What You Always Wanted (32 page)

In the school parking lot, Jesse sits on the tailgate of his truck, swinging his legs, clad in the usual jeans and boots. I begin to press on the brake as I approach him and roll down my window,
but it's not until I come to a complete stop behind his truck that he actually looks at me.

His brows scrunch together and his jaw tightens in a hard line. “Isn't that what's-his-name's car? Why are you driving it?”

“It
was
Brian's.” I don't let his obvious distaste beat down my smile. “But I bought it.”

“You bought it?”

“Well, I'm in the
process
of buying it, Mr. Technical.”

“With what?”

“Money.” I prop my elbow in the window and rest my head against my fist. “He's cutting me a good deal. Isn't it great? I have my own car!”

He slides down from his perch. “Is this the surprise you couldn't wait to show me?”

Now my smile withers. “Maybe.”

His eyes scan the length of the car with a near scowl and suddenly my pride in the detail job my dad paid for yesterday is gone. Did they miss a spot? Is there a scratch I don't know about? My shiny blue miracle is getting dimmer in my mind as my excitement fizzles. Did I make a mistake?

“You're not happy for me,” I say as a statement. “You know I need my own car. I can't keep mooching off everyone, including you. I'm tired of being that girl who needs a ride everywhere.”

“I know. I'm glad you finally have a car, I am.” He bites the corner of his bottom lip. “I just liked that you needed me to drive you places.”

I blink. “As adorable as that is, baseball is about to take over your life. You can't always be ready to answer my call for spontaneous cupcake runs.”

His face goes sour, but I don't see that what I said was untrue. After slipping an arm through a strap of his backpack, he closes the tailgate with a
squeak
and a
clank
. “We're gonna be late. You should find a parking spot.”

“What just happened?” I ask, suddenly nervous. “What did you get upset about?”

“You should hear your attitude when the word ‘baseball' comes out of your mouth.”

“I don't have an attitude,” I say, replaying what I said in my mind. “I just wanted you to be excited that I needed my own car and now I have one. You're getting busier, and I'll be at the hospital a lot until Christopher can come home.”

He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “How is he?”

I brighten, thankful for this change of subject. “He's pretty awesome. I can't believe I already love him as much as I do.”

Jesse smiles. My foot relaxes on the brake, and the car starts to coast forward.

“I guess I'm going to find a parking spot,” I say in a rush.

“Hey, wait,” he calls before I get too far. “I . . . was wondering if you'd come watch my practice today after school.”

I stop the car and look back at him. “Your baseball practice?”

He rolls his eyes, forgoing the opportunity to say something smart, which makes me think I really did a number on his mood.

“It's okay for people to come watch?” I ask.

“Uh, yeah. You can sit in the bleachers. The ball field is behind the football stadium. I'll already be out there when your last class lets out.”

“Oh. Well, you didn't come see my show last weekend, so . . . ,” I say, playing hard to get.

“Not my fault,” he defends, voice gruff. “And I'm going to see it this weekend. Look, you don't have to come, I know it's beneath you. I just thought it'd be cool if you wanted to.”

Now my mouth drops open at his tone. I can't help analyzing the way he said it would be cool if I
wanted
to. I don't really
want
to sit around for an hour or whatever watching boys swing bats and throw balls, but now it feels like I'm going to be in trouble if I don't. Besides, he's watched me work on my mediocre dance moves more times than I can count. I suppose I could take one for the team, as they say.

I offer what I aim to be an enticing smile, imagining all my tingly and gushy feelings about him in hopes that he can sense them. “Can't wait.”

Angela never mentioned that she was going to watch the guys practice, but I spot her up toward the top of the bleachers, all the way at the end, near the outfield.

“How can you even see the action from way up here?” I ask, sitting next to her. The chill from the metal quickly seeps through my jeans, and goose bumps travel down my legs.

“I figure Red won't notice me this far away.” Angela looks up from her phone and adjusts her bright yellow scarf to cover her ears. “I'm surprised to see you here. Aren't you afraid of encouraging his career of ‘throwing baseballs'?” she teases, with air quotes.

“Yeah, well, he asked, and it's my turn to do something for him, right?”

“Mmmhmm. What a dutiful girlfriend you are.”

I squint toward the pitcher's mound to watch Jesse chunk a ball crazy fast over home plate. The batter swings and misses. I think.

“Seriously, can we move closer?” I ask. “I can hardly tell who's who down there.”

“But—”

“So what if Red notices you?” I say, standing and rubbing my hands together, thoroughly loving that the current cold front is actually capable of making me shiver. “Might do everyone some good,” I mutter.

With a huff, she gathers her tote bag, and we start down the steps.

“That looks like Red coming up to bat,” I say, slowing when we're about halfway down. “He's supposed to be some sort of slugger, right?”

“Uh, right,” she says through a laugh. “
Slugger
. You're hilarious.”

“What?” I turn on her. “Is that not the correct terminology?”

“It might be. It just sounds funny when you say it like that.”

“Gee, thanks.”

I pick up the pace, glancing up every few steps to watch Jesse pitch. The windup, the leg hike, the hurling forward of his body. Have to say, there's something strong and attractive about it. Skilled. Red swings, and with a loud
ping
the ball goes flying into the outfield, where someone hustles to catch it.

Angela lets out a breathy whistle as we settle ourselves on an empty row behind a few parents.

Jesse fires another pitch for Red—I guess they aren't playing a mock game—and this time there are two
pings
, one almost
immediately after the first. Jesse's hands fly up to his head, and he drops to his knees, then falls the rest of the way onto his side, curling into a fetal position.

I can't breathe. Can't move.

I'm reminded of that scene in
Take Me Out to the Ball Game
when Frank Sinatra's character deliberately konks out Gene's character by pitching a ball at his head during a pregame gag. It was so fakey in the movie, I didn't think anything like it could ever actually happen in real life, though I'm sure a line drive to the head from the strongest guy in school is much more serious than if someone is only throwing it.

What if his skull is cracked? What if he's . . .

Angela yanks my arm and suddenly I'm on my feet and we're both yelling “Jesse!” as we race down the rest of the stairs toward the field. I keep my eyes on him the whole time we're running, thankful to see he's rubbing his feet together, so I can be certain that he's not: 1) dead, 2) knocked out, or 3) paralyzed.

We approach cautiously, keeping behind the coaches hovering over him as they consult with each other in serious tones about who's dealt with this situation before, and who's taking him to the hospital, and who's going to tell his mother. Once in a while I hear a little groan escape his mouth, and all I want to do is crawl down there next to him and kiss him and make it better. I try to position myself to see his face so I can get an idea of how much pain he's in, but after I manage to catch eyes with him for a split second, he shuts his eyes and groans again.

Red paces near the pitcher's mound, hands laced together on top of his helmet, making his elbows stick out like wings. I can just make out the faint string of curses he's muttering.

“Were you trying to
kill
him?” Angela nearly screams, shooting past me and slamming herself into Red. She shoves him with everything she's got, then beats on his massive chest a couple times for good measure. He barely sways backward.

“Oh, right, I was trying to kill your brother.”

“You're such an insensitive jerk,” she sneers, pulling the crowd's attention off Jesse and toward their impromptu soap opera.

“It was an
accident
, Angela. I'm sorry, okay?” He clutches her arms and holds her away from him as she continues to slap at him. “Get. Off. Me.”

She stops flailing, and they give each other that look. That slow-motion-only-in-the-movies look that's filled with loathing and want and anger that usually precludes a major kiss. They don't kiss, but the look lasts a moment too long for me to believe he only sees her as a “kid.”

Jesse's helped to his feet and led to a bench, and I follow, feeling completely useless. The muscles in my forehead start to throb, and I rub the tension away.

He's walking. He's going to be fine.

“Everybody back to practice,” one of the coaches says. “Franklin! On the mound. Warm up.”

The players scatter and I offer to sit with Jesse and wait for Angela to come back with their mom so we can go to the hospital, a place I'm becoming entirely too familiar with. As if I weren't already worried enough about my new baby brother, I've got to add a boyfriend with a head injury to the list.

I scoot close enough for Jesse to lean against me if he wants, but he presses his back into the chain-link fence just behind us instead, tilting his head back a little and breathing heavy
through his mouth. I reach for his hand, but he doesn't exactly hold on to me, which makes me feel even more useless.

“Where did it hit you?” I ask, studying the right side of his head where I thought he grabbed when it happened. The knot is already the size of half a golf ball. “Oh. Ouch. What can I do?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles. “I'm fine.”

A sputter of laughter nervously bubbles from my lips. “Well, this just gives new meaning to your hardheadedness, doesn't it?”

He closes his eyes and grunts in a way I can't decipher. Was it what I said, or is he really in that much pain? Sure he's conscious and everything right now, but what's happening inside that expanding lump?

“You'd never take a line drive to the head onstage,” I say, not without bitterness. Sports are stupid and dangerous and it takes all my effort not to tell him so.

Jesse palms either side of his face, smashing his cheeks in until his lips look like a fish's mouth.

“Stop, you're going to hurt yourself,” I say, reaching for his hands.

“No,
you
stop,” he growls.

I gasp, straightening and pulling away from him.

“You have to stop telling me that what I'm doing is wrong. I don't dance onstage anymore; get over it. How many times do I have to tell you that baseball is what I want to do?”

I swallow the tightness in my throat, but it only grows. “Even after something like this?” I manage to get out.

“You get hurt sometimes; it's part of it,” he says, and I can hear the eye roll in his voice. “I've got my dad pulling me one
way, you pulling me the other. I can't fight you both, and I can't make both of you happy. And it's making me crazy.”

“But I just want—”

“I know what you want. I'm not him.”

My mouth hangs open like he just slapped my face.

“That's not even what I was going to say!” I don't mean to raise my voice, but he knows me better than to think I'd walk away now. “I was trying to say that I just wanted you to be honest with yourself. With your friends, your dad. I hate that you feel like you have to hide things because of how other people will react.”

“Wake up, Madison.”

My stomach drops at the sound of my full name spitting off his tongue.

“This is real life. People tear each other down for things they don't understand. It's easier to only show the parts of you they can handle.”

“But it's not really you,” I huff, tugging on my own hair in frustration. “You wouldn't even be saying any of this if you weren't concussing or whatever right now.”

“It
is
me. It's just not what
you
want me to be.” He takes a deep breath and grips the edge of the bench. “It was like pulling teeth to even get you to come to one of my practices. I can't be with someone who doesn't like who I am.”

I take in a shaky breath of my own, gathering courage to say, “I do like who you are, Jesse. I just don't think I should be the only one who knows all of you. So what if the kids on the baseball team laugh at you? Let them be jealous and miserable with their lives while you're happy with yours. Your
real
friends, the
ones who matter, the ones who might actually grow up to be decent human beings, they'd support you no matter what you did.” I take one last shot in the dark. “You could do both.”

“I don't want to do both,” he snaps, then winces, gingerly touching his head. “Not only do I like baseball and want to make it my career, but I also don't care about performing anymore. All of your best-prepared speeches and movie quotes aren't going to change me. You say you want me to be
all
of me all the time, but you only want to see half of me. The half
you
like. And it's stupid. It hurts. You either like all of me or you don't.” He pauses to take a few breaths. “The end.”

Nothing. I'm out of words. My hopes, my daydreams, slaughtered in a gutter somewhere. He's only breaking up with performing, but somehow it feels like he's breaking up with—