Page 34 of The Sky in Summer
Van
Luckily, I have been to a few of Sam’s games. Sports have figured in our lives for decades and we always support the next generation of players. The Lyon men’s yearly tradition of going to a major league game started when we were kids. Boys’ Day. It was a name given by my mother when we started. But its stuck. No girls allowed. It happens to always fall on Girls’ Day. But while the boys’ interests have remained the same, the girls have changed through the years. What my sisters liked at ten, fell by the wayside by thirteen. They are more interesting than we are. Their interests are more varied. But we stuck with what worked for us in the beginning. Hot dogs and baseball.
So my arrival here shouldn’t raise suspicions. Parish didn’t question it when I texted for details of the game. Franklin Field has a small viewing area with limited seating. The timeworn stands consist of maybe ten fairly wide rows made of unforgiving wood. Your ass feels dead by the end of the game. Parents and fans pack like sardines. At least Layla will be close by. No one will be surprised to see her because she’s a baseball mom and her kids are friends with ours. It would be great if Teddy is here to watch his cousin and then Layla and I could easily be talking with each other.
It’s kinda chilly as I walk toward the stands, zipping my hoodie. The game has started. Fucking parking. I had to park two blocks away. Her car was in pole position, directly in front of Parish and
Scarlett ‘s SUV. Meeting my family inch by inch is best. Gradually let everybody get used to seeing Layla and I as friends. That way, I won’t get the third degree that would surely follow if my parents had a clue I liked someone. And worse, it could scare her off. For good. Nothing scares me more than when a chick’s mother acts like we are more serious than we are. I run. Layla might be the same way.
It’s still light out, but the sky has taken on a deep rosy glow. A sudden roar of the crowd says someone did something worthy. People stand. Shit. Oh, fuck me. My parents came. There’s Noble, Aargon, and Teddy, sitting with Scarlett and Parish. Dad is proudly congratulating his grandson who has learned to ignore all praise, unasked for tips, and instructions from anyone other than the coach. That doesn’t stop Papa Lyon from pointing out his grandson’s superior pitching genes. The batter he just struck out walks stoically to the dugout.
“Van, here!”
My mother’s voice carries over the sounds of the crowd. She waves. I recognize that look. It isn’t just mothers who can read each nuance of their kid’s faces. We are equally talented reading theirs. It’s a vice versa situation. Tonight, she is happy her wild child has made room for something other than pursuing women. If she only knew. She scoots over, closer to my dad and points to the empty spot.
I wave back and try to buy a little time to find out where Layla is. Walking in front of the stands, I scan the crowd. It takes zero point two seconds to find her face. God, she looks great in the white tracksuit with the red stripe. Bet it would feel soft under my hands. If I had it my way, I would be touching her right now. Back in the bed with the flowered sheets.
Her smile lights up the row in front of where my brothers and Teddy sit. A row in front of where I will be next to my parents. Close enough to have a conversation. Okay. This is going to be the most natural way to introduce the idea of Layla and Ias friends. For the twins’ sake and for ours.
I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks about the fact we have made a connection. This way I play by her rules, and as an added benefit, no one will bust my balls. It’s gonna go smoothly. As long as nobody gets the right idea.
“Hi!” I say, climbing the stairs.
“I’m so glad you came, honey!” my mother says.
“Son! Here. Sit right here.”
My dad motions for my mother to move over, making a space between them. I move to the assigned seat. He wants to sandwich me. This is going to be interesting.
“Hey!” I say to the assembled Lyons. I get two hellos and a wave as I sit. A few are too immersed in the game or the conversation they are having with each other.
My father pats my leg and my mother takes my hand for a squeeze. As the next batter approaches the plate, my eyes are surreptitiously on Layla. As if willing her to look, she turns and our eyes meet. She purses luscious lips together, holding back the smile. She turns back. Pretty certain my mom picked that up.
The first pitch is a fast ball, and it connects with the bat, sending it deep into the outfield. It’s going, going, CAUGHT by Tyler, who I just now identified as the player. It’s a great save. And a perfect way to segue into a conversation. I reach over Scarlett’s shoulder, grab a grape from her snack bag and aim it at the back of Layla’s head. It hits its mark. I feel the eyes of some family members on me. They have questions, which I will completely ignore. Layla’s hand touches the back of her head as she turns.
“Hey! What are you feeding that kid?” I say.
She laughs. “That was a good one, right?”
I leave it at that, for the first play of the Fool The Family game. So does Layla. It is a different story for the family Lyon. My mother tries not asking what she wants to, but her head tilts in question. My sister has no such limits.
“Do you know Layla?”
Hopefully, my innocent expression lands.
“Yeah. We’ve known each other for years.”
“Oh. We just met last year when they moved here.”
Scarlett’s mind is assembling the facts, and they don’t line up. I drop the info I want them to know.
“We went to kindergarten together. Her family used to live here in the eighties.”
While that placates my sister, my mother is another story. I should have known one little bit of information would be all she needs. She leans over and makes eye contact. There is an obvious expression of hope.
“Oh, Van! Is that sweet little Layla? Your first girlfriend?”
She is happy as shit. But I realize my crucial error. I talk too much. Thought it would satisfy the appetite of the noseys. Instead, my mom picked up the crumb and made a three-tiered cake. Shit.
