Ryan will be the first to admit she’s not overly talented at anything in particular, but there’s no doubt she’s an all-star when it comes to feigning deafness.
Outside, Nick is leaning against the bike rack, examining his cast, and she’s relieved to see his face split into a smile when he sees her.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says, clumsily spinning the combination lock on her bike. She can feel his eyes on her, and her fingers refuse to cooperate. “I had to stay after to talk to Mr. Cronin.”
“You’re not doing well in English?”
Ryan grins sheepishly. “I’m not doing well in anything.”
They wheel their bikes past where their classmates are waiting for their rides, a dozen or so groups arranged in small, distinct clusters, keeping their distance from one another as carefully as if contemplating warfare. Nick takes a few skipping steps and launches himself onto his bike in one motion, and Ryan hurries after him. She can see that Sydney and Kate are watching as she follows him out of the parking lot, past the gymnasium and the tennis courts, and around the bend toward his house. She’s not sure whether to be nervous or pleased.
When they reach his house, her eyes are watery and her face stings. The breezes coming off the lake are frozen today, and her fingers are stiff with cold. Nick rides his bike all the way up the walkway to his front door and lets it clatter onto the grass, then watches with interest as she stops short and carefully props hers up on the driveway.
Inside, once her eyes adjust to the light, Ryan laughs, and then—horrified—claps a hand over her mouth.
“It’s okay,” Nick says. “I pretty much laugh every time I walk in too.”
On each wall in the entryway, there are pictures of cows: landscape paintings, cubist portraits, photographs of Holsteins lined up in front of peeling red barns, and Guernseys looking out with big bovine eyes from beneath delicate lashes. On the table in the entryway, there’s an assortment of glass cow sculptures and a ceramic dish where you can help yourself to a mint directly from the mouth of a dairy cow.
“They miss Wisconsin,” Nick says, kicking off his shoes. “I guess I should at least be happy they’re not obsessed with the Packers or something.”
“Or cheese,” Ryan says, still laughing.
“I don’t know,” he says. He grabs his math book and she follows him up the stairs. “I think cows might be worse.”
Later, they sit with their notebooks spread out on the floor of Nick’s bedroom, which is only slightly more baseball-oriented than Ryan’s. She leans against his bed, her legs stretched out in front of her with the book of Cubs statistics open on her lap, and though they haven’t yet gotten to their project, they’ve managed to spend an hour talking about RBIs and ERAs. This line of discussion has inevitably taken a detour from the realm of numbers, turning quickly into a debate about this year’s team.
“I bet they’ll win the division by at least five games,” Ryan says.
“That’s a pretty bold statement,” Nick says. “The season just started.”
“It’s easier to hope at the beginning of the season.”
He shrugs. “I’m more of a stats guy.”
“Not me,” Ryan says, holding up her math book with a grin. “I’m easily spooked by numbers.”
“This coming from my math partner,” Nick says, laughing.
“Well, that’s the good thing about hope,” she says. “It’s perfectly unlogical.”
“Il logical,” he says with amusement. “It’s perfectly illogical. And I think I’ll stick with the numbers.”
“So what’re they telling you?”
“The stats?” he asks, folding his hands together. “That the wild card’s a possibility, but we don’t have a shot at winning the division.”
“We’ll see,” Ryan says, arching an eyebrow. “Care to make it interesting?”
Nick shakes his head. “We want the same thing,” he says. “Plus, how could you ever bet against the Cubs?”
“You couldn’t,” she admits. “Especially not while they’re doing this well.”
She twirls her pen and eyes the poster of Andre Dawson hanging over his desk. Below it, there’s a miniature replica of Wrigley Field, and Ryan stands and walks over to it, tracing a finger along its edges. His desk is messy, covered in sports magazines and half-torn notebook pages, a flimsy-looking bowling trophy and a picture of him with his parents. She’s suddenly very aware of where she is—standing in a boy’s room, with the sun dimming outside the windows and his parents not yet home from work—and her hand trembles just slightly.
“Find anything interesting?” Nick teases, and she turns to where he’s sitting on the carpet, his knees pulled up, his arms dangling in front of him. He tilts his head at her, and she notices that his hat is slightly crooked. She has a sudden urge to straighten it.
“So how come you moved here?” she asks, settling back down on the floor by the bed. “If your parents miss Wisconsin so much, how come you didn’t just stay there?”
“My dad’s job,” he says, then quickly changes the subject. “So you really think we could win the division by five games?”
“If the Cubs win by five games,” she says, the words escaping before she has a chance to stop them, “I promise to do my math homework for the rest of the year.”
Nick looks at her sideways. “Huh?”
Ryan freezes, her arms pinned to her sides, her heart straining against her rib cage. She hadn’t meant for that to happen. She hadn’t meant to say the unsayable.
“Ryan?” Nick says, and she blinks at him, her mind elsewhere.
If the Cubs win, she thinks.
If only, she thinks.
She looks down at her lap and plays with a loose string on her shirt, running the thread between two fingers, trying not to cry. How could she have known it would be so easy, so shockingly uncomplicated, to be reminded of her dad in this way?
Nick is eyeing her as if she might crumble at any moment, and Ryan’s aware that she very well might. She takes a deep breath.
“Hey,” Nick says quietly, his words measured. “If you can arrange for the Cubs to win, I’ll do your math homework for the rest of the year.”
They’re both silent until Nick begins to laugh, and Ryan realizes how tight her whole body had been. She relaxes and lets herself smile, too, somewhat embarrassed that she’d needed rescuing, but grateful that he’d been the one to do it.
Nick inches a bit closer and takes the book from her lap, glancing up at her every few pages as he flips through, checking to be sure she’s okay. “Wouldn’t it be cool to be general manager of a team?” he asks, and Ryan gets the distinct impression he’s trying to buoy the conversation once more. “I mean, can you think of a better job?”
Ryan pulls her knees to her chest. “Is that what you want to be?”
“You mean when I grow up?” he asks with a faint smile. “Maybe.” He ducks his head and takes his cap off, running a hand lazily through his hair. “What do you want to be?”
The truth is that Ryan has no idea where she’s headed. Unlike other kids her age, she’s always been reluctant to consider what the vast and terrifying future might hold for her. She’s not like Sydney or Kate, with all their many plans, their schedules and preparations. Their logic is maddeningly simple: get an A in Pre-Algebra and you move up a level next year, which puts you on the fast track in math, which gets you into a good college, which turns into a good job, which means you’ll have a good life. It’s an equation in itself, with no room for incorrect solutions. There’s only one way to move forward, and Ryan hasn’t yet learned the right technique. Given the choice between future and past, she would always and without hesitation choose to move backward, and for years she has lingered through her life in this way, loitering and meandering, a wanderer with the most aimless of intentions.
But before she has a chance to answer him, there’s a knock on the bedroom door, and Nick’s mom—a small woman with large eyes, exactly the type inclined to
collect dairy cow memorabilia—appears when it opens.
“I didn’t mean to bother you two,” she says quickly, and Ryan notices Nick shoot her a pleading look. “You must be Ryan,” she says, her face brightening. “I’m Mrs. Crowley.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Ryan says politely. Mrs. Crowley stands for a moment with her hands clasped in front of her, holding a small pill case.
“Nick,” she says, “I just wanted to make sure—”
Looking pained, he springs up and takes the case from her hands. “It’s okay, Mom,” he says quickly. “I’ve got it.”
Towering over his mother now that he’s on his feet, Nick puts a hand on her back and ushers her toward the door. “It’s okay,” he says again, and she nods, patting him on the arm and waving good-bye to Ryan as she leaves. Nick closes the door behind her, and then turns around, red-faced.
“They’re just for my arm,” he says, holding up his cast. He looks around the room, as if for a glass of water or perhaps an escape, and shuffles his feet. This is the first time Ryan has seen him the least bit ruffled, and he finally shrugs helplessly and laughs. “I just—”
“Hey,” Ryan says, before he has a chance to go on. He looks up gratefully, waiting for her to continue, and she’s pleased that in some small way, she can rescue him today too. “How about this?” she says. “If the Cubs win ninety-five games this season, I promise to do my math homework all next year too.”
“That’s a pretty steep bargain,” he says, rattling the pills in his hand.
Ryan thinks of her dad, the way he used to lean forward in his seat during those rare and wonderful days at Wrigley when the wind blew just the right way and the flags pointed out toward the lake and the world aligned itself just so. This is not a team to stake your life on, he’d say. But that’s the only way to do anything that matters.
Nick is watching her across the room, and Ryan is thinking, if only.
After a moment, when she still hasn’t responded, he tries once again: “You drive a hard bargain.”
“That’s the only way to do it,” she tells him.
Chapter Six
* * *
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, THE WEATHER TURNS UNCHARacteristically warm for mid-April, and during the lunch hour, everyone spills outside onto the huge lawn that borders the blacktop behind the school. Ryan spots Nick sitting with a handful of sophomore boys, most of them wolfing down their sandwiches to leave time to play basketball. Nick’s face is tilted back to the sun, and Ryan can’t help watching the scene with a sense of detached wonder. Beside him, Will O’Malley—the school’s star basketball player—is tossing peanuts into the air and then catching them with his mouth, and a few other guys are mock fighting with fists raised and knees bent. Among them, Nick looks completely at ease, and Ryan even notices Lucy and her friends—Sydney and Kate included—casting meaningful glances at the small group on the lawn. Nick has only been at the school for a month, but through some mysterious mixture of friendliness and indifference, he seems to have already won over everyone who matters.
Ryan wanders over to the old swing set, which stands empty at the corner of the blacktop. She’s only spoken to Nick a few times since working on the project at his house last week, always waiting for him to approach her first. When she’s with him, it’s easy. But when she watches from afar, across the hallway or the classroom or the lunchroom—she by herself, always by herself; and he with his new buddies—the idea that they might be friends seems a possibility too unlikely to consider.
Ryan never used to be so unsure of herself, but this is what the last year has done to her. This is how loneliness can change a person.
Now, she rocks slowly back and forth on the swing, circling the metal chain with one hand and using the other to unwrap her peanut butter sandwich. There’s a note in the bag from her mother, the same one she sends every day—Missing you till 3 p.m.—and Ryan crumples it into a ball and sends it flying toward the metal garbage can. It hits the edge and bounces across the woodchips. Nick appears as if from nowhere, stooping to pick it up.
“Don’t read it,” Ryan says, swinging in small circles.
“Love letter?” Nick suggests, tossing it into the garbage and then walking over to the second swing. “Diary entry?”
Ryan makes a face at him. “Very funny.”
She can’t help wondering why, of all things, he’d choose to be here with her, sitting quietly on the peeling swing set, though she knows she’d never ask him. Whatever this is between them, this fragile new friendship of theirs, Ryan is reluctant to rattle it. There’s a questionless ease to their time together, and she finds it amazing that she can feel so drawn to someone without knowing much about him beyond his favorite baseball players. But the way she sees it, there’s plenty in life that’s complicated already. She’s more than happy to keep this off the list.
“So,” Nick says, offering her a pretzel as he swivels around on the swing, his long legs planted in the wood chips. “What’s with all the looks?”
Ryan freezes, worried that he might have noticed her watching him earlier. But before she has a chance to explain, he lifts his chin in the direction she’d most hoped he wouldn’t, to where Sydney and Kate are gathered with the others beneath an oak tree.
“You’re keeping an eye on them,” he notes.
“So?” she asks, bristling.
“Former friends or future friends?”
“It has to be one or the other?”
Nick shrugs.
“Former, then,” Ryan says, sighing.
He seems satisfied with this answer, licking the salt from his fingers once he’s finished his pretzels. “I only asked because you sort of tiptoe around them.”
“I don’t really,” she says much too quickly, then adds, “it’s really only Lucy.”
“The little blond one on a power trip?”
Ryan laughs. “That’s her.”
Across the lawn, the other girls are standing now, doing some sort of jokey dance, and most of the guys have drifted in their direction. Ryan sees Will O’Malley put his hand on Sydney’s back and lead her around to the other side of the tree. The sound of their laughter carries clear across the blacktop, and Ryan takes a small bite of her sandwich and tries very hard not to listen.
“So,” Nick says. “I have a new theory.”
“Which is?”
“The Cubs are relying too much on their big hitters,” he says, reaching up to flip his hat around so that it’s now backward, a small tuft of hair sticking out of the gap in front. “They can’t always depend on hitting the ball out of the park no matter what.”
“No danger of that happening,” Ryan says.
“Yeah, but that’s why we lost the series against the Astros this week,” Nick says with a little frown. “I think the key is to play small ball.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Small ball?”
“Yeah,” he says. “One hit at a time, one out at a time. So that you let each individual play build up to the next.”
Ryan hears someone call Nick’s name, and she looks over to where his friends are now scattered on the soccer field, tossing a baseball among them. She stares apologetically at her lap, suddenly worried she’s keeping him from whatever else is out there: friends, laughter, games, all the things she’s missing out on. But he just waves at them, unbothered, and then turns back to Ryan.
“You have to admit,” he says, “it’s a good theory.”
“So if you were in charge …”
He sits up and grins. “Small ball,” he says. “Small ball all the way.”
“Okay,” she says agreeably. “But I’m not so worried about strategy.”
“Let me guess,” Nick says mockingly, tapping his chin in thought. “You have a feeling?”
“I do,” she says matter-of-factly. “I have a good feeling.”
“Well, then,” he says, tossing his lunch bag in the garbage can and pushing back on the swing. “Forget statistics and strategy, Ryan has a f
eeling!”
She begins swinging, too, pumping her legs until she’s high as he is, and after a minute, they fall into the same rhythm. When she looks over, he’s right there beside her, the sky behind him cloudy and close.
“Just wait and see,” she says, her words whipped away by the wind.
On her way to biology, Ryan runs into Kate, who’s hanging up posters for the spring dance with one of her new friends, a girl named May or June or something equally ridiculous. Ryan ducks her head and tries to hurry past, but Kate calls out to her, and so she backpedals reluctantly.
“Aren’t you so excited for the dance?” Kate asks. “April and I are going with Dylan and Heyward, and did you see that Will O’Malley just asked Sydney at lunch?”
Other than Will, Ryan has only the foggiest idea about who those boys are, and she shifts from foot to foot, more concerned about why Kate’s bothering to talk to her than she is with April’s date for the dance. “That’s great,” she offers.
Kate tacks another poster up on the wall. It’s bright pink, with thick black letters that spell out the time and place. Ryan guesses that nearly every other student must be counting the days until the dance, but the truth is, she’s barely even thought of it. She makes a move to walk away, knowing what their next question will be, but Kate puts a hand on her arm. Ryan stares at her, trying to find the face of her old friend beneath this new, horribly sweet smile.
“Do you think anyone will ask you?” Kate asks, and April giggles.
“I’m sure I won’t go,” Ryan mumbles, backing up.
“Why?” April asks, perfectly pleasant. “Because you’ll have to wear a dress?”
Ryan chews on the side of her lip but says nothing.
“I saw you sitting with that new guy at lunch,” Kate says, her tone purposefully casual as she turns to hang another poster. “That sophomore? Nick something?”
“We’re doing our math project together.”
Kate raises her eyebrows, and April lets out a sharp little laugh. Ryan’s face is burning, but she takes a deep breath and remains silent.