Pinch Hit (12 page)

A knock on the dressing room door saved him.

“Come in,” McKenna said.

The makeup artist peeked her head in and asked if Sam was ready.

“Sure,” he said.

The makeup artist went to the counter in front of the brightly lit mirror and began unpacking a box that looked to Sam like it should hold fishing lures. When she had everything out and ready, she turned and looked from Sam to the barber chair in front of her. “Okay?”

Sam looked at McKenna, who angled her head toward the chair.

“Sure.” Sam sat down.

The makeup artist looked at Sam's face in the mirror and began to apply some makeup with a soft round pad.

“Um, Trevor,” she said as she dabbed at the back of his neck, “I think there's something… I guess something wrong … with your birthmark.”

“I don't think you should be asking Trevor about his birthmark,” McKenna said, blurting out the words and scowling at the makeup artist.

The artist's face turned red. “I'm sorry. It's just that it looks like it might be changing. Maybe he should have a doctor look at it.”

McKenna hesitated a beat, then said, “He is having a doctor look at it. That's why it's not polite. He doesn't want to talk about it, right, Trevor?”

Sam wasn't used to being bold with people, but he understood that McKenna was trying to distract the woman so she might not realize that the birthmark wasn't the only thing that was different. He touched the back of his neck and did his best to sound offended. “No, I really don't want to talk about it.”

The artist's back went rigid and she chewed on her lower lip, seeming to consider whether or not to get into a verbal battle with McKenna. Finally, she huffed and shook her head and continued with the makeup, brushing it on with quick little strokes. “Fine.”

Sam let the woman finish her job. Just as she finished, a knock at the door was followed by several people from wardrobe, who helped him into a suit of samurai battle armor. There was so much activity, Sam almost forgot to be nervous. With every passing minute, it seemed the number of people orbiting him grew. Finally, they had him ready and he walked in the midst of the small crowd toward the set.

Through it all, McKenna stayed by his side, smiling and nodding with encouragement. Before he knew it, Sam stood on a rock cliff with a huge green screen as the backdrop. A young Asian woman was already on her spot. Pierce Everette, the director, quickly appeared and put an arm around both Sam and the beautiful woman who Sam knew was his mother in the movie.

“Okay, Trevor, this is the scene where Kiku tells you who your father is. As you listen, the mystery of your entire life is finally answered. Then you hear horse hoofs. You both look. You're shocked. You hit your line. The two of you clasp hands, and you jump.”

Sam looked over the edge of the cliff at the foam mat waiting not more than two feet below. He worked up his courage and put as much emotion into his voice as he could muster. “Hurry, or they'll kill us.”

The director gave Sam a strange look, then smiled. “That's funny, Trevor. Obviously, you'll put some emotion into it.”

Sam felt his jaw go slack. He put a hand to his mouth and fought to keep his stomach from turning inside out.

“Okay, we all set?” the director asked.

Kiku nodded and Sam, unable to think of anything else, did the same. The flurry of activity made his head spin, but all Sam could do was stare at the actor named Kiku. Her oval face seemed to float in the frame of her long black hair, and she stared intently at Sam.

Someone said something about the scene number and the take, held up a digital clapper board, and clacked it shut.

The director shouted, “Action!”

Trevor clenched his eyes shut and spun.

The ball thumped the meat of his back high up along his spine, knocking the wind out of him, sending him on a tumble into the catcher and raising a cloud of dust. Trevor's hands and feet tingled.

Coach Sharp hovered over him. “Sam. Sam? You okay?”

Trevor wiped his eyes and sniffed and tried to stand. Pain stabbed his back, but he grit his teeth and got up with the coach's help, flexing his hands and feet.

“You okay?” The coach looked into his eyes.

Trevor nodded and bit his lip. He didn't want to cry, but the pain and the shame and the shock of someone actually trying to hurt him sent a charge through his body that he wasn't used to.

Coach Sharp's face wrinkled with rage. “Klum! You know better! Get out! Go! You're done!”

The coach stabbed his finger toward the parking lot.

“Coach, it was a wild pitch. I lost control.” Klum was a terrible actor, and Trevor was glad to see that the coach wasn't buying it.

“Go home and think about it. Go, before I kick you off this team for good.”

Klum scowled and threw his glove and stomped off.

The catcher dusted himself off and spoke under his breath. “Jerk.”

Trevor looked and felt a wave of relief when he realized the catcher was talking about Klum and not him.

“Maybe that'll teach him,” the coach said. “Curtis, take the mound!”

A new pitcher jogged out onto the infield and snatched the ball Coach Sharp tossed him.

“You okay to hit?” the coach asked.

Trevor nodded and adjusted his batting helmet, still shaken from the pitch that had almost smashed his face and left what he knew would be a brutal welt on his back. He stepped into the batter's box. Curtis nodded, wound up, and threw.

Trevor watched the ball, low and fast but straight as a pitching machine. He started to grin even before he connected with the ball. The bat cracked, and everyone's head turned to watch the hit fly for the left field fence. Trevor took off, fueled by an excitement he'd never known.

The ball didn't clear the fence, and as Trevor rounded first, he saw the left fielder snatch it up and rifle the ball toward second base. Trevor leaned into his stride, then slid ten feet from the bag. The ball smacked into the second baseman's mitt, shocking Trevor with its accuracy, but his slide was picture-perfect and he passed under the tag.

In that instant, Trevor recounted the hundreds—maybe even thousands—of times he'd slid into a base on a patch of yard down behind the house where he worked with his baseball coach. He could see his mom's scowling face when she asked what in the world he was doing, and the sour look she gave his coach when he told her one of the fundamentals every baseball player had to learn was the skill of sliding. That was the first time he heard his mom say that he wasn't a baseball player, he was a thespian, which was just some fancy name for an actor.

“Safe!” Coach Sharp bellowed from behind the plate. “Great hit. Great slide! Now you're back on your game, Sam!”

Trevor popped up on top of the bag and smacked at his pants. An easy breeze carrying the smell of fresh-cut grass on its back swept the dust away. The sun shone down, warming him through and through. It was the perfect moment, and it took all of his acting skills not to laugh out loud with joy.

Sam's mouth continued to hang open as Kiku dove into the story of his character's past: the father, captain of a great ship from across the sea gone off to fight on the vast ocean, protecting them from brutal invaders, and his grandfather's disapproval, then gradual acceptance of Sam's character as heir to the empire. Sam actually listened to it as though it were true, and so, when she finished, he stared blankly for several beats before the director shouted, “Trevor, let's go! Now you hear the horse's hoofs! They're coming for you! Give it to me!”

Startled, the whole thing came crashing down on Sam—him faking to be Trevor, Trevor faking to be him, the scam to try and get a deal for his dad's script, and the near certainty they'd be caught and his dad would somehow get arrested for kidnapping—it frightened him so badly that he meant it when he blurted out his lines.

“Hurry, or they'll kill us!”

Kiku clutched his hand and half dragged Sam to the edge of the cliff. She crouched and jumped, dragging him behind her. Sam couldn't do anything other than leap with her. They both sank safely into the foam two feet below.

“And … cut!” The director suddenly appeared, helping them both down off the foam landing pad. “My God, I loved it! Beautiful! Trevor, just beautiful! Your
shock
, your
disbelief
, it was
real
!”

Kiku patted Sam on the back. McKenna appeared with both thumbs up.

Sam laughed out loud.

The thrill for Trevor didn't last.

Although he knocked one of his first ten pitches against Curtis out of the park and hit a single as well, the next time Trevor got up to bat, a third pitcher had taken the mound, Tommy Graham. Trevor grinned and lazily swung his bat to warm up before stepping into the box. Graham wound up and in came the pitch. Trevor swung for the fences and was shocked to miss it by a mile.

Coach Sharp chuckled. “Stop fooling around, Sam.”

Trevor's palms went damp, and he adjusted his grip on the bat. He could have sworn he would hit the pitch he just missed. Graham wound up and threw. Trevor swung. Nothing. Coach Sharp huffed. Trevor didn't even look back. He stepped out of the box and took a couple more practice swings. He went back at it, losing confidence with each try because every swing was a foul tip or a complete whiff.

Trevor only had one pitch left in his ten. This time, he glared at Graham, grit his teeth, and focused with all his might on the pitcher's hand, ready for the ball that would come at him.

Graham wound up and threw.

Trevor swung and missed, but he finally saw what was happening. He knew what the problem was. More than half the pitches Graham was throwing were curveballs. For all the countless hours Trevor spent hitting balls, he—or his coach—never bothered to adjust his machine to throw him curveballs. It was something they could easily have done but hadn't. Why would they? In the back of his mind, and probably his coach's, they'd both suspected that he would never really be allowed to play baseball.

His birthday present came to mind, and the bitter disappointment he'd felt during his fake “scrimmage” with the Dodgers.

“Honestly, Sam?” the coach said, shaking his head. “I sent Klum home for that pitch he threw at you, but at least Klum cares. He might be a bit wild, but he takes his baseball seriously. I really don't know what's up with you today. Maybe it's the haircut.”

Even though Coach Sharp made light of the sudden drop-off in practice, Trevor knew he had to do something if he was going to keep his pinch hitting for Sam a secret. If the inconsistencies continued, the coach would talk to Sam's dad, and Sam's dad might put all the strange pieces together, completing the puzzle and making a clear picture of what they were up to.

The problem was that Trevor had no idea who to turn to. McKenna wouldn't have any idea about curveballs. His coach would wonder why the sudden interest, and he'd want to
show
Trevor, not text him instructions. The perfect person was Sam, but that was a problem, too. Trevor wanted to have as little contact with Sam as he could for fear that Sam would pull the plug on the whole deal.

But as he walked to the dugout to return his bat to the rack, Trevor knew it had to be Sam. He fitted the bat into an open slot, then slipped Sam's phone out of the bat bag. Quickly, he sent his newfound twin a text:

how do u hit a curveball???

“You're a real piece of work.” The director gripped Sam's shoulder. “Messing around with me like that, playing dumb, and then nailing your line. You're a real pro, my friend, a real pro.”

The only thing Sam could think about was how easy it had been, easy and, now that he'd successfully gotten through it,
fun
. He couldn't imagine anything easier or more exciting than the clack of that clapper board, the emotional recitation of another actor's lines, and then hitting your own.

“I love this,” Sam said without thinking.

“Of course you do,” the director said. “It's in your blood.”

Sam wondered about that. Of course, he said nothing, but when everyone left him alone in his dressing room (McKenna had lines in the next scene), he couldn't get the idea out of his mind. It was in his blood. Trevor was a natural actor, not because his father was a captain of Hollywood and his mother a movie star, but because whoever came before him (and Sam) had
acting
in their blood. Acting, and maybe baseball, too?

Sam stared at himself in the mirror, not at the features of his face, but into his own eyes. Shards of blue circled by a black rim with a deep pit in the center of the blue spokes. The pit expanded like a living thing, breathing in and out on its own. Sam felt drawn into those deep pits as if they were windows into the past that could teach him the secrets about his own life and the lives of others.