“What are we doing?” I whisper to Lenny.
She glances at me and wrinkles her nose. “Showing our love and support for our dear fathers, of course.”
“We’ve never had to do this before.”
Lenny leans in close to me, lowering her voice. “Thanks to your Latin lover boyfriend, we’re in a pennant race now. Well, soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, I guess.”
“I can’t do it,” I rush out under my breath.
“Show support for your family?” Lenny says. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”
“Not that.” I shake my head furiously. Who am I furious with? Lenny? No, me. For being a chicken shit.
“Big surprise there.” Lenny flashes me a half smile, showing her support for my bad decisions. At least I have someone to cry to when this goes all wrong.
The game is over now and the field is full of players, cameras, and crewmembers trying to preserve the field. Mom is way ahead of us, moving straight for Dad, who’s standing outside the dugout talking to Frank. She throws her arms around Dad’s neck in dramatic fashion. I stop and Lenny halts beside me, her gaze traveling to where mine has landed. From the corner of my eye, I see Savannah ushering a local news crew toward the dugout. I didn’t even know she was here today. Usually she sits with us. I can’t help but wonder, after hearing her tell Dad exactly what she thought of Mom, whether maybe she didn’t want to be in there with her.
I refocus on Mom and her show. Lenny squeezes my elbow. “That woman is something else. And I’m pretty sure that show is some kind of porn exhibition. I need to do some Googling later on.”
I rub my face with both hands, attempting to shake off the visual. Dad’s face is tight, and he reaches behind his head, extracting Mom’s hands from his neck. He drops her arms and takes a big step back, shaking his head. Lenny turns to me, a puzzled look on her face.
There’s no time for Lenny and me to psychoanalyze Dad’s behavior, because he’s heading toward me, leaving Mom looking frustrated but not confused like Lenny and I are. My heart speeds up, processing the most likely theory—not the theory I had earlier where Dad has found out about Brody and me—she’s leaving and she told him before the game. But that doesn’t explain his behavior toward Brody.
I accept Dad’s hug and take the opportunity to whisper to him, “What’s going on? She’s leaving, isn’t she?”
Okay, now I’m nearly positive that he doesn’t know about Brody and me.
He pulls back, his gaze darting to one side and then the other before focusing on my face again. “We’ll talk later. Not here.”
My eyes are glued to his. Already my chest is physically aching for him. I hate that she’s here even though I said I wanted her to leave. What I really meant was that I never wanted her to come in the first place. Because he’s going to break into pieces again and probably believe everything he told Savannah last week about not being able to find someone else.
A few months ago, I thought it was enough that he had me, but even while daydreaming about hooking up with Brody, I’d already started to understand the different kinds of people we need in our lives to love us. As much as I want to be enough for him and vice versa, I know it’s not the same.
I give Dad another squeeze around the middle, pressing my cheek against his sweaty uniform shirt. “I’m sorry.”
“Coach Lucas,” a man says, standing in front of us with a camera crew and a microphone. “Mind if we do some post-game interview questions?”
Savannah magically appears behind the cameraman and nods. I let go of Dad and start to step away, but the interviewer says to the cameraman, “Let’s get the daughter, too?”
“Um…okay, s-sure,” Dad stutters. “If it’s okay with Annie?”
I can feel Mom’s glare as she stands off to the side, arms folded over her chest. Does she expect Dad to invite her into this interview as his wife if she’s taking off again? She’s mental.
Savannah gives me a thumbs-up, and then she rushes forward, cutting among the crewmembers. She grabs the hat that’s been hanging limply in my hand, arranges my hair over one shoulder, and places it on my head. Then she vanishes out of the picture, a quiet observer behind the cameraman.
I look up at Dad for help. Too much is going through my head right now to even think about plastering on a happy face for the cameras. Dad pulls me in front of him, his six-two body towering over my five-foot-five height. One of his arms wraps around my shoulders, holding me in place, like I might run. He leans down close to my ear. “Please no phony smiles like the London family.”
The interviewer guy is busy untangling his microphone. “Are you okay?” I whisper back.
There’s an obvious note of pain in his expression, but I’m not sure if that’s because of Mom or he’s actually in pain. Wouldn’t surprise me after standing for this many hours. He’s probably got some swelling in his leg, too.
“Just a little sore,” he says, shifting some of his weight onto me. “But I’m okay, I promise. About everything.”
I grip his arm and give him a squeeze just before the camera guy clips a microphone on both my shirt and Dad’s. I know he can’t be okay, but that’s so like him to make sure that I don’t worry.
“This isn’t live,” the cameraman tells us. “No need to be nervous.”
Both Dad and I tense up instantly.
“Coach Lucas,” he says. “Are you enjoying major league coaching so far? Is it strange to be back in this world after such a long absence?”
“It’s been a great season so far,” Dad says. “I never imagined I’d find my way back to baseball, but it’s like an old friend—you take some time to catch up, and then it’s like you were never separated.”
“What do you predict for the Royals this season?”
I lean into Dad and angle my head upward so I can see him. He seems so much like himself. I figured there’d be a false front for the cameras or a pre-transcribed media answer.
“I think the young guys are hungry and it’s giving everyone a boost,” he says. “It’s rejuvenating. Frank Steadman has put together a great team this season. He’s focused on technique, using our strengths, and developing younger players. There’s potential to snag a division championship, maybe even taking the American League title.”
“And let’s be honest,” the interviewer guy says. “By young and hungry, you’re talking about Jason Brody, right?” He looks down at me. “And I see you’ve got his number on today, Annie. Have you joined the Jason Brody fan club?”
Hell yes.
Luckily the heat is making everyone a little red in the face. “I make a point to join the fan club of any player who records a hundred-mile-an-hour pitch,” I say.
Dad laughs, and Savannah gives me two thumbs up for that answer. Phew.
“We’re mixing this clip with footage of your community service project in a one-hour special on major league players and their families for Dateline next month,” the interviewer says. “Can you tell me a little about your experience with helping a family build a house?”
So Savannah got that Dateline story after all.
Am I supposed to talk about why we’re doing that community service in the first place? Underage drinking and having two guys grope me at once in a nightclub isn’t something I want to mention on camera. But Savannah’s signaling from behind the interviewer guy for me to answer the question.
“Um…well.” I look down at my paint-splattered jean shorts and then lift my eyes again. “Today was our last day at the building site—we came right from there to the game, actually—and Lenny and I got to walk the family through the house. The four kids have always been crammed into one bedroom, and now three of them have their own space. They have closets and dressers, and they even picked out the paint colors. The organization made sure they had a table where all six people in their family could sit. The first thing they did when they walked inside the kitchen was sit at that table together. It was pretty awesome to see the results. I’m ready to do it again, and I know
Lenny is, too.”
“What do you think of your dad’s new job?”
I smile up at Dad and then back to the camera. “It’s awesome. I’m so proud of him. Not that I wasn’t proud of him before; he’s always worked hard at whatever job he had, but this is where he belongs. He knows this game so well, and he’s still got a lot more to contribute to the team.”
Take that, Larry Johnson. Let’s see that next-season contract.
“Did you put her up to that?” the guy jokes with Dad.
“Absolutely,” Dad says. “We’ve been rehearsing that answer for weeks.” He lets out a short laugh and then turns serious again. “Honestly, Annie’s the reason I’m here. She talked me into accepting Frank’s job offer. As much as I hate to admit it, she’s in charge most of the time. Very bossy girl.”
“Hey!” I give Dad a shove, and then reach out to grip his arm again after remembering that his leg is sore.
Savannah produces a director’s chair and places it behind Dad. “We’re going to do some solo questions, too, right?”
The camera light shuts off and the interviewer lowers his microphone. “Thanks, Annie,” he says to me. “This will be a nice addition to our special.”
Savannah removes my tiny microphone and hands it back before steering me away, leaving Dad alone to answer more questions. At least he’s got a chair now.
“Great job,” Savannah whispers. “I about died when he asked about the community service. Sorry I couldn’t prep you for that.”
I laugh, relieved it’s over. “Yeah, I was so not wanting to discuss our newspaper fame.”
“Johnson had us negotiate this TV special, and we’re not supposed to have any mention of the community service being a punishment. He said that we made the statement during the press release in May and that would be the only mention of it ever.” She rolls her eyes. “Of course, we’ll have plenty of footage of Carl London in Brazil at the children’s home. Don’t even ask me how much work we had to do to make that look authentic. At least you and Lenny actually got your hands dirty and did the work.”
I pull out a strand of hair speckled with paint to prove that the dirt extended even beyond our hands. Savannah gives me another grin, and then I move off to the side, giving her room to work.
I’d planned to stand and listen to the rest of Dad’s interview, but something catches my attention in the bullpen. Brody still in uniform pitching to a stand, just like he’s done so many times in my front yard. I walk in that direction but keep my distance. Something’s going on with him, and I haven’t figured out what yet.
At least I know it isn’t Dad finding out about us.
A few of the Royals players walk past Brody. I hear one of the guys say, not nearly low enough, “Show off much, kid?” and another adds, “I don’t know, haven’t seen him on the cover of People yet…”
“I’m just counting the days until his arm goes out,” a third player says—a relief pitcher for Christ’s sake! Have some respect, dude! It could be your arm going out just as easily.
I’m about to flip them off behind their backs, but I spot too many cameras nearby, ready to catch me in the act. But seriously, they deserve it. Assholes.
A group of little boys hangs from the railing and asks Brody for an autograph. He saunters over, tucks away the melancholy face, and climbs up to their level, signing balls, gloves, hats, and T-shirts. His smile looks genuine as he asks their names and what positions they play, but the second the moms usher the boys away, he’s on the ground again, throwing more pitches and ignoring the commotion around us.
I keep an eye on him and another eye on Lenny, who’s retreating further into her own shadow with each passing minute. Her dad is alive with excitement after hitting two homeruns today. I want to talk to Brody, but there’s no way I’d risk one of the many cameras turning our way and catching us standing too close.
After about ten minutes, Dad appears and heads straight for the bullpen. A noticeable limp—well, more noticeable than usual—plagues him. He watches Brody throw a few pitches without saying anything, his back against the fence. I inch closer but still stay a good distance away.
“Frank told me to come over here and apologize,” Dad says. “He thinks I was too hard on you.”
Really? Did he tell him he needed to record a hundred-mile-an-hour pitch?
I glance around and see that the field is quickly clearing out. Brody’s drenched in sweat, his blue hat pulled low over his forehead to block out the sun. Dust from the mound is all over his white pants.
“You weren’t too hard on me,” Brody says. “I choked.”
Choked? How? He was amazing.
“Wipe the slate clean,” Dad says. “Next game, get it right.”
Brody squeezes the ball in his hand and turns to Dad. “Sometimes I get out there ready to throw, and I can’t get myself to deviate from my fastball. I’m comfortable with it. It’s gonna do exactly what I want it to.”
Oh, maybe he was supposed to do a different kind of pitch?
Dad bends over to pick up a loose ball from the dirt and tosses it to Brody. “You’re a rookie. You can throw some bad pitches and be forgiven. But the second your arm starts to give out, they’ll get scared and dump you. And if you throw hundred-mile-an-hour pitches for long enough, you’re done by thirty. Maybe even sooner.”
Brody takes his stance again and pelts another baseball at the stand. “It’s hard to think about being thirty when I’m up there trying not to screw up this game. Hard to think about anything except right now.”
“Then cut off your leg, so to speak.” Dad laughs darkly at his very bad joke. “Convince yourself that you’ve got nothing but your change-up or slider, whichever applies.”
Brody nods but looks unconvinced. I decide it’s safe to approach them and quit eavesdropping. I’ve made a bad habit of it lately.
“Game’s over, you know?” I say, getting both of their attention. “We won.”
Brody gives me a half smile. “Nice shirt.”
I return the smile, trying to converse silently with him. “Publicity made me wear it.” Seconds later, I’m pulled away by Dad and Lenny, and all I can do is give Brody the we’ll-talk-later look before walking away.
Maybe he’s planning on dumping me? Why does that scare me so much? It shouldn’t.
Chapter 23
Lenny London: is seriously considering studying abroad senior year. I see many advantages to getting away from my life. Worked out well for Carl London.
20 minutes ago
Jason Brody Royals Pitcher: Extremely proud to be part of a record-breaking Royals season! We are on a roll, so watch out, American League, Kansas City is climbing to the top!
5 minutes ago
When Lenny drops me off at home, I’m surprised to see Dad’s SUV in the driveway. I figured he’d have more interviews and post-game work to do. The sound of raised voices causes me to stop in the yard, my stomach already doing flip-flops.
Mom kicks open the screen door, her big pink suitcase rolling behind her. I exhale and close my eyes. Here we go again.
I charge up the porch steps and stand in front of her, blocking her way out. “Why do you keep doing this to him? Just divorce him or something. Let him go.”
Her eyes meet mine, and I’m grateful for the fact that hers are brown and mine are blue like Dad’s. “You can look at me like I’m terrible all you want, Annie, but let me tell you something about your daddy.”
“What are you doing, Ginny?” Dad shoves open the screen door and steps outside.
Mom’s gaze bounces between the two of us and finally rests on me. “You know, he didn’t even want you. He tried to get me to have an abortion. Even drove me to the clinic, but I refused. Jimmy only cared about me and baseball. You didn’t even make his priority list back then.”
I can’t breathe. It’s like she kicked me with her high heels right in the gut. There’re no words forming in my head, let alone falling from my tongue.
Dad grabs he
r arm, forcing her to spin around and face him. “You’re pissed at me? Fine. Do not take this out on Annie.”
Mom jerks her arm away. “I’ll take it out on whomever I goddamn want. And she deserves to know the truth about her perfect father.”
Both of us stand there watching her walk away and toss her suitcase into the back of the beat-up blue truck. After another minute, she drives off. The sting of her words clings to my skin like a permanent scar.
“Annie,” Dad says finally, his voice full of a dozen different emotions.
I swallow the lump in my throat and lift my eyes to meet his. He takes two tentative steps in my direction, then rests his hands on my shoulders. “Listen to me, okay?”
His eyes are swimming with tears. I have no memory of my dad ever crying. I’ve seen him drunk and depressed. I’ve seen him pissed off. But I’ve never seen him cry.
“I wish I could tell you that I was just young and scared,” he says. “And believe me, I was petrified, but also very self-centered. I didn’t want anything to get in the way of my goals. I wanted your mom by my side and I wanted to be a star—not a father. Remember when you asked me if I was anything like Jason Brody when I played ball?”
My head moves up and down, answering Dad’s question. It feels like years ago when I stomped into the house, pissed off at Brody, thinking he was nothing but an arrogant pig-headed rookie.
“I was bigger than life then. No one knew better than I did, and I didn’t answer to anyone—not coaches or trainers. I threw the pitches I wanted to throw—” He stops, shakes his head, and then starts talking again, “I can’t change the past or take back what I said or did, but I’m so glad that I have you.”
The reason behind his concerns finally clicks into place. “Is that what you’re worried about? That I’m going to feel rejected because you…” I can’t use the words Mom said out loud. “Because you considered other options when Mom got pregnant?”