What You Always Wanted (23 page)

He answers, following me into our practice room and dropping his bag into a chair, and then he paces as he talks to who I assume is his dad. Jesse's words are clipped, irritated, his eyebrows pushed together.

“Yes, I'm going to the batting cages,” he says into the phone.

I stop tying my tap shoes and stare at him, disappointment growing inside.

“No. I know. I'm working on it,” he continues. “I'll be ready.”

He hangs up without a good-bye and glances at me as I sit frozen, waiting for instructions.

“Well, get your shoes on already.” He sinks into a chair and rolls up his jeans into cuffs before pulling off his boots.

“What was all that about?” I ask, straightening one of my purple socks with turquoise hearts on it.

No response.

“So this is what it feels like to be ignored,” I tease. “I don't like it.”

He tugs on his tap shoes and mutters, “Well, I'd like it if certain people did a little more ignoring.” He stands, leaving his jeans partially rolled up, and starts some combination I'd never be able to identify.

“Certain people? Like your dad?”

All he does is stare at himself in the mirror, jaw set in a hard line. I take the tense silence as confirmation, and halfheartedly do a few drawbacks to get my feet loosened up.

“Why would you want your dad to ignore you? Isn't that the sort of thing you'd end up in therapy for when you're older?”

The corner of his mouth perks up.

“It can't be that bad,” I prompt, eager for him to open up. Besides the fact that his dad strongly encouraged him to work at that restaurant to help with his Spanish, I don't know much about their relationship.

His shoes click an angry rhythm across the floor, and I struggle to hear his words.

“I guess it's mostly just annoying. He acts like I won't practice on my own. He's always on me about it. Every year, the closer it gets to the start of baseball season, the more I have to hear about it.” Sweat's already beading along his hairline. “The
more I have to listen to the same tired speech about how close he was to making it into the major leagues.”

“Really? Wow.” I think about Tiffany and her Olympian mother. “
Y'all
sure are athletic down here,” I say, with emphasis on the
y'all
so he can see how well I'm adapting.

Jesse continues his steps without a glance my way, the sweat drops now making trails down his face. His moves are fluid, seamless, as he floats around the room. I'm not even dancing, but I'm feeling a little warm myself.

Keeping my eyes trained on his feet, I say, “So . . . you're complaining that he wants you to have the same baseball career that you already want for yourself?”

I want him to fight me on it. To tell me that
this
is what he wants, to take control of the stage. I want him to tell me that baseball can take a hike.

He stops after a stomp and meets my gaze. “That's not—you couldn't understand, Maddie.”

“You've said that before.” I rest a hand on my hip. “I'm sure your dad just wants to be involved. He's proud of you. That's what parents do.”

“Sure.”

I'm not letting him clam up now. “I'm guessing he doesn't know you're
here
? At the playhouse.”

He snorts.

“You told him you were going to the batting cages? Won't he figure out you lied to him?”

“I didn't really lie. I'm going. Just not right this second.” He reaches out to me as if inviting me to dance. “Are you ready to get started or what?”

Biting my lip, I stare at his outstretched hand without taking it. I'm not done watching him yet.

“Can I see something first?”

He retracts his hand and touches the ends of his hair, now a bit floppy. “Depends.”

“Can you do that move where your leg is up in the air and you jump over it with the other one?”

“Where did you see that?”

It's not an uncommon dance move, but of course I'm picturing the way Gene does it. “I've seen Gene Kelly do it. I've tried but I don't really have enough power to get any height. It just looks like I'm tripping over the air.”

He snickers before he says, “Who's Gene Kelly?”

My mouth falls open and an audible gasp escapes. “Tell me you're kidding!” I cry, closing the distance between us in a few hurried steps with no ideas what to do once I reach him besides maybe smacking him upside the head.

“Whoa,” he says, backing away with his hands raised. “Kidding, kidding. Of course I know who he is.”

I clutch my chest and loll my head back. “That nearly killed me.”

I'm thankful we've both been spared my rant about how someone who dances like he does was influenced by Gene whether they realize it or not, and it's only proper to educate yourself on the key predecessors of your craft.

“What's your thing with him, anyway? I saw that stack of movies you lent Angela and he was in all of 'em.”

My head snaps up, and I inhale sharply. “You watched them?”

“Uh, no.” When my face falls, he quickly adds, “I mean, I've seen that one set in Paris, but it wasn't really—”

“Just stop right there, before you completely destroy my spirit.”

Shaking my head, I rifle through my bag and take a drink from my water bottle before turning back to him. Jeans and a button-down aren't his usual practice attire, but I like it. It gives me a tingly sensation like we could just be walking down the street and he'd spontaneously break out in some elaborately choreographed number, and it would seem completely natural. And of course, I'd magically know the steps as well and I'd join in by the first chorus.

But clearly, he didn't intend on dancing quite so hard today, and I feel bad for getting him worked up about his dad. Almost. He's starting to sweat through his shirt, not that I particularly mind the look.

“And here,” I say, tossing a towel to him. “Do something about all the wetness, please, before it flies onto me.”

He wipes his forehead and flings the towel back at me. I dodge it and squeal at an embarrassingly high pitch.

“Afraid of a little sweat?” He rubs his hand along the back of his neck and rushes in my direction.

I run and duck by the table pushed against the wall, pulling a chair close to conceal me. Stupid move. Jesse straddles it and wipes the moisture from his hand all down my arm.

“Ugh. Thanks for that.”

I stand, shoving his chair out of my way, and he hurls himself backward in a dramatic show and sprawls onto the floor flat on his back, arms spread wide.

“Can we be done? I'm tired.”

“Uh . . .” I refrain from pointing out that I haven't even danced yet. I got to watch him and that's more than enough to fill up my Saturday evening. “Sure. We can call it a night.”

He raises an arm, and when I stare at him, blankly, he waves his hand around like he wants me to help him up. I grasp his hand and tug until he's upright, but the momentum of him springing forward slams his chest against my shoulder and suddenly everything's slow motion.

Here we are again, hand in hand, pressed against each other. All that's missing is the sailor uniform. My eyes dart to his lips. It would be so easy for me to take them. For him to take mine. But I don't, and he doesn't.

This is reality. He's only helping me learn to dance to keep my mouth shut.

So it surprises me when he says, “Come to the batting cages with me.”

And it surprises me even more when I say, “Okay.”

By the time Jesse pays the cashier, the sun's already dipped below the horizon, painting the sky a vibrant, cloud-streaked blue. The cold front that chilled the air yesterday—I nearly believed it's actually December—is on its way out, leaving behind a wet warmth that steals my residual giddiness from seeing Jesse leap over his own leg, high in the air. He did it in the parking lot on the way to the car, boots and all. I clapped, he bowed, and neither of us said a word about it all the way here.

Jesse pays for a handful of tokens to run the machine, and he leads me to the supply area.

“You'll like this sport,” he says. “You get to wear a helmet.”

“Wait. I thought I was just watching you,” I say, taking a step back from the shelf lined with blue plastic helmets. “I don't know how.”

“I figured.” He holds a scratched aluminum bat level in both hands, lifting it up and down like he's checking to see how heavy it is. “I'll teach you.”

“I don't think so,” I say in a rush. My stomach twists at the vision that pops into my head. “You're not going to stand all up on me with your hands covering mine, helping me swing.”

His eyes widen before he bursts into laughter. “Your whole life is a movie, Maddie Brooks.”

I tilt my head to the side, contemplating his declaration. “And?”

“And I'll
talk
you through it. No touching.”

Well, I didn't mean there had to be no touching . . .

He tests the weight of another bat and hands it to me. “You should be able to swing this one okay. How does it feel?”

I slide my fingers along the length of it. “Cold.”

“Not what I meant.” He rolls his eyes with a smirk. “Hold it like you're getting ready to hit the ball.”

“Hey, batter batter batter,” I say in a manly voice as I grip tightly near the bottom of the bat and lift it behind me, knees bent, butt out. I may or may not be intentionally overdoing the posture a tiny bit.

Jesse blinks, no longer smiling. “This is going to be like the first dance lesson, isn't it? Just hit me in the head with the bat now and get it over with.”

“Hey! I wasn't that bad.” I aim the bat toward him like I really am thinking about it. “And watch me end up being some sort of baseball prodigy, and you can get famous for having discovered me.”

He laughs at that, selecting a bat and helmet for himself. “I'll get famous on my own,
mi reina
. Now, pick out a helmet and let's see if we can uncover your hidden talent.”

We head outside, and once we're caged in our own box, Jesse demonstrates a few practice swings. He explains the importance of keeping your eye on the ball and following through, and a whole bunch of other points that I'll never be able to keep straight.

He inserts the token for his first round, and I watch in awe as he smacks each ball. I shield my eyes from the bright artificial lights and try to follow their paths, occasionally glancing at his arms or legs as his muscles work to power the swings.

“Are these all home runs?” I ask, impressed.

“Hardly.” He grunts through a swing, sweating all over again.

“Oh, do you not hit home runs? Are there, like, players that hit the home runs and some that are supposed to hit to other parts of the field? Which are you?”

“That's ridiculous,” he mutters after another swing. The ball pops high into the air and hits the net ceiling. “Of course I can hit home ru— You know what? Let's hold the rest of the questions until I'm done, cool?”

I cast my eyes to the ground and scratch at an imaginary itch on my arm. I thought he'd be pleased I was trying to learn, but all I'm succeeding at is irritating him. What I do best.

When it's my turn, he runs over all his points again, with extra emphasis on keeping my eye on the ball. If I watch it
approach, apparently my brain will magically help my arms position the bat to hit it.

What a joke.

“So, I have a question,” Jesse says after my seventh swing.

The ball barely grazes the bat, and it flies up and backward into the net overhead, as almost all my attempts have done.

“I thought I was supposed to be concentrating?”

He ignores me. “But I don't want you to get mad.”

“Sounds ominous.” Swing and a miss. My left shoulder is already sore and both of my calves are burning. “Ugh, this game is the
worst
!”

“Is your mom pregnant?”

His random question slams into me like a kick to the gut. Dropping the tip of my bat to the concrete with a clang, I turn to look at him, but it shifts my position too much and the next ball smacks me right on the hip. Jesse's curse comes out louder than mine as he yanks me out of the way of the next one.

“Don't ever take your eye off the ball!” he snaps.

“And I thought we weren't supposed to ask questions while someone was batting!” I throw right back.

Hesitantly, I lift up the bottom of my shirt and tug the waist of my pants down to check the damage, and I watch as the hint of a bruise appears.

“Awesome,” I say through gritted teeth. “My first sports injury.”

“My fault,” he admits. “That was stupid of me to ask like that. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“She is,” I say. “Pregnant. Why? How did you . . . ?”

My round runs out, and Jesse picks up one of the missed balls and leans against the chain-link fencing. “I saw her the other day. At the grocery store. And she looked . . . different from the last time I saw her.”

The sting from my hip is slowly spreading throughout my body, making me numb. I'd been doing such a good job of not going anywhere with her in an effort to avoid the humiliation. It didn't occur to me that someone might recognize her apart from me. And I'm sort of surprised Angela didn't tell him. I asked her not to, but things slip sometimes.

“
You
go to the grocery store?”

He shrugs, tossing the ball from one hand to the other. “I wanted Oreos. We didn't have any.”

“Oh. Well. There you have it,” I bite. “Please refrain from sick jokes about how my parents are still going at it or how when we go back to visit people in Chicago now, everyone will think we moved down here so I could have a baby in a place no one knows me.”

He shakes his head, his tone serious as he says, “I wouldn't.”