Page 26 of On Fire Island

Roger stood at the plate in his pre-pitch stance, pulled his arm back, and yelled “Pitch!” as he released the ball.

The ball glided over the plate, and the crowd shouted, “Swing!” but Les didn’t connect.

They tried again. “Pitch!” “Swing!” Miss. And again. “Pitch!” “Swing!” Miss, before Les announced, “Just a couple more, guys—I have to get back to the store.”

Les connected with the next pitch but hit a foul into the brush in front of Matty’s house. The men still fell into “kid-table syndrome” when it came to Matty—they expected him to fetch foul balls and probably would until they took some other “fatherless” youngun with potential under their wings. He didn’t fight it. Knowing him, he probably found comfort in his role—especially now that there was little tradition he could rely on.

As Matty gingerly climbed through the brush, Renee, clad in a bikini and colorful pareu, exited the house looking pretty fabulous. The drummer stood by her side in nothing but a red Speedo. I was immediately curious about the suit. Was it Tuck’s? I doubted it. Tuck was a swim-trunk type and, aside from being a lousy softball player, he wasn’t much of a swimmer. The only times I even saw him in the ocean were on green-flag days, where it looked more lake than sea. And even then, his trepidation upon entering was palpable. The other choice was that the drummer wore a Speedo under his jeans so as to always be prepared for a dip. It wasn’t a bad plan when shacking up on a thirty-two-mile sandbar. The notion made me like him even more. Yes, I already liked him, and yes, it was completely shallow of me. The guy was hot and just what my friend Renee needed.

Shep homed in on the red Speedo too and questioned Matty on his return.

“Who’s the suit?” he joked, looking at Joel and Eddie for a reaction. They both obliged until Matty’s sullen face doused their amusement.

“A one-night stand, I guess.”

We all took a closer look. Gabe, the drummer, was holding two beach chairs.

“Looks like he’s going for a second night,” Joel observed as the pitcher called out, “Matty! We’re not getting any younger here!”

That was for sure.

Matty tossed Roger the ball and took a seat on the bleachers.

“I knew my mother would date eventually... but I figured someone who looked like my father or one of his friends... not Peter Frampton.”

I loved the old-time Peter Frampton reference—the kid always knew his audience. I said it out loud, but of course no one heard me. I didn’t care. It was better than that awkward IRL feeling when you realize no one is listening so you fade out your voice to save face. Apparently, there’s no room for shame in the afterlife. Though I would like to share my thoughts with someone. I wondered where Caroline was. Why was I the only dead person here?

Shep patted Matty on the back. “Sorry, kid, where’d she find him?”

“I don’t know—in town, I guess. He’s a drummer—he’s playing at Maguires next weekend.”

Well, at least there’s an end date.

Joel couldn’t resist an opinion. “Sure is a one-eighty from your accountant father.”

Matty looked like he was about to cry, and I felt for him, really I did, but I was still happy for Renee. No matter how successful, intelligent, and beautiful she was, she had to know that her new title, “Poor Renee,” was the first thing that came to mind whenpeople saw her as of late. Like Tuck’s infidelity was somehow her fault.

As if to prove my point, one of them tastelessly chimed in, “Just like that, from dumped to humped in one night!”

Everyone but Matty laughed.

They were all team Renee, not team Tuck. But above all, they were team Matty.

Shep really felt for the kid.

“You could bunk with us, Matt. I mean, no room in our bed, but we’ve got the extra bedroom.”

Joel looked at him dubiously.

“What?” Shep defended himself. “It was my house first.”

The pitcher called out, “Pitch!” shifting their attention back to the field.

They all stood and watched the ball ascend toward the plate.

“Swing!” they yelled, with bated breath.

And then,PING—the best sound in the world reverberated through the air as Les’s bat perfectly connected with the ball, propelling it over the forty-five-foot net and onto the tennis courts.

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