“I’m ready to have sex,” she said. She expected the Chief to stand up and walk away from her, or stammer and remind her that this sort of talk was the reason she needed a female sponsor. He did neither. He wiped the ball off on his work shirt and glared toward the third-base line. “I wanted to be honest with you.”
She pushed herself up and held her palm out for the ball. The Chief moved farther away. They resumed their game of catch, shouting at each other. Her arm was getting better, and she could hit second base, and that was where the Chief stood, in the scuffs in the dirt where the bag would be secured.
The Chief fired a ball so hard at her that she caught it out of fear, as it was headed directly for her lady parts. The Chief was not a subtle man.
“I’m not going to give you permission,” he shouted. “But I’ll leave this one up to you. Pray on it.”
“Deal.” Rachel tried to throw the ball as hard as she could, but her hands were so slick that it slipped from her grasp and arced toward the first-base line. She jogged over to retrieve it.
“Hey,” said the Chief. “You got a good spin on that one.”
The Blizzard
The weather held, and Jake watched Rachel practice. It was after school on a Thursday, the April afternoons held light just a little longer with every day that passed. Jake brought his sketchbook, and drew Rachel in ball gowns, wedding dresses, and a black leather cat suit. She had no idea she was posing; he studied her as she practiced in the infield with her old men. Rachel called them the seven dwarfs, and Jake did not understand this, as they weren’t particularly diminutive. Rachel was just really tall. Today, the eighth dwarf was Bucky—at least his name belonged with Dopey, Grumpy, et cetera.
The old men were determined to get Rachel in shape, break her of bad habits, although she had no habits to speak of, as softball was a new thing. The old men took to the field, and Rachel swung the bat again and again, sweating through her black shirt. The Chief had been pitching to her for a half hour, at least. She missed almost all the pitches, and the old men were bored, and gossiped and smoked, just waiting for action. Bucky crouched down behind the plate, and his long skinny legs poked out in severe angles, and Jake thought he looked like a grasshopper.
Outside the fence, Shyanne ran around the track, as if she ran fast enough and far enough, she could leave Quinn behind. She was a dot—the track was so far away, a dot that ran the quarter mile again and again. All he could see was hair and legs, and he approved. He looked down at his sketchbook, and Rachel’s silhouette could easily be Shyanne, both blond and tall, the only two in Quinn. He began to draw clothes for Shyanne, sportswear. Rachel claimed to be Snow White among the seven dwarfs, but she and Shyanne resembled Sleeping Beauty.
He continued to sketch, waiting to hear the crack of the bat but only hearing the thud of the ball landing in Bucky’s glove. Rachel swore at every missed pitch.
Then he heard thunder in the bleachers, as Shyanne ran up the wooden rows, carrying a water bottle. She collapsed next to Jake, grateful for the shade.
Even sweaty, Shyanne was stunning. She had incredible legs, and always wore athletic shorts, even in winter. She would be a senior next year, and Jake an eighth grader, but they barely knew each other. Like Ginger, Shyanne was aloof, and it was not snobbery, just resignation.
“You have supermodel legs,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, and guzzled water. Jake examined her closely for flaws. Her face was pretty enough, her nose a bit wide, like most of the Swedes who had immigrated to Quinn. Full lips, eyes spaced just slightly too far apart. Her hair, however, needed some help. Despite the workout, her bangs remained crimped and sprayed, the hair spray collecting in the roots in little clumps.
“I think you should start wearing heels,” he said.
“What’s your name again?”
“Jake. I keep the book for the softball teams.” He stared at her chest, and the absence of breasts made him deliriously happy. She needed to be sent to Milan right now, and live in a tiny, filthy apartment with fifteen other girls who looked just like her.
“Were you just looking at my chest?” She covered her breasts with a forearm, and scowled.
“I think you should be a model,” he said. “And I want to help you.”
“That’s gross,” she said. “They all have eating disorders.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I just can’t help myself.” He closed his sketchbook, just in case she glimpsed his obsessions.
“Well, I know you’re not flirting with me, so I’m okay with it. Enough with the model stuff, though.”
“Can I fix your hair sometime?” Jake wanted to reach over and break up the shelf of bangs so very badly.
“Now you’re freaking me out,” she said. “Why are you even talking to me?”
“You sat down,” pointed out Jake. “And you’re the only person here.”
“I used to date Number Fourteen,” she said. “I know all about what happened with your psychotic friend.”