Pinch Hit (11 page)

Sam remembered the embarrassing and hilarious moment and couldn't contain a burst of laughter. But at the sound of his laugh, the woman's face changed. She looked directly into his eyes and scowled so hard that her mouth curled into a sneer.

Sam remembered her words from the stairwell—“You'll get yours”—and he stopped laughing.

Klum shoved Trevor. He stumbled back, slipped, and thumped the ground on his backside. The other kids crowded around, hungry for the fight. Klum jutted out his chin, just daring Trevor to hit him.

Trevor sprang up and swung his fist.

Before impact, Trevor's eyes closed.

He felt an iron grip on his wrist, arresting the punch.

“Are you two crazy?” Coach Sharp screamed so loud it hurt Trevor's ears.

Trevor stumbled sideways, off balance, but the coach held him up and kept him from falling again.

“He started it.” Trevor blurted out the words, pointing at Klum, whose look had gone from angry attacker to one of an almost innocent bystander.

“Nah,” Scotty Needum said. “Palomaki started it.”

“I told him he can't show up late and think it's okay, Coach,” Klum said. “You asked us to show leadership, and being late is garbage. You say that.”

“You don't just shove someone,” Trevor said. “That's not being a leader, that's being a thug.”

“You tried to throw a punch. Tried.” Klum's smile mocked Trevor's swing.

Scotty Needum laughed and a couple of other kids joined in, despite the general feeling Trevor could sense against Klum.

“I don't want any of this,” Coach Sharp said. “You guys have that much energy? Get on the baseline. We've got a long practice, but if you're that full of vinegar, you can all run.”

The team groaned but lined up as the coach said, sprinting from the first base line, across the infield to the third base line, and back to the tune of their coach's whistle. Both Trevor and Klum drew angry stares between whistles, and by the time it was over, no one was able to stand upright or catch his breath. Trevor wiped the sweat from his face, ready to vomit.

“You woulda smashed him like a bug,” Cole said between gasps. “He's lucky Coach stopped it, but I can't believe you actually took a swing at him.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Trevor asked.

Joey gave him a funny look. “Well you never messed with him before. He's always pushing us around.”

Trevor grasped for the right words. “And why does he do it? Because we let him.”

“Because we all know he's crazy,” Cole said. “Or did you forget Brian Leonard?”

“No,” Trevor said, his mind grasping for details Sam might have told him about a boy named Brian Leonard.

“Because no one wants
that
to happen to them.”

Trevor realized that Cole was staring at him, expecting a response.

“No,” Trevor said, wondering what horror Klum had committed on the boy named Brian Leonard. “No, you're right. No one wants that.”

“So,” Cole asked, “what are you planning to do to keep him from doing it to you?”

Sam felt like McKenna's publicist knew his secret for sure. Her look didn't waver; it came at him like an X-ray.

“Oh, I know why you think you can laugh.” Sara kept glaring.

Sam swallowed. He figured the safest thing to say was nothing.

“You think this is all a big joke.” Sara frowned, but she held up the script Sam's dad had written. “You don't care about some monster movie. You just want to see me hustle around for you, like some practical joke.”

“That's not true, Sara. I really want it.” McKenna snatched the script from her and handed it to Trevor. “It's my idea. We watched a scary movie the other day at my house and started talking about it....”

“But
that
?
Dark Cellar
by Randall Palomaki?” Even though Sara's voice had turned moderately pleasant, she never let her eyes waver from Sam. “Who is Randall Palomaki? I never even heard of the guy.”

“I was talking with one of the PAs about scary movies, and she said she heard about this wicked hot script,” McKenna said.

“Hot?” Sara said. “The only heat on that script is gonna come from an incinerator.”

“Can you keep a secret?” McKenna asked.

Sara's eyes widened for a moment. “Don't be ridiculous. What publicist can't keep a secret? I'd be out of a job.”

McKenna leaned toward her and lowered her voice. “We've got Trevor's dad involved.”

Sara studied Sam. “His dad?”

“Yes.”

“Any secret involving Trevor's dad is a secret worth keeping, don't you think?” The publicist's eyes never left Sam.

“You're the best.” McKenna turned her toward the door and patted the heavyset publicist on the back.

“We all know that, darling,” Sara said, and she stroked McKenna's head before she turned to go. “Good-bye. Trevor.”

“See you,” Sam said, waving even though Sara was already out through the dressing room door.

McKenna closed it behind her and held up the script. “We got it.”

“She knows.” Sam buried his head in his hands.

“Knows what?”

“She
knows
. Did you see how she looked at me? And that stuff about keeping a secret. I couldn't even speak. I had no idea what to say. This isn't working.”

“No, you were great. Polite, but not gushing over her. I think Trevor would have scowled back at her a little more; maybe you could do that, but it's all good.”

“Scowl? I almost wet my pants.”

“Stop fooling around. Now we call your agent and get a deal going for your father's script.”

Since Trevor didn't know what Klum had done to the boy named Brian Leonard, he had no reply for Cole's question. Coach Sharp's whistle tweeted, saving him from having to answer. Instead, he hustled into action with the rest of the team, smiling all the while. First they loosened their arms, working their way to a long ball throw before doing a series of defensive drills that included scooping up grounders and firing the ball to first, snagging pop flies, and working situations around the infield. Trevor's favorite was the double play drill. Since Sam's position was shortstop, Trevor got to both throw to second and cover the bag if the ball got fielded by the second baseman. The body positioning, steps, and techniques of catching the ball not just to catch it, but to make the fastest throw possible, got Trevor's blood racing.

When Trevor was actually able to scoop a grounder, tag second himself, and then make the throw to first, he almost burst with pride, until Frankie—who'd caught his throw to first—began to chuckle.

“What?” Trevor couldn't help from asking.

“You're goofing on me.”

Trevor hid his confusion with a smile and a nod, but the next time he threw to first, Frankie didn't laugh.

“Come on, Sam,” Frankie said. “Stop with the wild throws. Put it in my mitt. Practice like you play.”

“Where do you want it?” Trevor blurted out the question.

“Right here.” Frankie held out his glove, chest high. “Not here or here.” Frankie moved his glove down near his ankles, then up over his head, the two places Trevor's throws had gone.

Trevor nodded like he knew all along, but, try as he might, he couldn't make the throw with the kind of accuracy Frankie was used to from Sam. Since Frankie said nothing more about it, though, Trevor relaxed and again began to enjoy the practice.

When they changed over to a pop fly drill and Coach Sharp called Trevor over for a private word, he couldn't help beaming at the coach. It was the first time he'd ever interacted with other players in this way and it felt so natural and good—it was everything he'd always imagined.

“Uh, Sam,” the coach said, putting an arm around Trevor's shoulder, “you okay?”

Trevor blinked up at the coach. “Sure. What do you mean?”

The coach shrugged. “Okay. Everyone has an off day, right?”

Trevor felt his insides twist. He couldn't help from speaking. “What do you mean?”

The coach chuckled and mussed Trevor's hat. “Go on, stop biffing me. You and I both know that wasn't the real Sam Palomaki I just saw.”

Trevor remembered Frankie's complaint, and his insides went cold. If he was discovered, he'd never get to play in tomorrow's game. He had to play in that game. He quickly and coldly calculated what had happened: As good as he thought he was, he was no Sam Palomaki. So, the right thing to do was go along with what Coach Sharp wanted to believe, that Sam was having an off day.

Trevor grinned and tried to sound as casual as he could. “It's not the Sam Palomaki you'll see in the game tomorrow, Coach. That's for sure.”

The coach grinned back. “Good. Get back out there.”

Trevor ran and caught and threw for all he was worth while at the same time acting like he couldn't believe how poor his practice was. When the outfielders who'd been working their bats switched over to the field, Trevor and his group began to work on their offense. Trevor went through a series of drills, swinging bats and sometimes even broomsticks at not only baseballs but a ball on a rope and Ping-Pong-ball-sized Wiffle balls. Again, Trevor felt proud of how well he connected with almost everything he swung at, but he was more careful this time not to act too joyful.

Practice ended with everyone taking turns hitting against a live defense. Each batter got three at bats with ten pitches each. If you hit it, you ran and took as much as you could get from the defense. Coach Sharp had a scoring system based on hits, strikes, and balls. The winner would get a bag of M&M's, not a huge prize but something fun that Trevor was eager to win.

Trevor got to go first. He removed the bat from Sam's bag and approached the plate. He was almost there before he realized he'd be batting against Klum. With everything that had been running through his mind and his struggle to perform, Trevor had forgotten about Klum and his promise of revenge. He had also been too busy to worm the information out of anyone about Brian Leonard and discover what horror Klum had committed. But Trevor pushed all that from his mind. He was more worried about hitting the ball as well as Sam, who was the team's best batter, to keep Coach Sharp from suspecting anything more than he already did.

Trevor swung a few times, getting his groove, then stepped into the batter's box, crouching and cocking his bat back. He forced himself to look confident, even bold, despite the tremor in his upper lip.

Klum smirked from the mound, wound up, and threw a screaming fastball … right at Trevor's face.

Sam scratched his ear. “What's the agent's name again?”

“Stu Lisson.” McKenna took Trevor's phone from Sam and punched up Stu's number on the speed dial without hitting Send. “Same as mine. That's how we met, remember? I heard Trevor tell you that.”

“You mean that's how you and Trevor met.”

“Right, but now you're him, so
we
met through our agent at a cast party for Miley Cyrus. Here.”

Sam took the phone. “And what do I say? I mean, how does Trevor talk to this guy?”

“They're buddies. Stu knows everyone inside the business. Trevor's dad picked him, but Trevor loves him, so just be nice.”

“So, like, ‘Hey, Mr. Lisson—'”

“Hey,
Stu
; Trevor calls him Stu. I call him Stu. Everyone calls him Stu.”

“So, ‘Hey, Stu, I've got this script you've got to see. I'm behind it, and I want to see if you can get someone to make it'? Is that all I say?”

McKenna seemed to be weighing his words. “I think you say it a little more forcefully, and you tell Stu he's going to
love
it and you
know
it's going to be a blockbuster. Tell him you're behind it. Let me ask you, is there a girl my age in
Dark Cellar
?”

“Yes, the daughter. It's a great part. She's the only one who lives.”

“Perfect. Tell him you know McKenna loves it and that she's dying to play the daughter. Say it like you've got a thing for me.”

“A thing?”

“You know, like if Trevor liked me, if he cared, and wanted to make me happy.”

Sam didn't think before he spoke. “Does he?”

McKenna shook her head. “Not really. Not like that. I mean, we're friends.”

“But you wanted him to have a ‘thing' for you?”

“I don't know. Maybe. Not anymore.” McKenna let her words hang in the air like big soap bubbles.

Sam felt his face heat up. He looked away, afraid to ask if the reason was him, even though he dared to dream it was. He hoped it so much that his chest ached, and that made it too scary to talk about.