Now it sounded like his family might be fixing to move away. His father could mess things up by being close or far away. It didn’t really seem to matter.
But what he found himself saying was, “How will we travel? Where will we go?”
She kissed him quick and hard, breathing, “Shhhh…not here,” into his mouth. He started to speak, and she kissed him again, her face in the darkness appearing soft, and wiser than he felt. One thing that attracted him was the way Anne moved so comfortably in the world they inhabited, as if she belonged here. As if she had a say in her life. He closed his mouth and eyes, and melted into the safety of her.
12 / Freak Play at the Mound
Dylan raced in the front door and hurried down the hall. He bounded up the stairs, to discover James, sitting quietly. A game was starting down at the school. He was always misplacing his glove, and it wasn’t on his desk now. James saw his glance around the bedroom.
“Your glove’s on the closet shelf. If Stinger pitches, expect him to buzz you. Especially if you somehow manage a hit off him.” James turned his gaze back out the window. Dylan grabbed his glove.
“You’re not coming?”
“Not now. Maybe later.”
This was Dylan’s first summer playing ball with the older kids. James had taken him several times to play up at the school. James usually made sure they were on the same team, where he could back up Dylan discreetly in the field.
“You sure?” Dylan tried not to sound whiny. He really wanted to play, but was not excited about going alone.
“Ryan will probably be there. Maybe I’ll come up later,” said James.
The game started with Ryan Daggert pitching for the other side. Everybody on the opposing team liked to see Ryan on the mound. He would work hard to find the batter’s box, and the way he screwed up his face in concentration, you could usually tell where Ryan at least intended the ball to fly. Ryan was actually a good pitcher. The slower he threw, the more accurate he was, to a point. So he was also easy to hit. Since the other team usually ran up an early lead, Ryan was what one would call a starter, rather than a finisher. At some point, watching the other team wear down the base paths, his team would call for a pitching switch.
Halfway through the game, Stinger came from the catcher’s position to pitch. As he toed the rubber, his teammates smirked. It was fun to be on Stinger’s team. Stinger could be hit, but if you hit him once, he was like as not to “hit” you back.
In his first ups against Stinger, Dylan eked out a sickly grounder that snagged the grass at the feet of the third baseman and darted past him. The next time Dylan was up, he looked into the eyes of the pitcher and didn’t like what he saw there.
Stinger couldn’t distinguish a continent from an ocean, but he had no trouble keeping tally of the other team as they rotated to the plate. Stinger tossed two easy pitches wide. In his own way, Stinger’s intentions were as transparent as Ryan’s. But where Ryan was eying an imaginary box, Stinger was studying your profile.
Stinger nodded—to himself, Dylan was sure—not to any signal from the catcher. Then he launched into his windup. This was the lesson pitch, Dylan knew, and he fought the urge to step out of the box. The only thing Dylan didn’t know for sure was whether to duck, leap, or dodge. Stinger grunted as the ball left his paw. Dylan’s brain registered that it was in a straight line with his gaze. At the same moment, a whispered shit came from behind and below. Dylan closed his eyes and swung. He felt, rather than heard, the crack just above his grip, and his palms instantly tingled like they had been shocked.
He didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until he popped them open. He was on one knee, genuflecting on the plate. His teammates were on their feet along third base, pointing at first. Dylan had been smashed, hard. But where? What remained of the bat dropped from his numbed grip. Dylan knew he was expected to lunge at Stinger, screaming and cursing. He crouched and turned, hoping his team would get to the mound right when he did. Startled, he saw Stinger curled on his back, knees up, eyes squeezed tight, his mouth gaping in a wide O.
Inexplicably, the other end of the bat lay placidly on the mound in front of Stinger. Dylan turned to his teammates, dumbfounded. The roaring in his ears focused.
“Run! Go, Dylan!”
Dylan looked again at Stinger. The large boy looked like a fish at the bottom of a johnboat, fresh caught and unhooked. Dylan could now see the bulging whites of the bully’s eyes. Dylan stumbled toward first base, tripping over the dropped bat-handle. He was standing with both feet on first base moments later, when it dawned on him the game was over.
***
The trees along Nash Street swished in a hot wind as Dylan and Ryan turned off Clarence Street. At the sight of Stinger gulping on the mound, everybody suddenly had something to do. Dylan had mumbled a half-hearted “hope you’re okay” before Ryan’s firm grasp swung him toward his bike. Dylan pulled away and Ryan shoved Dylan’s glove against his stomach.
“Trust me. Send a card,” Ryan hissed.
As soon as they had bicycled onto Clarence Street, out of sight of the field, Ryan had rounded on Dylan, cackling. “Man oh man, did you see his face? He looked like he was swallowing live electricity!” Ryan sucked his lips tight, imitating Stinger gasping. Despite his guilt, Dylan grinned, looking over his shoulder.
“I still don’t see how you got a hit trying to get out of the way,” Ryan laughed, and they pedaled racing away from the school. As they slowed on Nash, Dylan turned to his friend.
“Ryan, you know anything about what James has been up to?”
Ryan shrugged. “What do you mean?”
Dylan wondered how much to say. He didn’t want Ryan thinking bad about James. But James was in some kind of trouble. The boys slowed to walk their bikes.
“He’s been leaving out at night—or in the early morning—I don’t know.” Dylan palmed his own ball and flipped it behind his back, and up over his shoulder to Ryan.
Ryan snagged the ball with his outstretched hand. His glasses glinted when he turned back. “Daggett goes to the warning track, aaaaannndd PULLS IT DOWN, robbing Mickey!”
“I take it you mean Mickey Mouse. Mantle is washed up, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Ryan wound up, as if to bean Dylan. Dylan laughed, ducking. Ryan worshipped Mantle, the Commerce Comet.
“I hear some stuff, but you know. Guys might say a lot of stuff that’s just wind. But I tell you, I don’t get why James is wasting his time with Stinger or Scooter. Scooter! That guy’s a chop! And James keeps hanging with them, he’s down the tubes.”
Ryan’s tone dropped as they turned up the sidewalk at Dylan’s house.
They looked up at the sound of voices from inside.
His father’s low, steady voice was saying, “It wouldn’t do any harm to have left him stew in there for a day or two. Nothing you say seems to register—”
Nana’s voice interrupted. “My boys—our boys—are not going to be locked up like animals! I am surprised you would even consider letting that happen!”
They lay the bikes on the lawn and stepped up on the porch just as Sam pushed open the screen door. His expression was a dark scowl. His brow furrowed, and his lips were set in a thin line.
“Hi,” said Dylan. Sam paused at the door, as if he might have forgotten something inside, or as if he might have wished he’d forgotten something. Then he sighed and shrugged the screen door closed. The three stood on the porch in an awkward silence.
Sam nodded to the boys and licked his lips. He ran fingers through his thin hair. “Ryan.” Sam nodded at