“Nah. He’s…” Youder shook his head. “His knee’s not getting better fast enough. He’s low.”
“Low” was a nice way of saying he was too depressed to get out of bed. We were all used to working our bodies to the point of exhaustion, and between the lack of physical activity and the prospect of never playing again, a bad injury crashed us emotionally. No one talked about it, but it was a fact.
Randy swaggered over. He was in his second year with us. He was young and cocky with a terrible (or great, depending on how you looked at it) reputation with the female population of Los Angeles. “Hey, you seen Shawn? He’s been training with Edwards.”
I didn’t care. Not about Shawn or Edwards or what any one of my teammates was doing to get in shape for spring. I was in the mood for neither camaraderie nor pissing contests. “You know what? I’m going to slip out of here.”
“That time of the month?” Randy asked.
“Cramps are killing me.” I gave Youder and Randy hugs with loud claps on the back, and I left while things were looking up.
Sunset Boulevard was a constant traffic jam from Silver Lake to Beverly Hills, but west of that, it was a winding road with few traffic lights and nothing to see on either side. It was easy to lose yourself thinking about what you wanted to do to a certain librarian’s body, the prospects of a winning season, making an effort to forget what had happened to your sister’s pin, whether or not you should call your parents tomorrow or the next day, the clusterfuck the avocado tree had started, the librarian, the season, the pin, your parents, avocado, Vivian, baseball, pin, parents, tree-sex-life-Daria-momdadtreefuck— The car moved sideways, and I turned the wheel, thinking that would fix the way the car slid across the road as if it were on a sheet of ice. I knew what to do on ice. I’d grown up in Ithaca. But turning the wheel didn’t do anything, and my brain registered the crunch of metal and the force of impact a split second later.
Professional athletes were freaks. The average height of a pro basketball player was six foot seven. Football players were built like bungalows. Baseball players had hand-eye-mind coordination that was hard to measure but just as freakish.
Which was how I’d felt the car moving before the sound of the crash registered. I’d been T-boned from the side street and was moving sideways into oncoming traffic.
Not really much I could do but skid.
And hit the brakes.
And turn off the car.
Took as much time to do as to step left once, calculate the trajectory of the ball, catch it, move my right hand to the glove, take it, calculate the speed of the runners, line up the throw, execute.
Thup.
It was done.
Blink. Blink.
Silence.
Fingers. Toes. All wiggle. All move.
My head turns.
My name is Dashiell Wallace.
It’s Thursday.
Someone is screaming.
It’s not me.
The passenger side door is an inch from my elbow.
I get out.
I can stand.
Walk.
Make words.
I can carry her out of the way of traffic.
Call 9-1-1.
Assess her injuries like an Eagle Scout.
Relay the information calmly.
Convince her she’s going to be all right.
Walk away.
When the paramedics tell me I’m the luckiest guy in the world, I believe them.
sixteen
Vivian Vivian, are you there?
I’m here
Where?
Trying to sleep. It’s midnight
About what happened today (…)
Yes?
I washed you off my hands. I want it back. Having you on my fingers feels like good luck. I bet I hit .400 with your * on my lips
You can wait. You don’t have to hit anything yet
I’m going to open your legs and have a field day on your clit. Just a little with the tip of my tongue. Then I’m going to suck on it. Pull it between my teeth. Do it all over, flicking just a little. I can make you last a long time (…)
(…)
(…)
Are you touching yourself?
No
Now I am
Are you wet?
Yes
I want you to come
Okay
Just imagine what I’m going to do to you and how much I’m going to love doing it.
(…)
Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, stray lower where the pleasant fountains lie (…)
(…)
(…)
(…)
Are you coming?
You quoted Shakespeare. I didn’t have much of a choice
I’ll make a note
I’m so sleepy now
Good night, sweetapple.
Good night, Dashiell.
seventeen
Dash
The Dodger batting cages were tucked in a warehouse downtown, on the east side of the river. The building was the best kept on the block—unmarked, guarded, with a small parking lot. No one from the street could see the helipad or the world-class training facility inside.
The machine clicked and whooshed. My bat made contact with a thwock. Line drive to left. Too low to get over the shortstop. I set up again. Thwock. Good for triple A. I had a long way to go here. No worse than I’d been any other winter.
Randy waited by the gate in a Nickelback T-shirt and old Nikes. “What happened to you?” He pointed at a bruise on my forearm.