We sit parked in the middle of the road for two minutes. I watch the clock and spend the entire 120 seconds trying to figure out what to say. Finally he presses the gas pedal—just a little bit, so that the car creeps toward the school’s driveway like an animal cautiously approaching a known predator.
“This is where you wanted to bring me?” Jonah’s voice is half question and half laugh. I wish my brain didn’t find the sound more musical than the iPod’s contribution to the silent parking lot.
“Yup. Park toward the back.” I indicate the spaces at the edge of the lot, where juniors and sophomores are assigned their spots, and try to sound confident. Now that we’re here, and seeing his reaction, I’m starting to doubt this was such a brilliant idea after all.
“At least once before you graduate, you’ve got to throw some balls on that field.” I reach into the backseat and retrieve the glove I’d found earlier and a baseball too. I place them in his lap and watch his face. Watch his lips, really.
I want a smile—a genuine, comfortable smile—like the ones he gave his friends when we arrived at the party. But watching his lips is not a safe thing for me to be doing—especially when they’re slightly parted in surprise. Slightly parted in the same way they’d be if he leaned over and …
Of all the stupid things, to be imagining a kiss from a guy who’ll never imagine kissing me. I get out of the car.
When his door doesn’t immediately open, I walk around and tap on the window. “Come on—I dared you.”
The athletic fields are up on top of a hill behind the school. I bypass the paved paths, hoping the pain of climbing a grassy slope with battered toes will be enough to clear my head of the ridiculous and repair my Teflon coating.
His door opens when I’m halfway up the hill, but he’s beside me before I reach the top.
“Really?” he asks in a voice as soft as when we’d discussed my father. My pulse has been steady through the climb, but it spikes at his question.
“Really. I hear you’re a stud player and I want to see you in your full jock glory.”
When he laughs and hands me the glove and ball I wonder—again—when in the night I switched from calculating the niceness quotient of every word to comfort to flirtation.
“Here, you wear this. You won’t be throwing hard enough that I’ll need it.”
“Oh, you watch out, I bet I can throw pretty hard.” But I accept the glove and march across the field to home plate. “I can’t crouch. It makes my toes hurt.”
“That’s okay.” Jonah steps onto the pitcher’s mound and twists himself all sorts of ways. When he straightens, he looks taller. More confident. Happier. He grins and I grin back. He’s given me the smile I want; now the rest of this night is for him.
“What are you waiting for?” I ask.
“You’ve still got the ball.”
“Oh. Yeah.” I chuck it with all my strength, and it bounces somewhat near first base. “I should probably warn you, I never played baseball or softball.”
“Never would have guessed. Now put the glove on.”
I slide my fingers in and squeeze the sides together. The leather irritates my palm, and my hand feels awkward: unbalanced and heavy. “It’s a little big.”
“Imagine that.” Jonah laughs; the sound floats on the night air, painting my cheeks in a flush and my lips in a smile.
“Ready?”
I nod, but I’m not. The first throw sails past me. The second, third, and fourth through tenth do too. I wait for him to become impatient with my incompetence, but Jonah’s laughter grows louder with each missed catch.
“I might have exaggerated my skills a little,” I confess while hunting down the ball—again—and wishing the parking lot lights were just a teeny bit brighter, or that the baseball glowed in the dark. “I’m a diver for good reason. I’m hopeless with any sport that involves a stick or a ball or a racquet … Pretty much, if it requires any equipment, I’m a lost cause. Even my dad gave up trying to teach me to golf and just let me drive the cart.”
“I’m not giving up on you yet,” he says. And even though I can’t see his face that well in the dark, I can hear the smile in his voice and it warms me.
But maybe he should, because his belief in me doesn’t prevent me from missing the next dozen throws. Yet he only offers encouragement or jokes as I search for the ball, throw it towardish him so he can make impossible catches or hunt it down himself.
“Try keeping your eyes open. Watch the ball all the way into the glove.”
I do. And it does go all the way into my hand.
“You caught it! You did!” Jonah’s laughing as he runs to home plate and scoops me into a hug. “Good job!”