Seventeen

Reynolds’ list is a lot harder than it sounds.

I keep taking out pieces of yellow lined paper like the ones I used to use to write down my baseball career options, and stare at them, willing the words to appear.

I try to catalog the times when I think Lizzie’s heart is pounding because she’s reacting to something. And I write down the crazy dreams that are definitely not mine. I even force myself to describe the flicker of feelings that go through me when Spencer and I are just hanging out.

But I feel stupid. Even though no one has seen the list, it makes me feel self-conscious. There are a whole lot of balled-up pieces of yellow paper in the garbage can next to my desk from lists I’ve started and destroyed. And there are a bunch of ashes in the can from the earlier pieces of yellow paper that I’ve already burned. The last thing I need is my mom reading what I’ve written. Or Spencer finding them.

It’s much easier to blow off the lists and focus on Saturday and the weather. The forecast is 65 degrees and sunny with light winds blowing from behind the plate. That’s perfect weather for baseball in a part of the country that could just as easily see snow in April.

The team will practice inside if the weather turns bad, but I don’t want to sit inside the stuffy gym. I want to be on the field, smelling the freshly cut grass and feeling the sun on my skin. I don’t want to watch everyone run laps inside. I want to hear the sound the ball makes when it hits the glove. I want to hear the crack of the bat.

I’m too keyed up to sleep much on Friday night. I stay quiet, though, because I don’t want Mom to know I’m awake or she’ll decide that I’m getting too excited and make me come home after my appointment at the hospital. She doesn’t get that it’s a good thing; that even though I won’t be playing, the thought of standing on a baseball diamond energizes me.

I get to the field early on Saturday because Mom drops me off after my checkup. The doctor is still happy and says I can kick up my exercises, which is great because the meds are making me bloated and even the thought of running makes me feel light and free.

I’m so early there are only two cars in the lot. One I know is Coach Byrne’s, but I don’t recognize the other one, which is a small blue convertible. I wander over to the field and find Coach sitting in the bleachers. He’s sorting through line-up cards filled with player stats and projections against the standout pitchers in our league.

I’m way happier than I should be to see these lists of names and numbers. It’s probably strange to love trying to make the numbers come out in our favor almost as much as I love playing. I pick up the first card in his stack and convince him to move a couple of the guys around in the batting order. I know the pitcher we’ll probably be facing for our first game and he has a crazy screwball that some of our usual guys are going to try to slam. They’re going to fail miserably.

While he’s filling in his sheets, I watch the grass move in the breeze. It feels like summer and home and while I want to be out there playing, I’m grateful to be here at all.

“This is the best decision I’ve ever made,” I say to Coach without tearing my eyes from the field.

“Good thing you’re young. You have time to make even better ones,” says a girl behind me.

I turn around and realize that after all of this time, I’m somehow having a conversation with Ally Martin.

She’s wearing slightly faded jeans with a long-sleeved white T-shirt and a Central Warriors baseball cap over her long hair, which she’s pulled back. I have a freaky flashback to one of the Ally/baseball dreams I haven’t had in so long and then stand there without a coherent thought running through my head. I literally have nothing. For her part, she’s smiling, but there’s a challenge in her eyes. I think she knows how much this is bugging me out.

Finally Coach looks up and says, “Oh, not sure if you two know each other. Cal Ryan. Ally Martin. Ally is our official scorekeeper this season. I wanted her to get a little practice in too.” Coach is calm, like he can’t tell that worlds have just collided in front of me.

“Scorekeeper?” I ask, like I’ve never heard the concept before.

Ally sits down next to me and puts her feet up on the row of the bleachers in front of us. “Yup. Coach needed someone and I’ve got experience, so here I am.”

My brain is being pulled in two because I couldn’t ask for anything better—if more distracting—than to have baseball and Ally at the same time. But I can’t imagine what experience she could have. The official scorekeeper spot always has a million people applying for it since they actually have a certain amount of power in a game. They determine what’s an error and what’s a hit. They keep all the stats. I have no idea how Coach is possibly going to teach her everything before the season opens. I realize it’s my turn to speak, but I’m not sure if I should be worrying about talking to her because I’ve wanted to for so long or worrying about her being our scorekeeper.

“Stop looking so terrified, Cal,” she laughs. “You know my dad coaches the Central College Warriors, right? I’ve been doing this for their team the last few years.”

Her dad coaches the best private college baseball team in the state. How the hell did I not know that? I know a million useless things about her. I know what her favorite flavor of yogurt is. I know what bands she likes, and what books she reads. I don’t know how I managed to miss this.

I replay the sound of her saying my name. I’m having one of those moments that I want to capture so I inhale and try to hold it in, the bright sun, this freshly mowed grass, and the faint smell of vanilla.

I don’t really know what my face looks like when I do this, but Ally, who amazingly is sitting next to me and speaking to me, puts her hand on my shoulder, where it feels like it burns a delicious hole through my shirt.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Never been better.” And it isn’t really a lie.

She has an easy laugh and it kind of explodes out of her. “Oh, good. So who’s filling in for you at short?”

My stomach twists. “Dillard, I guess.” Coach nods distractedly in agreement. Suddenly I wonder if there’s any way I could talk Coach into letting me play. I want Ally to see what I can do on the field. I want her to see me as more than just heart transplant boy who has to sit on the sidelines.

And then I remember the conversation I overhead in the hallway. She’s probably doing this to spend more time with Dillard. But before I have time to torment myself with that thought, she utters the most amazing words I’ve ever heard.

“Justin has a nice swing, but he doesn’t have your hands.”

I look down at my hands, which are holding the line-up sheets and shaking from adrenaline and nerves. It’s like I’m seeing them for the first time.

“You’ve seen me play?” I ask. And then wish I could take it back because I’m sounding like an insecure suck-up.

“Of course. I’ve come to most of the games.”

It’s the strangest thing to be having a conversation with her. All the fear that’s been built up over the past year sits like a hard ball in my stomach, but somehow, I’m able to push through it. It baffles me how I could have possibly missed seeing her at our games. Probably for the best. I can’t imagine that knowing she was there would have helped my batting average.

I want to ask her about whether she and Dillard are together, but the team starts to gather. Everyone comes up and pats me on the shoulder and says how glad they are to have me back and hopes I’m doing well and all of that. For a minute I don’t mind being the center of attention.

I catch Dillard staring at Ally. He looks like he wants to eat her for lunch.

Finally, Coach stands up and tells everyone to shut up. “Okay, everybody, welcome to spring. This is where you get to redeem yourselves for that poor excuse for an opener last week. So let’s see ten laps and then we’re going to try some fielding drills.” There’s general mumbling and grumbling, but everyone picks themselves up and heads down to the field.

“Coach, is it okay if I join in?” I ask. I’d wanted to run with the team anyhow and now I’ve got so much energy racing through me that I feel like I need to burn it off just to function.

Coach gives me the once-over and then nods. “Go. But don’t overdo it. And I mean that,” he says, sounding way too much like my mom.

I start down the bleachers and hear, “Hey, wait up.” When I turn around, Ally is following me.

Of course I stop and wait for her. She takes off her shoes. My jaw drops as she unbuttons her jeans and starts sliding them off, revealing a tight pair of black running shorts. I wonder how I’m possibly going to be able to get through this. I’m suddenly so turned on I’m not sure I can walk much less run. It’s like the blood in my body isn’t even sure where it needs to be. It’s just scattered as far from my brain as it can get.

Lizzie’s laughter circles around me—of course she’d be loving this—until I turn away from Ally and focus on taking long, slow breaths while I stretch out.

“Meet you out there,” Ally calls over her shoulder.

I stop mid-stretch and watch her as she slips back into her shoes. I’m amazed at this day. Amazed at how lucky I feel in spite of everything.

The team flies by us, but I don’t care. For the first couple of laps, Ally and I pace each other without saying anything. My muscles are sore and it feels like it’s been forever since I actually did anything real with them. I know I’m going to hurt like hell tomorrow, but it’s hard to care.

On the next go-round Dillard slows down and runs alongside us.

I focus on my feet hitting the grass. The last thing I want to do is get into some sort of pissing match with him in front of Ally.

She pulls ahead as he tries to throw an arm around her. But then she elbows him sharply in the ribs and says, “Get the hell off me.”

“Aw, honey,” he whines, “why do you have to be that way?”

I’m ready to take him down if he steps out of line, but she seems to be able to handle him. When he stumbles, I speed up and pass him, drawing level with Ally again.

“You don’t want to get too close to Ryan,” Dillard calls behind us. “You know he’s queer for Yeats.” He draws Spencer’s name out like it has a hundred “s’s” in it, like it’s being said by a snake.

My hands ball into fists. If Ally weren’t here I’d haul off and slug him again, even though it would probably get me thrown off the team for good, not to mention that a proper fight could kill me and if it didn’t, Spencer probably would if he got wind of it.

Thankfully, Coach spots that Dillard has slowed down to hang with us and takes matters into his own hands. “Dillard, get your butt in gear or it’ll be warming the bench this season.”

Dillard has no choice but to race ahead. First, though, he winks at Ally, which just causes her to roll her eyes.

I’m sure she’s heard all the rumors about Spencer, me, and Lizzie. Everyone has. I just have to hope she’s smart enough not to believe them. Before she can say anything, I throw out the crucial question. “So are the two of you … ?” I point to Dillard, but leave the sentence hanging because I don’t even want to say it out loud. I just power ahead, not even looking at her. So when she stops dead in her tracks—literally stops—it takes me a minute to notice and I have to double-back for her.

She looks hurt and angry, like I’ve seriously offended her. “What? No. How could you even think that?”

I jog in place and motion for her to start running. “Sorry, I just thought … ”

“That I had really horrible taste in boys? Because seriously, he’s the biggest dick I’ve ever met.”

I give her a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Really. I won’t make that mistake again.”

She smiles back as if she knows something I can’t possibly understand. “No. No you won’t.”

Then she starts running again, and leaves me in the middle of the field wondering what the hell is going on