Lost Boy
Authors: Tim Green
Ryder smashed a ball over the fence and tried not to smile.
He jogged the bases while his teammates whistled, catcalled, or clapped, depending on the kind of person they were and which side they'd bet on. His team's best pitcher, Ben Salisbury, had said he'd strike Ryder out with four pitches. Ryder knocked it out on the second. Only the kids who went to Dalton School with Salisbury bet on him, and they did it out of loyalty. Everyone knew Ryder had the best Little League batting average in Manhattan.
Practice ended. The fields in Central Park were booked solid, so the team could never run over its assigned time.
Salisbury spoke in a superior tone of voice. “Anyone can get lucky. No way can you do that again. Tomorrow, let's go double or nothing . . . unless you're
scared.
”
Ryder squinted at him in the bright sunshine filtering through the metal backstop.
“That's
if
you can make it till Friday without my twenty bucks and still have enough money to pay for your lunch.” Salisbury waggled his eyebrows at his buddies and they all laughed.
Ryder shrugged without a word, pulled his coat on over his baseball uniform, and walked away. Some of his teammates were more upset about it than he was, and they cried foul. There was some pushing and shoving, but Ryder's eyes were already on his mom, and he marched toward her, not wanting her to have to be on her feet any longer than she needed. His mom cleaned the Pierre Hotel every day of the weekâeven today, Sundayâand he knew she never sat down. He'd heard the story about Mrs. Cruz, who sat down on the edge of a bathtub, got caught, and was fired. And his mom needed this job.
Jason Anton caught up to him just as Ryder's mom gave him a kiss on the cheek and a quick hug.
“Hi, Ms. Shoesmith.” Jason actually tipped his cap to Ryder's mom. He was a private school kid too, Allen Stevenson School. Almost
everyone on this select league team besides Ryder was.
“Call me Ruby, Jason. You're making me feel old.” Ryder's mom was anything but old. She got mistaken for a college student all the time, and Ryder for her younger brother instead of her son.
“Okay, I'll try. Hey, man.” Jason chucked Ryder's shoulder and spoke low. “You shouldn't have let him off like that. What a jerk.
“You should've seen him, Ms. Shoesmith. Ryder knocked a home run on Salisbury's second pitch and the bet was twenty dollars that he'd strike him out in four.” Jason announced this with pride, but stopped smiling when he saw Ryder's mom frown.
“I didn't take it, Mom.” Ryder shook his head at Jason and mouthed for him to shut up.
“Anyway, Ryder,” Jason said, “Friday night there's this sleepover at the museum. It's an Egyptian party. Everyone gets wrapped up in toilet paper and there's magicians and snakes and all these contests. It's super fun and my mom said I could bring a guest, so . . . wanna come?”
Ryder didn't even look at his mom because he knew her reaction. “Oh, man, I wish I could. Sorry, Jason, but thanks a lot.”
Jason's face dropped and he stopped walking. “You sure?”
“Naw, we got all this stuff planned for Friday, but thanks, Jason.” Ryder turned to go.
“Hey,” Jason said. “I'm gonna keep asking you, you know.”
“Thanks,” Ryder said.
“You do that, Jason. You're a very nice boy.” Ryder's mom flashed a smile full of perfect white teeth, which outshined even the sun because of her tan skin and crow-black hair.
Ryder tugged her along without looking back, then jammed his hands deep in his coat pockets as they walked silently through the park. Tiny buds exploded lime green from the tips of many tree branches. Other branches bore only heavy purple pods, ready, but waiting for the real spring, not just a sunny day. Ryder smelled roasted chestnuts from some unseen vendor, probably out on Central Park West. He had never eaten one, but he loved the warm, rich smell of them.
His mom cleared her throat to get his attention. Ryder rolled his eyes and braced himself, because he already knew what was coming.
“Why do you always do that?” Her voice was soft, like her skin, like her full, dark hair.
“Do what?” Ryder knew she wouldn't like his reply, but couldn't help himself from playing dumb.
“Well, you know. We've had this discussion before.”
“Let's not have it again,” he said.
“I just
don't
want you to be . . .”
“What?” He flashed his eyes at her, daring her to say it.
She pressed her lips tight, then spoke. “A mama's boy, Ryder.”
“Well, I am, so there.” To tease her, he put a thumb in his mouth and began sucking on it.
“Oh, you!” She gave him a playful shove and he grabbed her, wrestling around and tickling her, right up underneath the arms of her bright yellow puffy coat until she screamed for him to stop. “Please!”
He did stop, and she tackled him, driving him off the sidewalk and onto the thin, muddy grass.
“You're crazy!” he shouted, laughing even though the mud soaked through the seat of his pants. “Help! My mother's lost her mind!”
She tickled him now, and he got her too, until they both laughed so hard they had tears in their eyes and they lay back together looking at the bright blue sky. Clouds thick and fat as whipped cream crept toward Long Island.
“Soon, you're not gonna stand a chance,” he said.
“I know. You're growing up.”
Part of Ryder liked the sound of that, but there was also something scary about it. He liked being friends with his mom and suspected growing up would change that. Like her pushing him to hang out with other kids. He didn't
want
to hang out with other kids. He was happy by himself, with a book, or with her.
She sighed. “He's so nice, that Jason.”
“You can't let it go, can you?” He punched a fist into his baseball mitt. “Friday night is our movie night.”
“It doesn't
have
to be. That's what I'm telling you.”
“Why? You want to go out on a date?” He knew she got asked out all the time. He'd seen men stop cold on the street, even heard them suggest dinner sometime.
She slapped him lightly on the head. “I want you to be a boy. Boys hang out with their friends.”
“It's hard to have friends when you don't even have a phone.” He wanted to get her off the subject, and he knew it riled her when he complained about not having a phone.
She sighed. “Well, one day, you'll be a doctor and able to
afford cell phones for everyone. . . . I clean toilets.”
Ryder's jacket felt suddenly tight and the ground cold and wet. He hated when she talked like that, hated that she cleaned other people's messes for a living. His voice got hard. “Yeah. One day.”
He got up and so did she, the magic broken. They weren't friends anymore, they were a typical mom and kid, mad about things they didn't see eye to eye on. They started to walk, winding their way through the park along the familiar route that led from the baseball fields to a rough and run-down part of the city where they lived. What she said about cleaning toilets still bothered him, and he wanted to swing back. He took his time, searching for a plan of attack.
Finally, he had it. He cleared his throat and, to get her full attention, he held up the hand with the glove on it. “One day, I'll play in the majors and I'm gonna buy you a penthouse on Fifth Avenue.”
He knew she hated the Upper East Side because that's where the real snobs livedâTrump, Bloomberg, the Hiltons. And the only thing she hated worse than anything old, loud, or excessively wealthy was a professional athlete. When the Mets signed Johan Santana to a $137 million contract and he showed her the sports page at the breakfast table, she snatched it from him, crumpled the paper, and jammed it in the trash.