I wish I weren’t the last one here; unfortunately the sight of Michael’s circle of friends in the driveway tells me otherwise. He gives an easygoing grin, but my immediate thought is that he seems distant, aloof, standing there with his hands thrust deep in his jeans pockets. His coolness might have something to do with the scowl plastered across his sandy-haired friend’s face. That has to be Casey, with the backwards-turned baseball cap and effortless California tan, since Marti’s got her arm around a lanky man with black hair, and they’re snuggling like a married couple, not mere friends.
Marti waves at me exuberantly as I shift the car into park. Too exuberantly, like she knows I’m about to swim in with the sharks. Her husband smiles at me, too, and Andrea bounces onto the balls of her feet, rushing my car door. Only Casey stands rooted to his few inches of driveway real estate, watching me circumspectly. And judging by the saturnine expression on his handsome face, I’d say it’s a given that he’s not exactly thrilled that Michael’s gotten so chummy with a woman.
***
At the bottom of the third inning, the Dodgers are down by two, and I’m about the same. At least I’m not completely striking out, since Andrea’s next to me, a nice reminder that someone in this crowd is rooting for me, as the sun sets on the City of Angels.
Michael is on her other side, so we’re too far apart to do much talking, but I can tell he’s pleased to see her responding to me so strongly. The occasional smiles he transmits in my direction tell me so. And sometimes I catch him looking at me, even when Andrea’s busy watching the game, and I wonder what he’s thinking. It seems harder than usual to read his rich brown eyes tonight. I wonder why? Thank God he’s sitting on my good side, so at least I don’t have to feel self-conscious about that.
Andrea whispers in my ear frequently, a marked change from how quiet she normally seems to be. In fact, she’s downright gregarious, commenting on the game, the players, a bizarre fat man with a painted belly several rows down from us. That guy’s taking face-painting to whole new dimensions, I’m telling you. Andie keeps perching Barbie on the arm of my seat, allowing the doll to narrate her life for me. She’s the one who tells me that Andrea’s last day of school is on Friday. It’s a parade of childlike intimacies, shared only with me. And most of the time Andrea grins and giggles shyly at just about anything I say.
If only everyone else were so easy to please. Marti’s friendly enough, sitting on my other side, so that’s good, but she’s still kind of formal. Like maybe it’s weird to her that I’m here with the rest of them. I’m not really sure. Of course paranoia’s a definite possibility, too.
Casey, though, maintains a churlish expression constantly, and at one point I saw him whisper something into Michael’s ear that cast an angry shadow over my would-be boyfriend’s face. Michael stared down at the field for a long time without talking to anyone, his jaw muscle visibly twitching. I don’t think he’s even looked in my direction ever since.
“He would’ve done this to anyone, you know.” I turn to Marti, confused by her sudden remark. “Casey. He would’ve cold-shouldered anyone trying to step into Alex’s shoes.”
“Good to know,” I reply. Wrapping up the remnants of my chicken and biscuit into a square of tinfoil, I remember the way he taunted me earlier. “Mike doesn’t like fried chicken,” he said with a harsh laugh when I retrieved the takeout package from my tote bag. “God, we all know that!”
Michael protested, explaining that he just didn’t like bad fried chicken—as in Kentucky Fried, or heaven forbid, Popeye’s—but it was too late for a save. I’d gotten Casey’s none-too-subtle message: you don’t belong here. My chicken gaffe merely exposed my imposterhood.
“Rebecca, I want to tell you a secret,” Marti confesses, her voice hushed beside my ear. “Just listen, okay?”
I nod, watching Manny Ramirez slide into second. There’s an explosion of tribal cheers and chants in every direction, but I stay still as a statue, wondering what she’ll say.
She leans right up against me. “Casey Porter is the biggest teddy bear you’ll ever meet. Bigger than Michael, even,” she continues. “But you have to be patient. Stick with him long enough to get past his rough hide.”
“I’ve always been a big believer in first impressions,” I say, sipping from my water bottle.
“Well you’ve obviously made quite an impression on Casey, that’s for sure.”
“How do you mean?”
“He wouldn’t be treating you this way unless he thought you were a serious threat.” I remember the biting remarks he made in the car on the way over, the “jokes” about Michael’s new “outlook” on dating. Little gibes about which team would he be cheering for tonight, what with the way he’d switched jerseys lately.
I shrug, looking sideways at both Michael and Casey, silent in their own form of détente. “I think it’s because I’m a woman.”
“Humph. He’d like you to believe that.”