High Heat (19 page)

"But you're going to pitch for Whitman next year, right?"

"No more pitching for me. If I play, and I'm not sure I will, I'll play in the outfield."

"Why did you quit pitching?"

I looked away. For an instant I thought about telling him the truth. But how could I explain to him something I couldn't completely explain to myself? When I looked back, I shrugged. "No reason, really. It's just that being a relief pitcher isn't a whole lot of fun. You sit and you sit, your stomach churning the whole time. And then lots of times you don't even play."

"Still, it must be quite a rush to strike out some guy to end a game."

I thought of how that felt. The ball in my hand; the game on the line; the umpire yelling, "Strike three!"

"Yeah," I admitted. "It is."

He played around with his spoon, then looked at me again. "You still could pitch, couldn't you? If you wanted to. You didn't hurt your arm or anything?"

"No, there's nothing wrong with my arm."

He fiddled with his spoon again, finally his eyes locked on mine. "Would you pitch to me?"

"What?"

"Would you pitch to me? Over the winter. I mean really pitch. Your fastest fastball; your best stuff. We could get together on weekends and over Christmas break. It would be good for both of us."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means."

I looked off to the side, away from him. "Listen, Reese. If you want to get together and throw the ball around in the offseason, I'm all for it. I'll even throw batting practice to you if you want. But that's as far as I'll go."

"So you won't pitch to me."

I looked away. "I told you. No."

He stared at me long and hard, then quickly finished his chocolate and stood up. "I've got to go. You want a ride home?"

"I think I'll stay a little longer," I said. "I'll catch the bus or walk."

He headed to the door.

"You going to be at the field tomorrow?" I asked as he was about to push the door open.

He shook his head. "No. There's no point."

On Tuesday morning I dragged myself to the bus. I figured I'd keep my head down and my eyes forward just like the year before. But back then I knew nobody and nobody knew me. As I stood at the bus stop, kids came over. "Can you believe we're back doing this?" they said, remote smiles on their faces.

There was nothing to do but smile back. "No. It's unreal."

In the hallways before school and during passing periods, guys on the baseball team would slap me on the shoulder and ask how I was doing. Mrs. Guion, my Spanish teacher, grabbed me by the elbow. "When you see Miguel, tell him to come to my classroom. Okay? I need him to help me translate a letter." At lunch I did see him, and after I passed on her message, I sat down and ate lunch with him and Pedro Hernandez and some other guys from the team.

When the school day ended, I headed straight to the bus loading zone. Before I reached it, Coach Grandison spotted me from across the lawn. "Shane, come over here for a minute."

I hustled over. He shook my hand, his eyes shining. "How did the job go?"

"Really well. Thanks for getting it for me."

"You interested in more work? The soccer league needs refs."

"I don't know much about soccer."

"It'll be boys and girls under twelve. You'll get training. The hard part is the parents. They take it pretty seriously."

"If somebody shows me what to do, then sure, I'm interested."

"All right then. You're on. Don't plan anything for Saturday afternoons." He paused. "I talked to Miguel. He says you played right field all summer. He says you're pretty good, that you catch everything in sight and that nobody runs on you."

I shrugged. "I field okay, but I can't hit a lick."

"That'll come. Just keep playing."

Behind me I could hear the bus engines starting. I looked over my shoulder. "Coach," I said, "I've got to—"

"Go. We'll talk more later."

Riding home, I thought about what my aunt Cella had said when my father was buried. I didn't want to hear it then because I didn't want to believe it. But she was right. No matter what happens to you, the world doesn't stop. Either you get on board or you don't.

In late September I was excused from my math class to meet with my counselor, Mr. Ferris. The day before, I'd been asked to fill out a form about my "future plans." What was I interested in? Did I want to become an electrician or a plumber? How about AmeriCorps or VISTA? Was I interested in a technical school, a community college, or a four-year college?

At Shorelake I'd just assumed that I'd end up at some expensive Eastern school that had good sports teams. Duke maybe, or Georgetown. But that was when we had money and I got good grades. Now we didn't have money, and I didn't get good grades. I'd checked the box next to
college
anyway. There didn't seem to be anything else I could check. I knocked softly on Mr. Ferris's door. "Come in," he called out cheerily, and I stepped inside, not looking forward to what he'd have to say to me.

Mr. Ferris is the golf coach, and he looks like a golfer. Polo shirt, khaki pants, fair hair, blue eyes, easy smile. He looked over my form. "So you want to go to college. Well, let's see what your grades look like."

As he flipped through my records, I squirmed in my stiffbacked chair. "I know I got bad grades last year," I said, unable to keep still, "but I'll do better this year. Is there a chance I could still get into the University of Washington?"
UW is right in Seattle. If I was accepted, my only expense would be tuition.

He shook his head. "I don't think so. Not unless your SAT is really, really high. Fourteen hundred or so. If I were you, I'd apply to other schools. Central Washington for sure, and maybe Western Washington. You'd need straight A's in your core classes to get into Western, and A's and B's for Central. I'm talking about math, English, history, science. You'll have to buckle down."

I looked at my hands. "My mom couldn't afford room and board on top of tuition. If I can't get into UW, I don't see how I can go anywhere."

He pushed some papers across his desk toward me. "Don't let money keep you from going to college. Bring these home and show them to your mom. There are scholarships and grants available, and low-cost loans, five years from now you could have a college diploma and not much debt. The key is getting those grades up."

That night I told Mom what Mr. Ferris had said.

"And he said with grants and scholarships, you might not have much debt?"

"Yeah."

"There's no chance for UW?"

"I can't get in, Mom."

For a moment there was silence. Then she smiled. "Well, if you can't, you can't. We'll make other plans."

"I could go to a community college. Then you'd have money for Marian when she's ready for college."

Mom stared off into space. I could feel her thinking. "No," she said at last. "You're going to a four-year college. That's
what your father would have wanted, and that's what we're going to do." She paused. "Those other schools sound fine. Especially Western Washington. I've heard nothing but good things about it. We'll take a ride up to Bellingham this weekend and look it over."

We went on Sunday. Western is smaller than UW, but it still felt plenty big. Posted on a kiosk outside the student union building were flyers for sailing lessons in Bellingham Bay, mountain climbing in the Cascades, white-water rafting in Canada, and hang-gliding on the San Juan Islands. There were notices about film clubs, chess clubs, and Internet clubs and announcements of lectures on science, math, and politics. Near the campus were bookstores and coffee shops and movie houses.

"What do you think?" Mom said as we drove home.

"I think it's great," I answered.

She smiled. "So do I. So raise those grades and get yourself admitted."

We got home at four in the afternoon. I walked to the Broadview Library and checked out a couple of SAT practice books. That night I studied for an hour or so. I never did that again, but I did spend fifteen minutes to half an hour on them most nights. And that wasn't the only studying I did. To get C's at Whitman, all you had to do was show up. But A's took study, and I was determined to get A's.

I hardly had time to breathe those days. I was still running every day and lifting weights at least a couple of times a week. I studied at night and refereed soccer games on Saturdays. I had to work those games alone, which made it boring; and
some of the parents went ballistic if I missed a call, which made it miserable. But the work put money in my savings account, so I took every game offered.

First-quarter grades were mailed home in early December. I had straight A's. Mom looked at them, then came over and kissed me on the forehead. They posted the honor roll in the hallway outside the cafeteria. That Monday Mrs. Joyner caught me looking at it. "Nice to see your name there, isn't it?" she said.

A couple of weeks later, a little before winter break, Kraybill came back. Seeing him brought back memories I didn't like.

"I didn't think you'd make it, Shane," he said as he drank the cup of coffee my mother offered him. He flipped through a stack of papers. "But everything looks good. School, work, sports—all of it top-notch. No hint of trouble."

"He's a fine young man," my mother said, looking at me and beaming. "And he always was. He made a mistake, he faced it, and he learned from it. Didn't you, Shane?"

I nodded, wishing he'd say whatever it was he had to say and leave.

Kraybill put the file folder down. "Do you see Lonnie Gibson anymore?"

"No."

"Do you go out drinking with anybody? Do drugs now and then? Anything like that?"

"He's done with all that," my mom said, jumping in.

"I've got to ask, Mrs. Hunter. It's my job."

I looked him in the eye. "No."

"Did you know Lonnie was arrested again?"

"No."

"Methamphetamines. He was selling in the University District."

"That's too bad," I said. "But I told you. I never see him anymore."

Kraybill sipped his coffee. "Well, from the looks of it, you won't be seeing me again either. And I'm glad of it." He looked toward Mom. "Thanks for the coffee."

"You're very welcome."

Kraybill stood up and started for the door.

"Can I ask you something?" I said.

He turned back. "Ask away."

"I've got my application in at a couple of colleges. Will they find out about..." I stopped.

"About your arrest? Not unless you tell them." He paused. "Anything else on your mind?"

I thought for a second. "No. Nothing."

He smiled. "Make something of yourself, Shane."

Mom walked him to his car. When she returned, she rubbed her hands together. Marian, who'd been listening from the kitchen, had come into the living room. "This is a big day," Mom said, looking at both of us. "I say we all go out for pizza."

"Can we go to Romio's?" Marian asked.

"Of course we can go to Romio's."

I was all for it too, but when we got there, my stomach felt off somehow. I ate a couple of pieces of the garlic bread but didn't even finish my first piece of pizza.

"Are you sick?" Mom said.

"I'm just not hungry."

"Well, don't force yourself to eat."

Marian took another piece off the platter. "More for me!" she said and shoved it into her mouth.

That night I couldn't fall asleep. I tried to make myself think about all the good things that had come my way, but that didn't work. So then I tried to think about nothing, but you can't think about nothing when there's something gnawing away at you.

And Reese Robertson was gnawing away at me.

I went through it all as if it were a movie running in slow motion. My first pitch on the outside corner for a strike. My second pitch even further outside, setting him up, tempting him to lean out over the plate to try to get the base hit he needed to complete the cycle. Finally my third pitch—high and inside. The baseball thudding into his skull ... his bat flying ... him crumpling to the ground, his helmet shattered.

Our second Christmas in the house was a lot different from the first. For one thing, the house felt like a home. Now I never thought about how small it was, or that it was really only a duplex, or that there was no backyard. Everything fit just fine.

Mom had been made assistant manager at Pasta Bella.
That meant a bonus for her, and on Christmas Eve she wasn't in the mood for saving. "We'll do that after Christmas," she said. We went to Sky Nursery and bought a noble fir that nearly took up the entire front room. The tree was big enough to hold all the ornaments that Mom had hung on to. We also had some of our old Christmas lights. Dad had always made sure our house was the brightest in Sound Ridge. I couldn't match that, but I ran lights around the outside of the duplex, and the rest I strung up inside. On her day off, Mom baked about ten dozen cookies.

On Christmas morning a stack of gifts were under the tree. Most of them were for Marian. Clothes mainly, but in the heavy box was a Sony CD player. I'd seen Mom looking at a cheaper, off-brand player at Walgreen's, and I know that's what Marian thought she was going to get. "Oh, thank you!" she said as she pulled the Sony out of the box.

I got a sweatshirt, a new pair of pants, some wool socks, and a $100 gift certificate for Olympic Sports. "You're so grown up, I don't know what to buy you anymore," Mom said.

"This is perfect."

"Open your gift," Marian said to Mom. "It's from both of us."

Mom tore off the wrapping paper. Inside was a hand-knitted wool Norwegian sweater, blue and red with a reindeer pattern. Marian had picked it out and contributed some allowance money, and I'd paid the rest. "It's beautiful," Mom said, and she kissed us both. "Absolutely beautiful."

"I told you she'd like it," Marian said as Mom tried it on.

The phone rang. It was Aunt Cella, and we took turns talking to her. Then we cleaned up the wrapping paper and
ate breakfast. After that Marian was off. "I want to see what Kaitlin got."