kitchen, either.
Then I heard a sound in the laundry room. The washing machine starting its churning cycle. I’d used it a couple of hours earlier. I’d even used the dryer. Unfortunately, I had a bad habit of not retrieving my clothes until I needed them, which meant they were still there.
I looked into the laundry room. Sure enough, Jason had put a laundry basket on top of the dryer, and he was holding a pair of my panties—a red, lacy low-cut pair—like he thought they had the potential to bite him.
He must have heard me in the doorway, because he looked at me, his cheeks turning the same shade as my underwear. “I need to get my uniform washed…and dried. I’m not sure who these clothes belong to or what I should do—”
I stepped into the room, and without actually claiming the underwear as mine, I snatched them from between his fingers and tossed them into the laundry basket. “Yeah, I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks.” He backed off like they were radioactive. He was wearing a ratty T-shirt and faded gym shorts, the kinds of clothes I usually wore when I was trying to get everything washed on the same day. Except even with ratty clothes on, he looked good. Comfortable. Snuggleable. Yeah, he definitely looked like a guy that a girl would want to snuggle against.
“We all do our own clothes around here,” I said inanely, pulling the rest of my clothes out of the dryer and dumping them in the basket.
“That’s cool. Same goes at my house. It’s just that most of the underwear is boxers or briefs. Definitely very little…lace.”
I looked over at him. “Because you’ve got three brothers. No sisters?”
“No sisters. I’m discovering it’s way different living with girls in the house.”
“It’s different having another guy in the house, too. I’m not sure Dad even comes into the laundry room unless one of the machines isn’t working. Otherwise, Mom does his laundry.”
Could we have a more boring conversation? I was beginning to understand why Tiffany fixated on orphans as a topic. It ensured she didn’t spend time talking laundry. That was worse than discussing the weather.
“Sorry about leaving the clothes in the dryer. I didn’t realize you’d need to do laundry so soon.” As a courtesy I started to clean the lint filter.
“I probably should have said something. I always wash my uniform before a game.”
I stopped what I was doing and looked at him.
He shifted his stance, as though suddenly very uncomfortable with his confession.
“Ballplayers have pregame rituals. That’s mine. Washing my uniform,” he explained.
“What do you do when you have a double header?”
His cheeks turned red. “Wash it twice.”
“Do you wash and dry it, then wash and dry it again, or do you wash it twice, dry it once?”
“Look, I’m not obsessive-compulsive like some guys. I just like to go to the game in a uniform that’s as fresh as it can be.”
Which wasn’t really an answer to my question, but I let it slide. “Okay, sure. I understand.” Although I didn’t really.
He gave a brisk nod, and I knew even before he spoke that a change in topic was coming.
“It was really nice of your parents to make their house available. I know it’s not easy having company all the time. I’m really trying not to get in the way.”
I waved that off. “Hey, we wanted you here. No way would we consider you in the way.”
“Still, I know it has to create some stress, a little fissure in the family routine.”
“Family routine? Please. We have no routine, other than Mom and Dad working all day, Tiffany doing whatever, and me doing this and that.”
Putting his hands behind him, he lifted himself up on the washing machine, while I put the lint filter back into place and tried to decide if I should go ahead and start folding my clothes. No, that would mean making each piece of underwear visible and available for inspection. That was a little too personal.
Really I had no reason to stay.
“So what is this and that?” he asked, giving me a reason. “I mean, what do you do all day?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
He laughed. “So, what, like it’s all a big secret?”
“Not really. I just always wanted to use that line.”
“So what do you do?”
“Well, I have my own personal summer reading program. I have to read three books a week. Right now I’m reading Marley and Me.”
“I read it. It’s good.”
“It’s going to make me cry, though, isn’t it?”
“Probably.”
He seemed amused by that prospect.
“So you just read all day?” he prodded.
“I work on my column for the newspaper.”
Now he seemed impressed. “You write a column for the newspaper? You mean the school paper?”
“Well, I do write for the school paper. I’m actually going to be editor next year, but I also write a column for the local paper. Before you think it’s a big deal, you should know the editor is always desperate for filler pieces.”
“But you get a byline and everything?”
I couldn’t stop myself from grinning. “Yeah, I get a byline and everything. Thursday morning edition. Weekdays are usually slow days, and I think that’s when he’s most desperate for news, so my little column fills up what would otherwise be white space.”
“So what do you write?”
“It’s called ‘Runyon’s Sideline Review,’ and I write about things that happen in the stands during different kinds of sporting events, from the perspective of the fan rather than the player. Gives me a reason to go to a variety of events, and I have a press pass so I get in free.” Like I needed a reason.
“You’re kidding?”
“I’m serious. For my next piece, I’ll probably reveal the scandalous secrets of the concession stand, since Bird and I are working the first shift tonight.”
He grinned, like I was clever or interesting…or maybe just amusing in a she’s-fun-to-talk-to-but-I’d-never-date-her kind of way.
The washing machine went into spin cycle, making a really loud banging noise, and he hopped to the floor.
“It’s unbalanced,” I said, like may
be he’d never had to deal with an unbalanced washer before. I know some machines self-balance. Ours doesn’t. It actually starts walking across the laundry room, like it’s possessed or something.
I lifted the lid and waited for the spinning to stop. There was a big sign on the inside of the lid: DO NOT PLACE HAND IN MACHINE WHILE IT IS IN MOTION. As though I couldn’t figure that out on my own.
Okay, apparently guys didn’t wash clothes like girls. I sorted. Delicates from nondelicates, darks from lights. Jason had simply stuffed everything into the washing machine. Lights. Darks. Jeans. Socks. Underwear. You name it. It was a hodgepodge of clothing.
“I can do that,” he said, as though suddenly remembering he had personal items in there.
He was beside me and had his hand in the machine, before I had my hand out. I was sorta blocking his view—at least that’s what I figured must have happened—because he grabbed my hand instead of his jeans. His hand was like twice the size of mine and really warm. I felt this tingle travel up my arm and down to my bare toes, making them curl against the tile. Because he’d come around me, my shoulder was sorta curved into his chest. I could smell his leathery scent, and thought I could even smell fried pickles from all the orders he must have carried that day.
I looked up, up into his blue, blue eyes. He was looking down at me, like maybe he was only just seeing me for the first time. His brow furrowed deeply, his lips parted slightly.
I wanted to say something clever, witty, and sexy.
Because this certainly seemed like a kissing moment. If this was a movie, it would have been. It would have been the moment of awakening, of discovery. He would have lowered his mouth those three inches and kissed me.
But this wasn’t a movie. It was more of an awkward moment, and I was pretty sure he was trying to figure out how to get out of it without embarrassing himself further.
Bang!
The back door to the kitchen slammed shut.
“Dani!”
Tiffany.
“Hey, where are you?” she cried out.
I so didn’t want to answer. I wanted to stay exactly where I was and see where this moment might lead.
“Oh, there you are,” she said, coming into the laundry room. “What are you guys doing?”
“The washing machine is unbalanced,” I said.
“And it takes two of you to balance it?”
“I was demonstrating the necessary technique,” I said.
“You just shift the clothes around.”
Because I felt like I didn’t have a choice, I pulled my hand out of the machine and stepped back. I watched Jason struggle to move his heavy, wet clothes into a more balanced arrangement. Then he closed the lid. The machine went into a nice humming spin cycle.
“Great job,” I said, smiling at him like he’d accomplished a miracle.
“Thanks.” He was blushing, not really looking at me anymore, but looking at Tiffany.
So much for our almost connected moment.
“You had some news to impart?” I asked Tiffany. “Because it sure sounded like it when you came crashing through the door.”
“I don’t crash, but yeah, I have news. They’ve asked me to sing the national anthem at the July Fourth Rattler’s game. Can you believe it?”
“Makes sense. You being Miss Teen Ragland and all.”
“I’ve decided I’m going to do my own version.”
I stared at her. “Your own version of what?”
“The national anthem. I’m going to sing it in a way that makes it bigger and grander than it is.”
“I hate when people do that,” I said. “It makes it more about the person than the song. ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ should be sung the way Francis Scott Key wrote it.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re jealous they asked me instead of you to sing it.”
“I can’t carry a tune to save my life. Why would I want them to ask me?”
She looked at Jason. “Don’t you think she sounds jealous?”
“Don’t put him in the middle of this,” I said.
“Whatever. I have an appointment with my voice teacher, so she can help me develop my own style. Tell Mom I won’t be home for dinner.”
She flounced—actually flounced—out of the room.
I shook my head. I was not jealous, and I really didn’t like it when people thought they could improve the national anthem.
I looked over at Jason. I was totally embarrassed that he’d witnessed my sister and me arguing. “Sorry about that,” I said. “I’m sort of a purist when it comes to certain things.”
“I hear you. I was at a game once where the guy sang the last note for two minutes. I kid you not. I was really uncomfortable standing there wishing he’d just finish. Because it is our country’s song. And then I felt disrespectful, wanting it to end.” He shrugged, like he still felt uncomfortable that he’d ever had those thoughts.
The washing machine shut off. Wow, we’d been talking through an entire wash cycle. How amazing was that?
I didn’t need to see his individual pieces of laundry going into the dryer, so I picked up the laundry basket. “Guess I’d better get these folded.”
“Thanks for the help with the spin cycle,” he said.
“You’re welcome.”
I headed out of the room thinking, Could we sound any more domesticated and boring?
Chapter 9
“I so cannot believe we missed the opening pitch of the season,” Bird said as she tore open another package of wieners and dropped them into the steaming water. “I’ve never missed the opening pitch—not since the field was first built, not since the collegiate league came to town.”
I poured more popcorn kernels into the popcorn machine. “This is only our fourth year having a collegiate team. So you’ve seen what? Three opening pitches?”
“The exact number isn’t the point. The tradition’s the point.”
“I don’t know why you’re complaining. Brandon will probably play the whole game.” First basemen usually did. He and Bird had talked a couple of times following practices. She really liked him. “Jason is the starting pitcher. He may be off the mound by the time we get out there.”
Although I wasn’t supposed to like Jason in the boyfriend kind of way, I was interested in seeing him pitch. And I couldn’t stop thinking about that moment in the laundry room when his lips had been so close to mine. What would it be like to kiss him?
“Maybe we should have volunteered for the last shift,” Bird said, bringing me back from the heat of the almost-kiss to the heat inside the concession stand.
“You wanted to see the fireworks after the game.” Last shift did clean-up.
“I love fireworks.”
The fireworks were another tradition. They had them at the opening game, the Fourth of July game, and the final game of the season.
“I know. I do, too.” But I’d hated choosing between watching Jason pitch or seeing the fireworks, between working a shift with Bird or working one without her. Although truthfully, I shouldn’t have any decisions to make. Jason was supposed to be a nonissue.
In the concession stand, we’d been pretty busy in the beginning, as people arriving at the field had wanted to grab eats before heading to the stands.
Ours wasn’t a fancy field. A chain-link fence surrounded it. The concession stand was a simple wooden building that looked a lot like the fireworks stands we saw on the side of rural roads when my family took trips across Texas. We had a slight breeze blowing through the open windows and a small, noisy floor fan keeping us cool.
As Miss Teen Ragland, Tiffany was involved in a lot of local fund-raising efforts. Maybe I should talk to her about raising funds to improve the working conditions in the concession stand.
Two host moms were taking orders and handling the money. Not that anyone didn’t trust us, but I think they saw Bird and me as the grunt workers. They called out what they needed, and she and I filled the orders: Cokes (in Texas, a
ll soft drinks are called Cokes), water, popcorn, chips, nachos, and the most popular item, hot dogs. Thank goodness all we had to do to prepare the hot dogs was slap a wiener in a bun and wrap it in foil. A small table near the concession stand housed the mustard and relish, so people could fix their dogs the way they wanted them.
As a rule, I didn’t think anything was tastier than a ballpark hot dog, but smelling them cooking for more than an hour was causing me to lose my appetite.
“At least we’ll have the party afterward,” Bird said.
Her parents had agreed to let her invite the team to her house for an opening game kickoff party—although we weren’t really kicking off the opening game, since the party followed it, but we all knew what it meant. An excuse to party. Of course, she’d invited the host families as well. She hoped most of the parents would be too tired to come.
Suddenly the crowd released an excited roar and thunderous applause.
“What is it?”
“What happened?”
Bird and I asked at the same time. And of course, no one could see the field, so no one knew, but we kept asking until one of the newer customers, straight from the stands, was able to tell us that Bentley had hit a home run.
Bird didn’t know whether to be thrilled for his success or disappointed she’d missed seeing it.
“He’ll hit another one before the summer is over,” I said, trying to console her.
“I know.” She lifted her shoulders, then dropped them back down. “I really like him, Dani. Even though we’ve only talked a couple of times, we have so much in common.”
“Three hot dogs!” one of the moms yelled back to us.
“Two popcorns!”
Using a pair of tongs, Bird grabbed one of the bobbing wieners while I snatched a sack for the popcorn. With an amazing flick and swoop of my wrist, I had it opened and ready so I could scoop popcorn into it.
“What do you have in common?” I asked as I squirted butter over sack one, then sack two of popcorn.
“Baseball, the kind of movies we like to watch, television shows, music. You name it. Speaking of music, we’ve been talking about maybe catching a free concert at the amphitheater next week. He hasn’t actually asked, but I’ve been dropping some blatant hints that I was interested. Stephanie says guys are shy about asking unless they know they won’t get turned down. So I pretty much have done everything except tattoo it across my forehead. Anyway, if he does ask, do you want to come with us?”