Stealing Parker (7 page)

“Whoa, that’s so cool,” I tease.

He laughs, but then grows serious again. “I never planned on becoming a teacher.”

“What did you plan on?”

“Going to the majors…And if not that, then maybe working for an MLB club. As a coach or trainer or something. That’s why I got a master’s, so I could at least work in the game…I might try to get a job doing field crew somewhere. I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

I sip my tea and swallow. He doesn’t offer any further details about his career choices, so I change the subject. “So, what brought you back here?”

He hesitates and chooses a song to play on the jukebox. “Everywhere” by Tim McGraw. A great, depressing choice. Finally he whispers, “I wanted to be back with my parents for a while?” He says it like a question. Like he’s unsure of why he’s living with his parents? Like he’s unsure of why he’s admitting this to me?

Maybe I do need to Google him. Brian Hoffman is like an onion. I peel back one layer only to find a hundred denser layers full of secrets.

“Did you miss your parents?” I ask, missing my own mom like crazy.

He nods, finding my eyes. He looks younger than twenty-three right now. Did he wander after not making it to the major leagues? Is he lost?

“Do you like coaching at all?”

He looks at me over the top of his glass as he sips his beer. “I don’t have much interest in writing daily status reports for Dr. Salter on how the baseball team is doing. Shouldn’t our win-loss record be report enough? And you wouldn’t believe what the women talk about in the teachers’ lounge. I’ve learned all about breast pumps.” He shudders.

I laugh. “So it’s not what you expected?”

“No.” He laughs with me. “I guess I thought…I guess I thought that if I came back to Franklin, I would feel good again. Like in high school.”

“College was really that bad?”

“It wasn’t what I expected. Like I said, I thought I’d be playing ball and going on to bigger things. I thought if I came back here I could at least have fun with my old friends…but they’re all busy planning weddings and buying houses and having kids, and I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

This conversation feels very adult-ish and mature. I’m glad he’s speaking to me about it, but I can tell he doesn’t want to. “Okay, on to a more important question,” I ask, propping my chin on my fist.

He glances up, wary.

“What’s your most embarrassing moment?”

“What?” He looks amused. “That’s your important question?”

“It’s very important!” I nod seriously, trying not to crack up.

“Okay, well, if I tell you this, you can’t tell anyone at school. Understand?”

“Pinky swear.” I link my finger with his.

“So…in high school, this buddy of mine and I discovered that if you climbed up on top of the lockers in the boys’ locker room, you could push the ceiling tiles up and crawl into the ceiling next to the girls’ locker room.”

“So you like, fell through the ceiling?”

“I didn’t fall through the ceiling! At least…not then anyway.”

I laugh. “I gotta hear more.”

“Up in the ceiling, the wall between the two locker rooms was made of concrete.”

“Concrete.”

“My friend Evan got this idea that we could chisel through the concrete. Like make a tunnel.”

I laugh.

“We spent two months chiseling through the concrete.”

“Weren’t you worried about structural damage? Why didn’t you just run into the locker room or something if you wanted to see the girls so bad?”

“I was sixteen. I wasn’t thinking about structural damage. I was thinking about how if Evan and I ran in the locker room all the girls would scream and yell.”

“I’m sure you were hot in high school. Why’d you need to spy on girls to see them naked?”

I cannot. Believe. I said that.

Brian’s face goes redder than the ketchup. “That’s beside the point.”

“Oh really?”

“It was about the adventure!”

“The adventure of chiseling through concrete to spy on girls?” I snorggle.

He gives me a look. “Do you want to hear the rest of the story?”

“Yes.”

“Then behave.”

I salute. “Yes, sir.”

“Would you stop calling me that?”

“Tell the story already.”

Our drinks sit untouched as Brian and I move closer and closer, leaning across the table toward each other. We’re laughing as Brian goes on to explain that after they chiseled through the concrete, he edged onto the ceiling tiles on the other side, they couldn’t support his weight, and he fell straight down into the locker room. Girls wearing nothing but bras and panties ran screaming while he sprained his wrist and got suspended for a week.

“Now I get to ask you an important question,” he says, once I’m done wiping tears of laughter off my face. “What’s your earliest memory?” he asks.

The Waitrix brings the cheese fries, and we dive in. He invited me out, so screw the calories. I nod, I listen, I ask him questions, I laugh.

To be here with me—a seventeen-year-old, and having a great time, he must truly be living in the now. And so am I.

•••

It’s not my earliest memory, but it’s my favorite.

When I was eleven, I packed up my suitcase and went to sleep-away camp for the first time. Cumberland Creek church camp. Laura and Allie went too. We spent the week canoeing and cooking burgers over a crackling campfire and doing three-legged races in Field Olympics. I spent a lot of time in this outdoor chapel, praying and writing in my journal about how much fun I was having and how I loved being a Christian because it made me feel good about myself. I liked being a good person.

During night devotion, the counselors allowed us to write prayers on slips of paper and burn them, so whatever we prayed for would be just between us and Him. I hoped for things like relief for Gramma’s arthritis and for Dad and Ryan to stop being allergic to animals so my parents would let me adopt a yellow lab puppy already.

Campers received mail, but if you received more than three pieces of mail, you had to sing a song in front of the entire camp. On Wednesday, I sang “Twinkle, Twinkle” in front of three hundred kids. But I didn’t care. My parents loved me enough to send fifteen postcards.

That’s my favorite memory.

On the last night of camp, a dance took place and everyone could bring dates. Nobody asked Laura and Allie, and they felt disappointed because that was the activity we’d been looking forward to most. This boy J. C. and I went together and held hands. I’d never done that before. At the end of the night, he kissed my cheek.

I never saw the boy again because he was from Nashville, but Laura and Allie saw the kiss, and I saw the envy in their eyes. Laura told me that I was moving too fast and should be careful or I would end up pregnant, or worse, I would sin. After that, I worried what other girls thought of me. I knew how pretty I was, I knew that boys liked me. But I didn’t so much as hold hands with another guy until after Mom left. Up until then, I’d never done anything wrong, never even kissed a boy on the lips. But my church turned on me anyway.

•••

Brian pulls his truck up to my house.

He peers at my yard. I hope he’s not disgusted by the stench of fried chicken and laundromat. “This is it?”

“This is it.”

We sit in silence for a minute, listening to the Fray. This silence isn’t awkward. It’s nice, and I probably should get out of the truck, but I don’t want to. Not yet.

“So will you think about playing ball this year?” he asks quietly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

Ever since Corndog asked me to stay away from Drew, I’ve been thinking about my reputation. How even though I’ve never made a move on Drew, Corndog thought I might, which goes to show that even if my intentions are good, someone could misinterpret them.

If someone saw Brian and me at Foothills Diner tonight, they might’ve thought:

1. He’s my big brother. (Ew.)

2. He’s my husband. (Kinda weird.)

3. Isn’t that the new coach of the Hundred Oaks baseball team and the new manager? (Truth sucks sometimes.)

4. Isn’t that the new coach of the Hundred Oaks baseball team with some gorgeous model? (Ideal.)

5. Isn’t that sweet Parker Shelton with some gorgeous male model? (Doubly ideal.)

So who knows how people interpreted my quitting the softball team? Sure, I was trying to prove I’m not like my mom, but did everyone realize that? Or did they think
Parker
Shelton
is
a
big
ole
quitter
?

And how is it fair to people like Brian, who tried so hard, for me not to even attempt playing again?

“I’ll talk to Coach Lynn tomorrow,” I whisper.

Brian chomps his gum as he stares out the window into the night. The moon and stars shine brightly on his smiling face. Then his smile fades. “I guess this means you won’t be managing anymore.”

“I guess not.”

“I liked hanging out with you. It was fun. You’re easy to talk to.”

I bite back my grin. “I feel the same way.”

“So I’ll see you around?” he asks quietly. He turns to face me and drops a hand on my shoulder. His touch zaps my senses, and a jolt runs up my arm and down through my body to my toes and between my legs. Sin lightning. Or something.

I steal a breath. “I hope so.”

“Me too.” He folds his hands and glances up at my face.

“Thanks again. For everything,” I say, and he nods before I climb out of his truck. I walk to the door and turn to wave bye. He waves back. The Ford’s headlights flicker on as he reverses out of my driveway. I smell my arm, to see if I picked up his scent. Nothing.

The door pops open behind me, letting out lamplight and warm air.

“There you are,” Ryan says. He peers over my shoulder at the driveway. I slip past my brother to go make dinner for him and Dad, who’s stretched out on the couch watching a
Law
and
Order
rerun.

“Who was that?” Ryan asks, following me into the kitchen.

“It’s nobody.”

Nobody who I hope will become somebody very, very soon.

I’ve had a chance to date before. Right before Mom left, before I quit the softball team, Jack Hulsey invited me to the Winter Wonderland formal. Jack was a senior and played center on the basketball team. The moment after he asked, a bazillion things ran through my mind.

Why would he want to take a girl like me? I’m overweight.

What color dress should I wear?

Should I make a hair appointment?

Get my nails done?

Will we go to dinner first?

Will I get my first real kiss at the end of the night? Or will he kiss me in front of everyone on the dance floor, when I’m curled up in his arms, swaying slowly?

Laura likes him. Laura likes him a lot.

Jack smiled while waiting for my answer.

I ended up going with Laura and Allie, and we giggled and danced and had a great time, but tears filled my eyes when I saw Jack slow dancing with another girl, kissing her.

It was okay, I decided. Laura would’ve made me feel guilty for accepting. Besides, I always put my friendships first.

Funny how Laura didn’t return the gesture when I needed her more than anything. Are you there for me, God? Are you putting me first? Or is something else way more important in your eyes?

Written at the breakfast table on February 16. Burned.

•••

Call me presumptuous, but I bring my cleats and workout clothes to school. I don’t have any softball pants or jerseys that fit this 110-pound frame. I’ll have to buy new stuff.

I blow out air before knocking on Coach Lynn’s office.

“Come in,” she says.

I open the door and step inside, and she beams.

“I can’t wait to tell Coach Burns I’m stealing you,” she says with a smile, touching her swollen stomach.

Late that afternoon, I accompany her out to the field, and when my cleats sink into the clay I suck on my bottom lip to stop myself from grinning like a crazy person. I gaze up at the lights, which are already blazing because the sun is beginning to set. The boys have just finished up their practice, and I wave at Drew, who gives me a thumbs up.

“Noooo, Parker, don’t leave us!” Corndog yells, getting down on his knees and clasping his hands like he’s praying. “I need you! Who’s going to take care of my cup?”

I flip him the bird down low, making him laugh. Then a bunch of the guys get down on their knees and start begging me to come back to them, and I’m laughing and playing with my tangly ponytail, to calm my nerves.

Brian swings his bat in circles, raising his eyebrows, glancing from the boys to me.

The softball team has already gathered by the dugout. They’re watching the baseball boys act like idiots, and envy flickers on their faces. A volcano erupts in Laura’s eyes.

“Before we talk to the team,” Coach Lynn says, “do you want to tell me why you quit in the first place?”

“Well, um, it was family problems and some issues with friends…” I feel my face burning up.

“I figure it must’ve been pretty serious.”

“It was.”

Coach Lynn nods and touches my shoulder. She leaves it at that, and I’m grateful. But it turns out she doesn’t even need to tell the team. The minute I look at Laura, she lets out this whimper-scream-yelp thing that sounds like a puppy caught in a trap.

“Coach! No way!” Laura says, shaking her head like crazy.

Coach Lynn ignores Laura and looks from girl to girl. Some of them I know. Some of them I don’t. Some of them I used to share clothes and Animal Crackers with.

“Parker Shelton’s decided she wants to join the team this season. We’ll see how she does in practice tonight and go from there in terms of choosing her position and where she’ll bat in the lineup. But I imagine we’ll try to put her at third.”

“But, Coach, this isn’t fair!” Laura whines. “We’ve been working out all winter, and practices have already started, and she just gets to waltz in and take over third base?” My former best friend looks like she might cry. Allie pats Laura’s back and nods vehemently at the coach.

“It is fair,” Coach Lynn replies, checking her watch. “I’m the coach, I make the decisions, and as captain, I hope you’ll welcome Parker back, Laura.”

Laura pounds her fist into her glove and bites her lip. I bet she’s thinking:
if
Parker
rejoins
the
team, I won’t be the best player anymore, and I have to be the center of everything or I’ll just die.

Some of the girls look at Laura with sympathy, but I notice a few girls rolling their eyes. I sort of want to tell them to stop, because our friendship was once good, and deep down, I still care about her.

Freshman year, one of our favorite things to do was to go tanning in her backyard. Then one day her dad, Brother John, decided to plant an apple tree right in the middle of our spot. Fourth of July was coming up, and Laura’s older brothers had been stockpiling fireworks. We stole some in an attempt to blow up the apple tree, so we could have our tanning spot back.

Let’s just say it didn’t work. Her parents were pissed, but we laughed like maniacs, then rode our bikes to Dairy Queen for Blizzards, singing Taylor Swift songs at the top of our lungs.

“Pair off and start warming up,” Coach Lynn says.

I pull my glove out of my bag and slip my hand into it. It feels soft, yet stiff, and it still smells like leather and dirt. Love. I pound my fist into it and chew my gum and whirl my arm around in a circle. My muscles ache, thanks to batting last night.

Everyone pairs off. I look from girl to girl, then one player—a sophomore whose name I can’t remember—shrugs and approaches me.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Sydney. I play catcher.”

“I’m Parker. Wanna partner up?”

“Sure.”

I nod and toss the ball at her, then take a step back. We keep stepping back until we’re at least fifty feet apart. I don’t miss a single throw.

“You’ve still got your arm,” Coach Lynn says. “But you need to put some muscle back on.”

I glance down at my body. The minute I start working out, I won’t weigh 110 pounds anymore. Will any of my clothes fit? Will Laura call me butch again? A memory of leaving the locker room alone and crying flashes in my mind.

When it’s time for batting practice, Coach Lynn instructs me to go first. The sun has completely set now, and the area beyond the field is black. I grab my favorite aluminum bat from my bat bag and jog up to home plate. I slip on a batting helmet and glance at Brian’s truck.

His headlights come on, and he drives out of the parking lot. I wish he had stayed to watch me. Because, if I’m being honest with myself, he’s a lot of the reason I’m doing this.

“Run on your fifth hit,” Coach Lynn calls out. This means I’m supposed to hit the ball four times before running to first base after my fifth hit. I spread my legs apart and take a practice swing.

Laura winds up to pitch and whirls her arm around. The ball comes straight at my head. I fall to the clay, narrowly avoiding getting whacked. On the ground, I pant hard. On the mound, Laura cackles and digs her cleats into the mound. I lift my head to find Mel and Allie laughing, along with some other girls.

I lie back down on the ground, inhaling clay. This was stupid. Why did I think I could rejoin the team and everything would be okay? Because Brian, a twenty-three-year-old hot guy who knows nothing of my life, thought it would be a good idea? Well, it’s not. Tears spring to my eyes, and my heart races.

“Laura!” I hear Coach Lynn yell. “Come on.”

This was stupid, this was stupid. Stupid, stupid me.

“Parker?” I peek up. Corndog threads his fingers through the fence. I rest my forehead on the red clay.

“I’ll bench you if you keep pulling this crap, Laura,” Coach Lynn says. But I know she’s lying. Laura’s one of the best pitchers in our region. She could steal the principal’s prized BMW and go mudding in it and the school would still let her play.

I feel hands gently lifting my arms. “You hurt?” Corndog asks quietly.

My pride is broken. I shake my head. “What are you doing here?”

“Lawnmower broke down.”

I laugh softly. “Really?”

“Nah. Just wanted to see you bat. Then I was gonna take off.” He helps me to my feet. I wipe dirt off my sweatpants. “Come on,” he adds, leading me over to the dugout.

“You okay, Parker?” Coach Lynn calls, looking concerned.

“She needs a breather,” Corndog replies. We sit down on the bench together, and I pull my batting helmet off and drop it on the patchy dirt floor. It bounces away.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Laura.”

“I saw. But why let it bother you so much?”

I lift a shoulder and peek over at Corndog. A tear slips out of my eye and runs down my cheek.

“You’re stronger than this.”

“Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?” I ask.

“Competition’s over. You won.” He grins and laughs, looking out at the field. “Hey, listen,” he says in a slow drawl. “I think it’s cool you’re going out for the team again. I never understood why you quit.”

I drop my chin to my chest. I was right. Anyone can interpret my intentions however they want. “You think I’m a quitter.”

“No…I just didn’t get it. I could tell how much you loved the game.”

“Oh really?” I glance at him.

“Remember sophomore year, during the Prom Decisional, how you stole third base and slid into me?”

“Yeah?”

“Your cleats dug into my shin and you knocked me down. And then you stretched out a hand and pulled me to my feet.”

“Sorry about that…”

Corndog waves a hand. “I liked that you didn’t gloat. You were just happy and playing the game.”

“I love this game,” I admit, watching as Laura steps up to the mound, whirls her arm, and pitches a strike right down the center. “But I don’t trust this team.”

Corndog looks confused and clutches his knees. “You gotta trust your team. I trust every single one of my guys.”

I nod slowly, smiling a pained smile.

“You gonna go back out there now? You can do this.”

I know I can do this. But do I want to? No, not really.

“Can you give me a ride home?” I ask him. Drew’s long gone, and I don’t feel like riding my bike tonight.

“As long as you don’t mind riding my lawnmower. Left my truck at home.”

I give him a tiny grin. “I’m up for an adventure.”

•••

Drew is one of those people everybody likes.

Even crazy Max Reddick, the guy who spends all his time carving sculptures out of Ivory soap, rushes to get a seat at Drew’s art table.

On the first day of sixth grade, everyone was terrified of not knowing where to sit in the lunchroom. Students had graduated from three different elementary schools to attend Green Hills; middle school was another world. I felt lucky to know Laura, Allie, and Drew.

Will Whitfield had been homeschooled, so this was his first time learning with other kids. After paying for his lunch, he carried his tray in one arm and pushed his glasses up on his nose with the other hand. I saw the whole thing happen in slowmo. Someone jostled Will. The tray tilted.

The corndog went flying.

It hit JJ in the chest. JJ was, and still is, this huge football player, and he stood up and strutted toward skinny little Will. No one hits JJ with a corndog, that’s for sure. I don’t think JJ would’ve punched him or anything, but nobody wants to be humiliated on their first day at school.

“You’re right, man! These corndogs are crap!” Drew yelled, launching a corndog straight at JJ’s face.

Everyone knew Will as Corndog after that. Everyone knew him as Drew’s friend.

The day Laura told everyone I was probably just like my mom—a butch softball player who likes girls—Drew crawled into my bed and held me until I cried out every tear in my body. He held me all night long.

Even with everything that’s happened to me, I have to thank you for letting me keep Drew.

Written on February 17; kissed and tucked away in my Bible.

•••

I’m sitting on my bed, removing my Passion Peach nail polish and chatting with Drew over Skype, even though he’s right down the street. I tell him what happened with Laura.

“She’s a jealous bitch,” Drew replies.

I tell him about Corndog giving me a ride home on the lawnmower, which was surprisingly fun, but very, very cold and windy. Not to mention bumpy.

“Huh,” Drew replies. Pauses. “So…did you talk to Coach Hoffman today?” he yell-whispers over the Internet.

“I didn’t see him.”

That’s not technically true, but I don’t want to let on how I feel about him. I’ve never had a real
real
boyfriend, and I’ve never felt the urge to have a real relationship, ’cause what if the guy ditches me like Mom ditched Dad? Like Mom ditched me and Ryan? Like Laura and the other girls at church ditched me? A relationship never felt worth the risk.

Today I saw Brian when I arrived at school. He smiled and winked at me. I know, right? Scandal! But Drew doesn’t need to know he winked. It’s my secret. I set my cotton ball and nail polish remover on my bedside table and pull my laptop closer.

“What are you doing?”

Drew must be able to hear me typing. “Just checking my mail,” I lie, opening Brian’s Facebook page. I move the cursor over the “Add as Friend” button. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and push click. Now I wait. For a minute, for a month, forever.

I retrieve my cotton ball and get back to work on my thumbnail, listening to Drew talk about the op-ed he’s submitting to the
Franklin
Times
. Then an email alert pops up at the bottom of my screen.
Brian
Hoffman
has
accepted
your
friend
request
.

I kick my feet up and down on the mattress and squeal for like, ten seconds straight. Ryan pounds on the wall with his fist and tells me to control my estrogen.

Drew blurts, “What’s going on? Tell me!”

“Let me call you back,” I say, disconnecting. I immediately click on Brian’s profile and scan his wall. He posts lots of status updates regarding baseball scores and sports news—especially about the Braves and Georgia Tech. He also links to articles about healthy living, and it looks like he’s planning to run the Nashville half-marathon in April and is raising money in support of the American Heart Association.