The Game Can’t Love You Back Page 11

She turns her face, but I can still see the way her cheek lifts, how my pointing this out makes her smile. “Touché.”

  Now I’m grinning, because I’m pretty sure the unmovable Eve Marshall just conceded a point to me.

  Then her mouth turns down as I watch. “And I pretty much wanted to talk about anything but what’s going on in there,” she says, pointing toward the school. “So … baseball was a better choice.”

  “You’re bagging on Marcella’s show? You two are together all the time. I thought you were tight.”

  “We are tight. She’s like … more of a sister than a friend.” Her expression shifts, revealing something I can’t quite read, something she covers up again. She lifts her chin. “But she knows better than to ask me to play dress-up with her. She gave up on that years ago.” Eve shakes her head toward the ground, finishing kind of quietly. “I’m not going to put on some sequins and try to walk in heels just to get a laugh.”

  Another minute of quiet passes, and then Eve turns back toward me, shifting the focus, looking me over in my tux. “Of course you didn’t say no.”

  “Nothing wrong with having a laugh.” I sit up, straighten my shoulders. “And I looked good up there, sweetheart, you might as well admit it.”

  She throws her head back and laughs, loudly, like she really thinks I’m ridiculous. “You’re so arrogant.”

  “Confident.”

  “Whatever. I’m fine with you being the sole representative of Pirates pitching up there.”

  I glance at her from the corner of my eye. In leggings, a Pirates Windbreaker, and messy braids, for whatever reason, she looks strangely more appealing than the girls inside. I mean, a cute girl in a Pirates Windbreaker … definitely works for me. And she’s not even trying.

  Out here, where I can breathe, far away from the stage, I hear myself sharing that opinion.

  “I don’t really think I’d get a kick out of seeing you done up like that anyway. I like you better like this.”

  She chuckles, just once. “Since when do you like me?”

  This makes me laugh. “I don’t. Not really.”

  Eve shrugs. “Yeah, well. The feeling’s mutual.”

  “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  “Then you’ve got it.”

  “Is there a particular reason you need the last word?”

  “People who ask that question are inevitably trying to get the last word them—”

  The door opens again and loud heels, loud enough to make me think the Budweiser Clydesdales are approaching, are suddenly clomping down the concrete stairs. Naomi appears before us, in something strapless and gold, stopping when she sees me, hands going to her hips. She doesn’t look surprised to see Eve beside me. She doesn’t even bother to acknowledge her.

  “Dude. What are you doing? Why’d you bail at intermission?”

  “Just stepped outside for a minute.”

  She tilts her head and beckons impatiently, looking like a bird with ruffled feathers. “Well, get in here for the end. I walked around the entire second floor looking for you.”

  “Okay.” I sigh, easing myself off the table, buttoning my jacket again. But before I go, I look at Eve a few seconds longer, realizing I don’t know how to say good-bye to her. I don’t know if I have ever said good-bye to her before, like, nicely. But Naomi is standing there, and it’s awkward.

  “Well. See you at practice.”

  “See you.”

  Naomi waits until I reach her before she smiles again, taking my arm and leading me back inside. She doesn’t say a word to Eve as we leave, and she doesn’t bother to mention her or ask about her as we rejoin the crowd. Eve is entirely irrelevant to Naomi, even though I’ve heard Naomi give scathing commentary on most other girls she sees me with.

  She found me in time for us to line up with our friends for the big finale of the show, when all of us are supposed to walk out together and amp up the energy, get people excited about going out and buying dresses and renting tuxes and getting prom tickets. My friends are pumped, the music’s loud, and the crowd is cheering as we walk across the stage. Naomi’s dancing toward the stage, tugging on my hand.

  I take one last wistful glance in the direction of the courtyard before forcing a smile on my face and pumping my fist in the air. But for the first time I can remember, there’s somewhere I’d rather be than center stage. I’m struggling more than usual to get caught up in the act, still holding on to how good it felt to drop it, for a few minutes there, atop the picnic table.

  Chapter 14

  April 2

  Eve

  I’m getting dressed for church, which means khakis, a cardigan, and a dressier pair of sneakers, when I hear someone knock on our front door, then open it one second later without waiting for anyone inside to answer. Feet come prancing up the stairs, and Marcella opens my door without even bothering to knock.

  “Hey.” She’s holding a pink cardboard box. “My dad got Sunday doughnuts. Nabbed you the chocolate glazed that was left.”

  My eyes light up at the sight of my favorite doughnut. “Thanks. You’re the best.” I take a huge bite. “Well, your dad’s the best, anyway.”

  Her hand goes to her hip. “Umm, I’m the one who thought to get it for you.”

  I shrug, not bothering to apologize.

  The truth is, I’m feeling a little salty toward Marcella. Last weekend I endured the uncomfortable and mortifying task of standing beside her at the pharmacy counter to get the morning-after pill, and she barely bothered to say thank you. She practically jumped out of my moving car to get inside and take the thing, but still. She didn’t call me after to tell me if she started throwing up or anything. She didn’t call me at all. She went from crisis mode to planning mode almost overnight. By Monday, she’d thrown herself into final preparations for the fashion show and talked about little else the whole week, like it was the most important thing in town, if not the entire world.

  And as it turns out, she’s still talking about it. She’s plopped down onto my bed, directly in front of my closet. “So you know that fuchsia dress I wore last in the show? I was thinking of buying it from the store that lent them to us. I mean, it’s a bummer that Brian’s already seen it, but it fit so perfectly. And I could wear it in the pageant, too.”

  “Nope. Didn’t see it.” My voice is tight when I answer her.

  Marcella looks up in surprise. “You weren’t watching?”

  I bend down, retying my right shoe. “To be honest, I wasn’t even there.”

  She doesn’t say anything, but when I stand up, the hurt’s written all over her face, and I find myself backtracking. “I mean, I saw the first part, but after a while … it was just more of the same.” I grimace. “All the prettiest girls, all the girls who naturally look good in dresses … I doubt there was anyone up there who’s above a size four.”

  “I asked for volunteers,” Marcella replies. “I would’ve taken anyone who wanted to do it.”

  “Right, but at the end of the day, you know the girls who feel confident enough to get up there are the ones who get the most compliments on a daily basis, and it’s not like you made any effort to round out the group. To ask … other people.”

  Marcella stares at me for a long minute, until I have to look away. “Eve?”

  “What?”

  “Are you mad I didn’t ask you to be in the show?”

  I recoil in horror. “No.”

  But she keeps staring. “You are! Who are you and what have you done with my best friend? Did you get beaned or something?”

  Marcella using the term “beaned” breaks my funk for a second and actually makes me laugh. I finally turn and look her in the eye. “Did you really just ask me if I got beaned? How do you even know that expression?”

  “I’ve picked things up,” she says indignantly.

  “No, I didn’t get beaned, and I’m not mad you didn’t ask me to be in the show, because, obviously, I would’ve said no. But only seeing all the girly girls up the
re onstage”—I shake my head—“it’s just annoying.”

  Marcella gets to her feet. Her hands are back on her hips, an incredulous expression on her face. “Eve. It’s not like I didn’t ask you just because you don’t like pink or own a pair of high heels. You know I think you’re gorgeous, and I would’ve loved to see you up there rocking a dress that fit your personality. I didn’t ask you because you never would’ve let yourself get up there and … I don’t know.” She waves her arms in the air. “Let loose. Have fun with it. Because, by the way, the whole thing was sort of a joke anyway. All of us having fun with something that would’ve been super boring.”

  “I have fun with things!”

  “You have fun winning,” she says. “If you’re not competing, well … you don’t really get out there and just have fun being part of a group.”

  “That’s not true. Every sport I play is a team sport.”

  Marcella cocks her head and makes a face. “Always the captain. Always winning the trophy.” She points toward the net from states. “The person taking home the net. All these team sports, but you’re not much of a team player for the sake of it, just sayin’.”

  It’s one of those rare times where I find myself struggling to make an argument.

  I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “Well, anyway, you could’ve asked me. Just so I could have had the pleasure of telling you no.”

  She shakes her head wearily. “You’re out of your mind.” Then she comes over and gives me a hug anyway. “And you’re lucky I love you.”

  “Eve!” My dad taps on the door. “Leaving in five.”

  “I’m on my way, too,” Marcella says, stepping back and adjusting her ponytail. “I’m meeting Brian at Starbucks to study for trig. Call me later.”

  She’s out the door as quick as she entered, but her perfume lingers and I can still feel the warmth of her hug, tempering my irritation about everything that’s been going on with her. It’s a good feeling, that my best friend still understands me. Maybe sometimes even better than I understand myself.

  * * *

  Every week after church, I tag along with my parents for grocery shopping at Giant. Something about it makes me feel like I’m five years old—maybe it’s my mom, asking what I want in my lunch this week, or my dad trying to lure me into cart races—but it’s not worth driving separately to church. Plus, I’m the last one at home, and I get the sense having me go grocery shopping with them actually means something to them.

  My mom waits in line at the deli counter while my dad and I start down the aisles. “You sure you want to pass up opening day?”

  “I don’t want to—I have to. Besides practice, I have a test that day and the first mock trial meeting. Isn’t Ethan taking the train down from New York to meet you?”

  “He is, but we still have four tickets.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll wait for the game on Sunday.”

  “You’re a responsible kid.” My dad squeezes my shoulder, then grabs a jar of Ragú from the shelf.

  “I know, right?”

  “It’s pretty sad when your own father is trying to talk you into playing hooky.”

  We round the corner, starting down aisle four, which is empty except for a lone figure at the opposite end. I freeze, and stare.

  It’s Jamie.

  He’s wearing his Pirates hat, Windbreaker, and loose charcoal sweats. Staring intently at the canned vegetables shelf. Definitely Jamie.

  I glance at my father, considering my options. He’s not what you’d call quick on the uptake. If I try to nudge him discreetly, direct the cart elsewhere, he’ll loudly ask why. But if I do nothing, we’re on a crash course with Jamie.

  My heart is fluttering like the wings of a moth trapped in a child’s hands, and for the life of me I don’t know why. I mean, I’ve already had a million and one awkward, unpleasant, and hostile exchanges with Jamie Abrams. I could go pro in awkward, unpleasant, and hostile exchanges with him.

  And he was … totally civil on Friday.

  Friday.

  I still didn’t understand it—how I, prom fashion show defector, ended up sharing a picnic table with Jamie. Moments earlier, he’d looked like he was having a blast up there. But he’d looked pissed off when I found him, and Lord knows I have a knack for pissing him off, so instinct told me to walk away rather than make things worse.

  But somehow … we’d talked, and after a while, when he opened his mouth, it wasn’t for the sake of being argumentative. We were just talking for the sake of talking, and I’m pretty sure we both might’ve smiled a couple of times.

  I suppose crazier things have happened.

  Slowly, half hiding behind my father, I make my way down the aisle, continuing to study him.

  He’s at the store by himself, it seems, lost in concentration as he carefully consults a list, checking labels and sizes before putting items into his cart. He looks like he’s doing the grocery shopping for his family. Interesting. Surprising.

  My dad drops a large can into our cart, and the noise causes Jamie’s head to jerk up. His eyes meet mine at once. He stares for a second before murmuring, “Hey.”

  I lift one hand in greeting, trying to be discreet so our conversation doesn’t become a whole family event. “Hey.”

  But the two-word exchange doesn’t escape my dad’s attention, of course, and he feels the need to join it, eyes going to Jamie’s jacket.

  “Hi there!” he greets him enthusiastically. “You must play ball with Eve!”

  Jamie looks back and forth between us. “Uh, yeah, I do.”

  “Right. You’re a fellow member of the all-star Pirates pitching staff.” I avert my face and cringe, while my dad thrusts his hand forward to shake Jamie’s. “Real good to meet you. I’m the proud father.”

  It takes Jamie a second to respond. “Nice to meet you, too.”

  My mom appears around the corner. And just when I think this little meet and greet couldn’t get more embarrassing, I notice that she has a box of tampons in her hand. “You had these on the list, right?”

  I feel an inferno beneath my cheeks, wondering what the chances are that an undiscovered fault line is beneath our feet, one that might open and send an avalanche of cans of peas to bury both my parents.

  Jamie takes advantage of my mom’s appearance to pass by without saying good-bye, which I’m perfectly fine with. I grab the box from my mother, stuff it beneath some nonperishables, and say a quick prayer that I can survive this day without any more mortification.

  I take my sweet time in aisle four, making sure to give Jamie a solid head start, ensuring we don’t run into him again as we make our way up and down the remaining aisles. I don’t catch sight of him again until we’re ready to check out, as he’s unloading his cart in the last row. Without hesitation, I lead my father to the next checkout kiosk.

  He gives me a strange look as I line up behind two other carts, even though there’s no one behind Jamie. “What are you doing?” He directs the cart back in the other direction. “This looks much quicker.”

  But not less painful.

  And so, against my will, we end up behind Jamie, who’s carefully separating his groceries into two piles, leaving me to wonder if he’s also shopping for a grandparent or something. I pluck a magazine off the rack, pretending to be utterly fascinated with celebrity gossip, in an attempt to avoid any further embarrassment.

  “No.”

  My eyes fly upward at the impatient-sounding exclamation from the cashier.

  She’s shaking her head at Jamie, her lips pressed together as she points at a couple of items in the first of his groups on the belt. “You can’t pay for those with the SNAP account,” she tells him. “Those items aren’t eligible.”

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbles quietly. “Still figuring out the system.”

  I put the magazine back in front of my face, realizing she’s referencing a government assistance program.

  I try my best not to pay attention. I hang back as my par
ents unload our groceries, trying to keep my distance. I try to ignore all of it, how after completing one transaction with the SNAP card, Jamie doesn’t have enough cash left to cover the rest of the items and has to select some to put back.

  The cashier dumps them into an empty basket with an annoyed sigh before finishing processing his order.

  Finally he’s done, and as he puts the last plastic bag into the cart, my father has to open his big mouth again. “We’ll see you down at the field this week, Jamie.”

  Mentally, I curse my father. Why are you oblivious?

  And Jamie’s forced to look back at us, to abandon the pretense that we haven’t been standing there, observing all this. He tersely says good-bye, his cheeks flaming, his eyes every bit as stormy as I remember them looking a couple of months ago.

  But …

  I stare at his back as he walks away.

  I don’t think he’s angry, not really. I think anger tends to mask a lot of other emotions with Jamie Abrams.

  And I think this morning, he’s embarrassed.

  I look down, feeling sort of embarrassed myself, realizing for the first time that the life he leaves at home to breezily walk into the lobby as the cocky all-star might not be so simple. That when he yelled at me about how much he needed baseball, he maybe meant it.

  When I finally look up, certain he’s left the store, I can see him through the windows, carefully transferring his bags of necessities into the back of his Jeep. I keep staring.

  I thought I had him pegged. Always brimming with bravado, needing to be seen. The guy I saw today—handling the grocery shopping for his family and paying for their food with a government-issued card—would’ve liked to be invisible.

  My dad has to nudge me to move the cart forward to start filling it up, our bags full of Voss water and organic deli meat. I’m standing there like a robot, still staring.

  There was also the person who helped me clean up my car without a word about what had happened, who apparently never told anyone else about it, either. A person who actually said he liked me “better like this” in my Windbreaker and ratty sweats when there was an auditorium full of girls in tight dresses just inside the doors.