Page 27 of Curveball
“Not at all. Dylan has a home game tomorrow afternoon. I’ll take you at ten, then drop him off at the ballfield before I pick you up and take you home. It’ll all Tetris nicely.”
She lets go and moves back in her seat. “I wouldn’t be mad about watching him play.”
I peer at her in the rear view mirror. “You want to come too?”
She dips her head. I think it’s a nod. “If it’s okay.”
“Sure, it’s okay. Just make sure Adele knows so she doesn’t worry.”
She’s maybe fifty yards and five minutes from seeing Adele in person, yet she pulls her phone from her back pocket. “I’ll text her right now.”
Teenagers.
The itinerary for the next day all comes together as planned. I get everyone where they’re supposed to be, nobody is late, and I feel like Mom of the Year. Except, I’m not. I successfully carpooled two teenagers for one morning. Millions of moms around the world manage that on a daily basis without patting themselves on the back. Still, I pat myself on the back, just a little.
Natalie and I sit side-by-side in the stands behind home plate as Dylan pitches the bottom of the seventh to retain their lead.The game’s been a real nail-biter, with the score ping-ponging back and forth and neither team ever more than one run ahead of the other. I don’t know if my mama’s heart can take much more of this anxiety. When the final batter steps up to the plate, I cross my fingers.No slider, no slider, no slider.Has anyone besides me noticed that so far today, he’s given up four hits off that pitch?
Natalie looks up from the page of her spiral notebook that she turned into a makeshift score sheet and mutters, “For God’s sake, Dylan. No fucking sliders.”
I whip my head to look at her.
She crouches her head into her shoulders and grimaces. “Sorry?”
I just laugh. “Whatever happened to the new pitching coach the school was supposed to hire, right?”
She laughs with me and goes back to monitoring the play. Which, blessedly, ends with the next pitch—a fastball—and a pop fly for the final out. I heave a huge sigh of relief. Our team’s next and final game isn’t for a week. Plenty of time for my heart rate to stabilize—I hope.
Natalie and I hover behind the dugout and wait for Dylan to emerge. He’s sweaty, and grimy, and his uniform is going to need more than one wash. In other words, typical. He sees us and gives us a thumbs up sign. Whether it’s for the win, acknowledging our presence, or some other reason, is anyone’s guess. I only want to know how long it’ll be until he’s ready for a ride. Before I have a chance to ask, Natalie beats me to the punch.
“Dude, you ready or do you need to do your nails?”
He flips her off. Then, he looks at me and yells to give him ten minutes.
I want to scold him for the rude gesture, but Natalie’s roaring with laughter. I let it go . . . this time . . . and give him a thumbsup. “Just meet us at the car,” I shout as we take off in that direction.
Our trip across the parking lot is tricky, dodging students and parents who didn’t wait around after the game, and making sure neither of us end up as someone’s hood ornament. When we’re close, I pull out my key fob and beep it to unlock the car.
I wait near the trunk before getting in, taking in all the fresh air I can before my boy comes and stinks us out. Natalie waits with me, but she’s digging her toe into the dirt and swiping glances my way.
“Something you need to talk about?”
She heaves a breath, much like the ones I needed in the last couple of hours to lower my anxiety.
“I know it’s not part of the plan, but could we stop at the, um, drugstore before you take me home?”
I look into her face, her expression hesitant and her skin a little pale, despite the past couple of hours sitting in full sun. “Honey, are you feeling all right?” I put the back of my hand to her forehead, but she’s not feverish.
“I’m not sick. Exactly. I just . . . I need . . .” She looks like she wants to evaporate where she stands. I hold back a smile, because teenage girls should be able to talk openly about the products they need, but too many don’t. And ones who only have a father or a grandmother to help them? I imagine the statistics take a nosedive.
I move closer and rub her back. “It’s right on the way. Not a problem.”
She looks up at me with gratitude shining from her eyes. “And Dylan?—”
“Doesn’t need to know why we’re stopping.”
“Thank you, Ms. Sloan.”
“Oh, honey. I think we just reached that stage of our relationship that, unless we’re at school, you should probably call me Palmer.”
