Saturday afternoon, I found myself walking into the baseball stadium at our high school wearing cutoff shorts and a Blackwater baseball shirt I'd found in the back of my closet. It was snug, but still fit well enough. I pulled my baseball cap lower and tucked a few strands of hair behind my ears.
“Lilah Calloway? Is that you hiding underneath that hat?”
I glanced up to see Mrs. Rochester behind the ticket booth. She was a friendly woman with a round build and a big smile. She would watch me when my dad brought me to the games when I was little. I hadn't seen her in a few years, but she looked nearly the same as she had back then.
“Hi Jan,” I said with a small smile as I slid my five dollars across the counter for my ticket.
She pushed it right back toward me. “Oh please. Your daddy would cut my hand off if I took your money.”
“Oh, okay.” I didn't feel like protesting, so I took the ticket she held out for me and pocketed my five dollars. “Thanks.”
“Does he know you'll be here?” she asked with a kind smile.
I hadn't been to one of my dad's games in years. He had dragged me along when I was young, but once I was old enough to stay at home by myself, he let me decide what I wanted to do.
“I told him this morning,” I said, recalling his reaction at the breakfast table. His eyebrows had practically met his hairline as I’d casually mentioned dropping by to watch him and the team.
“Well, I'm so happy you're here. I have to man the ticket booth until the second inning starts, but after that I'll come say hi to you in the stands,” she promised as a young family walked up to purchase tickets.
As I walked away, I found myself hoping she actually meant what she'd said because I was fairly sure I'd be sitting by myself. Somehow I doubted Ashley and Trent were spending their Saturday afternoon rooting on the “Mighty Wolves” baseball team.
Truthfully, I didn’t know why I was there. Chase had only mentioned the game in passing. It’s not like he really expected me to show up. I told myself I was there for my dad or as a thank you to Chase for trying to get me out of detention; those reasons were easier to digest than the truth.
With a tug on the brim of my hat, I walked along the back of the bleachers, past the concession stand that sold Frito pies and hot dogs with enough chili sauce on them to send you into a cholesterol coma. The rich smells took me back to my childhood. My dad would give me five dollars before each game to spend at the concession stand. I remember feeling like a queen with ring pops as standin rubies. A bright neon poster confirmed that they were still four for a dollar. Say what you want about small town economies, but they sure are resistant to inflation.
It was a bright, warm day for February and I regretted not bringing a pair of glasses as I walked up the metal ramp to the bleachers. Texas didn't do spring very well. Just like me.
I’d barely breached the top of the ramp when I heard someone yell out for me.
“Lilah!”
I turned my head to follow the sound and found Kimberly sitting in the middle of a group of girls all wearing matching bright red, sparkly shirts with the words “Diamond Girls” printed across them. I hadn’t realized that Kimberly would be at the game and I felt a mixture of relief and distress as I started to slowly walk toward her.
The other Diamond Girls watched me as I ascended the stairs toward them. As I reached the group, Kimberly stood and scooted out to greet me. Everyone shoved to the side, filling in her spot and opening up two new spots near the aisle.
“Hey!” she said, wrapping me in a hug that felt awkward and unexpected, but I hugged her back nonetheless. Kimberly was a hugger, and I was not. “Chase told me you might be here, but I wasn't sure if you'd make it.”
I hadn’t told him I’d be there. In another life—a more realistic life—I’d be lounging in bed, reading away my Saturday afternoon.
Before I could reply, Kimberly spoke up again. “Do you want to sit with us? We have room and it'd be fun to catch up.” Her eyes twinkled with sincere kindness and I couldn't help but feel relief that she didn't hate me after I’d moved away without so much as a goodbye.
“Sure, yeah,” I said as we both sat down and got situated on the cold metal bleachers. A few of the girls in the group waved and smiled at me. It seemed that as long as Kimberly approved of me sitting there, they weren't going to question it.
While we waited for the scrimmage to start, I studied their shirts up close and realized that each girl had a different player's last name and number on her back like a sports jersey. I shifted and tilted back to confirm my speculation. Kimberly's had “03-Matthews” on the back. She was Chase’s “Diamond Girl”.
Of course she was.
Why does that make my stomach hurt?