Whatever Life Throws at You

  Coach Kessler is going nuts, jumping up and down because St. Teresa’s has just claimed the top two spots at sectionals for the one mile. My teammates are screaming like crazy, which is why I don’t feel the muscles tensing in my right leg until I break away from the group and retrieve a Gatorade from my bag. Savannah gives me a thumbs-up from the bleachers and motions to her phone pressed against her ear, indicating that she’s already calling Dad to tell him the news.

  I finally see my time up on the scoreboard: 4:47.

  Not only is it my personal record, but also damn close to the state record. I start to head toward the bleachers again to sit with Savannah, but a guy leaning against the fence behind me catches my attention. I squint into the setting sun and try to identify the person with the Chicago Blackhawks’ hat pulled way down over his face. He’s in disguise.

  Is it bad that I’ve memorized the outline of his body even without seeing his face?

  I glance back at Savannah once more. She’s turned around chatting with Lenny and some of the other junior girls who aren’t on the track team. I check to see if anyone else is watching me and then slowly, I make my way over to the guy on the other side of the fence.

  “I thought you were stuck in Chicago?”

  Brody pulls the hat further over his face. “Nah. I wasn’t on that flight. Your dad and Frank had to go to some meeting, I guess. My flight missed the storm by an hour.”

  I lift my tank top up to wipe sweat from my forehead. I bet the blond models never sweat. They probably smell like roses all the time. “But what are you doing here?” At a high school track meet. More specifically at my track meet.

  He shrugs. “I was in the neighborhood. Didn’t you hear? I got an apartment a block away from here.”

  I knew this would happen eventually. He’s got a contract for half the season now and tons of money to spend on a place of his own. No need to borrow the London’s guesthouse anymore.

  I work really hard to hide the disappointment from my face. As much as I enjoy Lily’s one-speed bike clicking beside me, I like running with Brody around the neighborhood even more. “So you’ve got your own man cave. I don’t even want to know what will go on behind those doors.”

  Brody doesn’t deny anything. Figures. But whatever. His free time, his life. I get it.

  “Did you…um…see the race?” I ask, not knowing if he really was just wandering the block, or if he came to watch, and when he doesn’t answer right away, I glance sideways at Brody. He’s looking at the times on the board, like he’s thinking hard.

  “Your hamstring hurts,” he says.

  If it were Dad asking, I’d deny it. Instead, I nod.

  “You shouldn’t have pushed it so hard. You didn’t need to win today.”

  So he did watch the race. “I know.”

  “What’s the qualifying time for the two mile?”

  “Eleven twenty-seven,” I say right away.

  “That’s a cakewalk for you, right?” he asks.

  “I wouldn’t call it a cakewalk, but it’s not full-out for me.”

  He points toward the running clock at one end of the track. “I know it’s against your rituals of not checking your time during the race, but you can see the clock every time you hit the last straightaway. Just run the race against the clock, qualify, and then figure out your strategy for state later.”

  He remembers my race rituals? I mentioned it on our very first Sunday afternoon jog around the neighborhood, but that was weeks ago. “That could work.”

  “You can’t get all I’m the best at the end and start trucking over people or you won’t be able to walk tomorrow,” he warns.

  I bite my lip and look away from him. “That’s gonna be hard.”

  He laughs and then both of us glance up to see a group of five girls in purple uniforms heading over this way.

  “You’re Jason Brody, aren’t you?” one of the girls squeals.

  “Guilty.” Brody removes his hat and the serious expression is replaced by the playboy smirk I’ve seen on the cover of way too many newspapers and websites since Opening Day. “I was hoping to snag a hot dog from the concession stand, but this girl spotted me, begging for an autograph.” He nods toward me, and I roll my eyes.

  “We, like, love you,” the girl who spoke first says, practically shoving me out of the way.

  “Seriously,” another girl adds.

  “Can we get a picture?”

  Savannah and Lily appear out of nowhere. She must be trained to spot this kind of commotion from a mile away. She holds out her hand for the girl’s phone. “Let me take it for you.”

  The girls race around to the other side of the fence and Savannah narrows her eyes at Brody. “No more high school girls after this, understood?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Brody says. “Women. Lots of women. Never girls. I know the drill.”

  Ugh. Talk about major TMI. I’d rather eat raw oysters than stick around to see this event.

  My escape goes unnoticed because Brody’s crowd never thins out for the rest of the meet. He’s officially reached celebrity status. This is something that weighs heavily on my mind through most of my next race. Is he going to get too busy to hang out with me? Is he already hooking up with new girls every night? With the new downtown bachelor pad, why would he ever need my company?

  And why do I even have to care? Why can’t I go back to hating him?

  During the race, I follow his plan exactly and keep my eyes on the clock. It literally kills me to not push it at the end, but I hold back and hit the finish line just under eleven minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

  And I manage to do this without ever looking over at Brody and his parade of fans. Bonus points for me.

  The doorbell rings at ten thirty at night. I’ve just showered and put on my pjs so I’m totally not expecting Brody at my front door. I glance outside into the driveway and spot what looks like a brand-new SUV. “Did you get an apartment and a car?”

  “Yep,” he nods. “Like it?”

  He’s holding a small black box and a pile of wires. The object he’s brought over distracts me from answering the car question. “Are you cloning me or something?”

  “Two Annies? Not sure I could handle that.” He walks through the front door and locks it behind him. “Electrical stimulation.”

  “That sounds R-rated.”

  His forehead wrinkles, and he stops in the hallway. “Can’t be R-rated since your dad told me to bring it over. Where is he? Not back from New York yet?”

  “He will be in a few hours,” I say. “Is this gonna hurt?”

  “Not much. You’re tough, you’ll be fine. Last door on the left, right?” He steers me into my bedroom before I even answer him and flips on the light. “Lay down on your stomach.”

  I hesitate for a second, my brain scrambling to guess what this procedure will involve. Eventually, I flop onto the bed, grab a pillow, and pull it under my head. He sits on the other side of me and places several stickers attached to wires onto the back of my thigh. Goose bumps form all around the places where his fingers brush against my bare skin. My pulse shifts and it’s now much closer to what it had been during sectionals today. My face heats up, too, and the reaction catches me off guard. I haven’t felt these awkward guy/girl feelings around Brody since the day we met, when I interviewed him in his post-shower state.

  That day, my embarrassment revolved around being in over my head, not to mention potentially getting in trouble, but today is different. The goose bumps, the heat from his touch—I don’t have to be a scientist to understand this reaction.

  Forget it, Annie. Just forget it.

  I use my athlete focus to block out this revelation, at least for right now. Brody turns on the black box and his hands finally leave my skin, giving me the chance to clear my head. I do feel a shock running through my leg from the machine, but it’s not exactly painful.

  “One hour of this three times a day until state, okay?”

  I’m afraid he’s goin
g to leave, and I really don’t want him to—for no reason I’m willing to admit. “So, did you get rid of all the girls eventually?”

  He groans. “I took like a thousand pictures. There’s no way I can go to your state meet.”

  Had he planned on going? Maybe Dad invited him. If Dad asked, Brody would probably want to say yes, though not for me exactly.

  “Yeah, no one will be watching me run, it’ll be all about you,” I joke, pushing the questions aside.

  “You were such an idiot tonight.” He grins at me, before leaning back against my favorite pillows. Okay, so he’s not leaving. “But watching you pass up that tall girl with six foot long legs, that was fucking awesome.”

  “And now I’m getting electrocuted for it.”

  Neither of us have a response to that because it’s true. I got impulsive and stupid and yet it still felt awesome to win. And there’s no way to know right now if it was worth it. Not until after state.

  “Can I ask you something?” he says. I nod and, before speaking again, Brody plucks the book off my nightstand and starts flipping through it. “Why does your dad wear a wedding ring?”

  I adjust my head on the pillow so I’m looking at his side, instead of his face. It’s less intimidating this way. I mean, Jason Brody is stretched out across my bed, that’s like every teenage girl in Kansas City’s dream right now. “My parents are technically still married. I think my dad takes that saying, ‘If you love someone let them go’ a little too seriously.”

  “But where is she?”

  I close my eyes and let out a breath. “I don’t know. We saw her in December and she was in the middle of touring with some folk band.”

  “She’s a musician?”

  “Musician, singer, actress…adult film actress.” I press my face into the pillow briefly, not wanting to take a chance of seeing his reaction to that last thing.

  “Wow,” Brody says. “How long has this been going on?”

  “The running away or the porn films?” Okay, they aren’t exactly porn, but really really close to it.

  “The running away.” His calm voice relaxes me, and I roll over onto my side to face him finally.

  “Forever, I think. When Dad’s baseball career didn’t work out, she wanted to find her own spotlight. I can’t remember much from when I was really little, but I remember Dad taking me to school on my first day of kindergarten.” And I remember the teacher going all wide-eyed at my mismatched clothes and messy hair. My mom never has a hair out of place. “She wasn’t around then. He’d just tell me she was working. I figured it out eventually.”

  “But you had Grams?” He idly flips through the pages of my book again.

  “We moved from Texas to Arizona right before middle school so Grams could live with us. She was already having problems, early Alzheimer’s, and my mom’s brother, my uncle, wanted to put her in one of those homes run by the state, but Dad wouldn’t let him.”

  I miss those days when Grams was lucid more than not. Now it’s like she sleeps too much, and she doesn’t ever have a grasp on reality. I don’t tell Brody this, but I really want a few hours with the real Grams. Even though I’m happy Mom’s out of the picture, I want to ask Grams about her before she started running from us. Like when she was my age. What was she like? I could have asked Mom on her last visit, but she’s not a reliable source. And I’d ask Dad, but I’m a little bit afraid that she was a better person back then and if he remembers that, he’ll never be able to let go.

  “Grams is your mom’s mom?” Brody’s face fills with surprise. “She’s not related to Jim?”

  “Correct.” I pick at the fuzzy material of my comforter, keeping my eyes down again. “He still loves her. I don’t get it. It’s like he thinks he can’t do better. Sometimes I think he wants to stop having those feelings, but then she shows up again.”

  His brows rise. “So they’re like, together when she visits…?”

  “Oh yeah,” I say. “And then when she leaves, he’s a mess.”

  “That’s fucked up. Especially with his leg and everything. I can’t believe she screws around with him like that.”

  I nod my agreement. “Literally and emotionally.”

  “Sorry,” he says quickly and returns to picking at the book again. “It’s none of my business.”

  Truth is, I don’t mind telling him these things. A few weeks ago, I would have been annoyed, considering how we loathed each other, but I know he’s just curious and he’s not going to judge Dad. Besides, it feels good to talk about it, especially because lately so many things that confused me about my life and my parents are starting to make sense.

  Brody pulls himself upright and leans his head against the headboard. “Okay, ask me something and I’ll answer it, it’s only fair.”

  We both know what I want to ask him—ex-convict, ex-convict, ex-convict—but I chicken out and go for an easier question. “Are you Italian?”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “Why would you think that?”

  “You’re dark,” I say.

  “My mom’s Hispanic and my dad…” He pauses, biting his lower lip and glancing over at me. “Well, I’ve never met him but my guess is he’s as white as you are.”

  “Do you think he knows that you’re playing baseball?” And yes, I’m dying to ask if he’s in jail, but ever since that night when we dangled our feet in the London’s pool and I offhandedly asked him if his family had come to the game, I’ve wanted to find out those details even more than the indiscretions. Okay, maybe not more, but equally.

  “No idea.”

  “What about your mom?”

  “I don’t think she knows either. She gave up on me when I was sixteen.”

  My eyes widen. “She gave up on you? Were you like homeless or what?”

  “Let’s just say, I caused her a lot of problems. She probably did the best she could.” He shakes his head, like he doesn’t know what to believe. “I wasn’t homeless. I got a job, dropped out of school, and crashed at friends’ places.” He picks up a strand of my hair and twirls it around his finger. I can’t feel his touch but just this small gesture makes me realize how much I’d like for his hand to be on my skin in some situation that doesn’t involve hooking me up to electrical wires. “I know Jim has issues with your mom but he’s a good guy. You’re lucky, Annie.”

  Hearing him explain his past this way, it kind of makes the ex-convict thing seem both understandable and also behind him. I mean, look at him… He’s a professional athlete, not that professional athletes haven’t been known to commit horrible crimes now that I think about it…

  But I don’t want to think about that Jason Brody. I want to focus on the guy seated on my bed, here late at night with nothing on his agenda outside of helping me run at state.

  My gaze travels to his finger holding my hair, and he drops it immediately.

  “I know I’m lucky. In fact, we should do something special for my dad,” I suggest.

  “Like what?”

  “Let me help you study for that GED test,” I spit out fast before I can take it back. I know this would make Dad very happy. He’s talked about it a bunch with Brody when I’ve been around, and I’ve overheard him and Savannah discussing the subject.

  Brody chews on his bottom lip again—he’s thinking. “I want to, I really do…”

  “Okay, then it’s settled. I’ll help you study and whatever I don’t know, we’ll find someone who does. It can be like a summer project for both of us.”

  “I’m not going to pass that test, Annie,” he says with some hesitancy. Finally, he lets out a breath. “I feel like that guy in Shawshank Redemption saying, ‘I don’t read so good.’”

  I stare at him openmouthed. “You can’t read?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Of course I can read. I’m dyslexic. It’s not a big secret or anything, though I’m not looking for a big PSA campaign for learning disabilities with my name attached. Even if I can learn the material, taking the test in a timed setting…
It would be almost impossible to pass. It’s like asking your dad to hop on his right leg.”

  I’m quiet for a long moment, my brain reeling with ideas. “Don’t give up on it yet. I bet there’s some alternate test or an oral exam.”

  He looks nervous already. “I’m sure there’s something, but it would have to be completely confidential. I know it may seem mean and self-centered, but I’m not ready to be a public advocate for dyslexia.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.” I do the sign of the cross that I’ve picked up from Catholic school.

  Brody drifts into several seconds of deep thinking, maybe about the GED test, maybe about his parents or mine. I can’t do anything but stare at him while he stares at my book, pretending to flip through the pages. I didn’t think it was possible to find someone you can relax around and yet they still get your heart racing.

  I don’t know when this happened, but I know for sure tonight I’ve developed a big fat crush on Jason Brody, and unfortunately there’s a club forming and membership is growing with every inning he pitches.

  And this isn’t like my previous boyfriend Kenny or any other relationship I’ve been in. Those were more like experiments in learning how to make out and pretend you love someone. With Brody, I want to slice him open and see everything inside. I want to stand by the railing at Kauffman Stadium, all the way in the stands, and feel his eyes meet mine. No, I want to see his eyes search for mine. To pick me out of a crowd of thousands.

  But I’m not stupid. I get that this is nearly impossible, and I’m not planning on stepping in that direction ever. I’m just a high school girl (high school girls are off-limits according to Savannah), and he’s a hot rookie pitcher whose life is currently in the process of taking a one-eighty turn. My dad has been his mentor, his biggest supporter, of course he’s going to connect with me. Of course we’re going to share in our respect for my dad, but I can’t imagine him ever wanting more from me. It doesn’t fit.