“So you signed us up?” Libby throws me the softball and I easily catch it. We’re on the school fields after school, even though there’s no practice today. Rec league is over for the year—Libby’s team beat ours in the final game of the season—and we have to wait a few more days until we even find out if we’ve made the All-Star team.
Usually, I’d be hanging out with Claudia. We’d paint our nails in her room or have Netflix marathons. We’d ride our bikes to the store in the center and get ice cream cones, then take the long way home to avoid doing our homework.
Claudia’s ignoring me, though. I don’t know if that means we’re in a fight or she’s not my friend anymore. We never sat down and decided what’s going on. She just stormed off the field after tryouts and hasn’t talked to me since. Tabitha and Lauren are so confused that they’re avoiding us entirely.
So I’m with Libby instead. Which isn’t a bad thing. I just feel weird, like there’s a part of me missing.
“Yep.” I toss the ball back at Libby. “I just made the deadline, too.”
“Whew!” Libby mimes wiping a bead of sweat off her forehead. “You mean we almost didn’t have to get on stage and totally and completely embarrass ourselves?”
“Libby.” I motion for her to hang on to the ball, then move across the field toward her. “Are you sure you’re okay doing this? I can do it alone. I just … well, I thought it’d be fun to do together.”
Especially now that I don’t have any other friends left.
“Nah, I’m just nervous.” Libby tosses the softball between her hands. “I’ll be okay. As long as I don’t eat anything before the show.” She puffs out her cheeks like she’s going to barf.
“Eww!” I giggle. “And good. Because they didn’t have any more spots for solo acts, so I need a partner!” I take my glove off my sweaty hand and wipe it on my pants. “I really think we can win that prize.”
“Then we can hang out even more this summer!” Libby smiles. “As long as we both make the team. Which we will. Totally.”
I raise my eyebrows at her. “You’ll make it for sure. You did amazing.” I think back on the tryouts and all the mistakes I made. “You didn’t drop three fly balls and almost strike out.”
There’s been a pit in my stomach ever since tryouts, and not just because of Claudia. I can’t stop thinking about how much better all the other girls did than me. About how much tougher All-Star games will be. What if I make the same mistakes then? What if the pressure gets to me? My chest tightens just thinking about it.
“You did awesome!” Libby says. “Seriously.”
“I’m super nervous,” I admit.
“You’ll be fine.” Libby’s voice is light. “You love softball. Just focus on having fun.”
Was it fun, though? Is it fun? I don’t know anymore.
I hold out my arm. “Look at how much my hand is shaking. Every time I think about the team, my body turns into Jell-O.”
Libby giggles. “What flavor?”
“Anything but lime.” I smile. “Because lime…”
Libby doesn’t say anything, though. She tilts her head to the side quizzically as I finish the sentence in my head.
Because lime tastes like slime.
It’s from the time in third grade when Claudia and I did a science project ranking the flavors of freeze pops. It was a super-technical process involving lots of freeze-pop eating. Lots and lots. Blue raspberry and strawberry tied for first, but no matter which brand we tried, lime always lost.
It’s always been one of my favorite memories, and usually makes my insides feel happy.
Today it makes my stomach churn.
Libby may be my new friend. She may understand what it’s like to have an alcoholic mom, too. But she’s not Claudia.
I miss Claudia. I may not have directly lied to her, but I didn’t tell her the whole truth. Any of the truth, actually.
I think about how even though I know Dad got a letter from Mom about Family Day, he still hasn’t mentioned it to me yet. He’s doing that “Dad thing” where he keeps hinting around something without actually mentioning it.
Like talking about how nice it was to hear from Mom and “boy, wouldn’t it be nice to see her in person?”
Like mentioning how Mom misses me and how pretty Pine Knolls is.
Like leaving out all these articles about how important therapy is and how my generation is “way savvier” about mental health than his. (“The Savvy Schoolkids”—that was the actual name of one of the articles. Insert eye roll here.)
I know he’s trying to get me to bring up Family Day so he can claim that it’s my idea. He did the same thing when my distant cousin Erin got married last year in some small town in Florida in the middle of August and he kept talking about how pretty Florida was in the summer.
Which, duh, Dad, that’s prime hurricane season, but of course he didn’t think of that. Instead, he wanted me to ask to go to Florida, which would make him feel less guilty about dragging our whole family on a road trip to Boringtown, USA, where we might be in mortal weather danger.
I didn’t take the bait, and luckily Mom backed me up. We sent a card and an ugly vase instead.
But the whole Florida drama took almost five whole days to figure out, all because Dad didn’t want to have a hard conversation.
He’s doing the same thing now, and I am not here for it. If he wants me to go to Family Day, the least he can do is tell me that he wants me to go to Family Day. Even Mom was direct with me, if only in letter form.
That’s why I’ve been ignoring the hints and the strategically placed articles. Why I’m waiting for Dad to actually talk to me like a normal adult. Maybe Mom got so bad because Dad couldn’t confront her earlier. Maybe if he’d spoken up, she’d still be here right now.
I don’t know if that’s the answer to Mom’s alcoholism, any more than me making the All-Star team. The more time that passes, the more I’m starting to think that there may not be one answer at all.
But I deserve more than silence. Now more than ever.
Claudia deserves more than that, too.