Whatever Life Throws at You Read online

  “Hey, Ann,” he says, smiling over his shoulder at me. “Did you have fun tonight?”

  Good. Johnson hasn’t called him to tattle. Yet. I borrow Lenny’s fake smile. “Uh, yeah…it was fun.”

  Dad frowns. He knows me too well to be fooled by fake smiles. “You okay?”

  I sigh and flop down on the love seat beside him. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just exhausting. Meeting new people, learning a new city…”

  Concern fills his face. “Good exhausting or bad exhausting?”

  I give him a much more genuine and hopefully reassuring smile. “I’m feeling a little of both.”

  “Me too, honey. Me too.” He sets the remote in my lap and pulls himself off the couch, hobbling a little on his way to the kitchen. “You find a show. I’ll make us a snack.”

  Okay, I officially solemnly swear never to lie to my dad again. Well, at least not the big lies.

  I sink further into the cushions, trying to relax, but it’s hard to do after the evenings’ events. Could I really cause Johnson to fire my dad? Is this major league family image really that important? And while I’m solemnly swearing, I need to vow not to have any more inappropriate thoughts about Jason Brody, the pitcher from the wrong side of tracks. If only I hadn’t seen him wet and wearing just a towel. That’s not an easy image to erase from memory.

  From now on, I’m going to avoid Jason Brody. He’s Dad’s project, not mine. Maybe I should swear on a Bible or something? It feels like a rule intended to be broken.

  Chapter 5

  Annie Lucas: I’ve witnessed a miracle! Where is the Pope? Where are the Cardinal dudes that come and verify it? Yesterday it was 32 degrees and currently the outside temperature is 71 degrees. *lights candle* *lights 2 candles* is 2 really better than 1? Says Doublemint gum…

  17 minutes ago

  Lenny London: Just to set the record straight, being proud of white women who accomplish great things and overcome obstacles does NOT mean that I’m not proud of my African American heritage. Can’t I just be inspired by inspiring people regardless of race? And yes, the purpose of this status update is to justify my obsession with foreign cars. Sorry, America.

  30 seconds ago

  I’m running outside in shorts. What the hell is up with this bipolar weather?

  Dad and I mapped a two-mile route around the neighborhood so I could complete my weekend running per Coach Kessler’s “non-required” extra workouts. What a relief it is to not have to worry about death by frozen lungs. If this were my team in Arizona, I probably would have ignored the extra workouts. But after a week of St. Teresa’s academic excellence, my brain is so fried all I want to do is run. Amazing how lazy substandard education can make you.

  Savannah came by to go over meeting schedules with Dad the other day, and she drove me around the neighborhood, pointing out her apartment complex. A quarter mile down my street is where the houses start getting really big, and Lenny’s is like a mansion.

  I round the corner, kicking hard, focusing on the mailbox in front of my house. My lungs are ready to burst.

  “Come on, Ann!” Dad shouts.

  Finally, I hit the finish line, gasping for air. My hands lock behind my head, and I walk in circles until I can talk again. “Time?”

  He looks at his stopwatch. “Five-oh-five, not bad?”

  I shrug. It’s not the time I want for the first trials, that’s for sure. I strip off my T-shirt and wipe the sweat from my face. The second I lower my shirt, Jason Brody comes into view. He’s opening the screen door, a bottle of water in one hand.

  I suppress a groan. We haven’t spoken since the other night at the bar, but he’s stopped by here three days in a row to work with Dad on his technique. Seriously, how much technique is there to be learned? Especially for him. Throw straight and fast. It’s not rocket science. But I guess maybe the picking up women and panty-discarding activities are reserved for evenings and he’s got nothing to do all day.

  Grams is sitting on the porch swing. I divert my eyes from Mr. Nosy Pitcher and plop down next to her.

  She hands me my water bottle. “You should slow down, child. You’ll fall on your face.”

  “Thanks, Grams, I’ll do that.”

  Dad and Brody both have gloves and Dad’s got a practice stand set up in the yard. I try not to look pissed off, but really, it’d be nice if he could warn me before inviting hot guys over. That way maybe I wouldn’t be sweaty and I’d be wearing something cuter than a hot-pink sports bra and lime green running shorts. I don’t even match. Not that I care what Jason Brody thinks. Actually, I already know what he thinks—that I’m a brat. And too young.

  “The slider is all in the way you plant your front foot,” Dad says.

  He takes a stance a measured distance from the practice stand, a baseball in his right hand. If I focus on Dad’s upper body, the way he licks his fingers before rotating the ball in his hand, eyes narrowed at the target, I can almost see the major league pitcher in him. The biggest problem for him is putting all that weight on his left non-leg. He’s doing it halfway right now just to demonstrate the motions, and it’s obvious he’s already in pain. But pain isn’t the main issue. It’s balance and not having a foot to turn outward. I wonder if it’d be different if he’d lost his right leg instead or if he were left-handed.

  Dad moves aside to let Brody take his spot. He rubs the top of his non-leg absentmindedly. I know better than to ask him if he’s okay in front of one of the players, so I make a mental note to bug him later. He’s a coach, not a player. He shouldn’t have to be hurting.

  Brody’s got rituals of his own, and I’m ashamed to say I’ve already begun to memorize them. The way he looks at that target, it’s straight out of a romance novel where the hero is in a room full of beautiful women and he can only truly see one of them—his soul mate, the woman of his dreams. In this case, Jason Brody’s soul mate is a makeshift strike zone planted in my front yard.

  The smack of the ball against the stand still shocks me. It’s amazing—the force, the speed. He’d take out the most durable luxury vehicle window if he got a little wild.

  “You’re still over-turning your hips,” Dad says, calm and quiet.

  Brody nods and, even though I thought the last pitch was perfect, I can see with my own eyes the change that one tiny adjustment makes. Since none of the other pitchers have made visits to our front yard for practice sessions, I have to assume that their loyalty lies with the other pitching coach. Or else they don’t have any desire to improve or change. But Brody’s way younger than all of them. What’s that saying? Can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Maybe that’s it. But what’s Dad going to do when the injured pitcher recovers and Brody goes back to his Triple-A team? Maybe they’re a package deal? I swallow back the returning anxiety from the other night. Johnson’s not-so-nice words still ring in my head along with Brody’s warning—if you want to stick around here, don’t give Johnson a reason to cut your dad—when I’m not busy distracting myself with other things.

  Maybe I should just tell Dad what happened at the bar the other night and see what he thinks?

  Or not.

  I take one last swig of water and pull myself to my feet again. “Dad, I’m doing my two-mile run now.”

  “What’s your strategy?” He’s already clearing his stopwatch even though he’s been a bit unsure about Coach Kessler’s plan for me to run both races.

  “Run fast.” I bound down the porch steps and stretch my calves.

  Dad’s forehead wrinkles. “Come on, Ann, you need a plan. You can’t just push it full-out. Your right hamstring’s tight.”

  “Is not.”

  “Yes it is,” he says firmly. “I could see it on your last mile. You’re not extending all the way in your stride with the right leg.”

  I make a deliberate show of sitting on the grass and stretching my hamstring, making sure not to give away even a hint of discomfort on my face. “There. I’m ready now.”

  Dad stands there with hi
s arms crossed, then he turns to Brody. “Watch her run and tell me if you don’t see what I’m seeing. Apparently, my word weighs too heavily on the concerned Dad side and not enough on the expert side.”

  “Whatever.” I take my stance in front of the mailbox again, then draw in a deep breath before starting. Unfortunately, there’s some truth to Dad’s concern about my lack of plan for this two-mile race. I have my mile race timed so perfectly—when to hold back, when to kick—and with this new distance, I’ve got kinks to work out.

  All the more reason to get started now.

  “Ginny, you fool! Slow down!” Grams shouts after I take off.

  I can’t help but use my mile technique on the first half of the run. My muscles know exactly when I hit each quarter mark of the mile and there’s just no fooling my legs yet. By the time I get three-quarters of the way done, my entire body is screaming at me. I pull back a little, shortening my stride. Then I see Jason Brody, all hot muscles and tight jeans, standing in my yard with his arms crossed just like Dad and I find an extra surge of energy to push through to the end.

  I’m walking in circles again, trying not to puke up the water I drank only minutes ago when I notice Dad staring at his stopwatch.

  “What?”

  “Eleven ten,” he says. “Pretty damn good, Annie.”

  When I can breathe and speak again, I head back up to the porch to retrieve my T-shirt and water. “But both times are shy of placing at state. So, I either have to run faster or ditch one event.”

  “Or do a decent job with both this year and focus on placing at state next year,” Dad says.

  After a few painful steps to get off the porch, I plop down on the grass. “No way. I’m not half-assing it.”

  Dad shakes his head like I’m crazy, but I know my natural competitive edge pleases him.

  “When’s the chocolate pudding gonna be ready?” Grams shouts from the porch swing. “And lobster, aren’t we having lobster?”

  I lay back in the grass and let out a breath. “I’m coming, Grams. Count to twenty.”

  “I’ll get her lunch,” Dad says. “Stretch, Ann. And Jason, keep working on turning your hips more.”

  The second Dad is out of sight, Brody leans over me. “He’s right, you know? Your hamstring is tight.”

  I hold his gaze. “I really don’t think it’s appropriate for you to check out my legs. What with that big giant age gap and all.”

  I expect some snarky reply from him, but he just shakes his head and turns back to the pitcher’s stand. “Whatever. It’s not like it matters to me.”

  Right. Because you have phone calls that include you using the plural women. And brunettes and redheads with panties attractive enough to leave lying around for anyone to see. My legs are of no real interest to Brody.

  “So,” I say. “Tell me about the slammer? What’s it like in there?”

  He fires the ball at the stand with an exaggerated amount of force. “I really don’t think it’s appropriate for you to ask that question.”

  After pulling myself off the grass, I’m expecting him to add on to his snappy retort but he just leaves me hanging for an entire minute, ignoring me completely. Since it’s my house, I head up the steps without a word, giving him equal silent treatment.

  But once I’m out of Brody’s sight, my frustration overflows. I stomp into the house, breezing past Dad. “You weren’t like that when you played baseball, were you?” I nod out the front window toward Brody.

  Dad laughs but keeps his back to me as he piles cold cuts onto bread for Grams’ lunch—definitely not lobster. “No, honey. I was nothing like Jason Brody.”

  My mouth falls open, and I want to ask him, Is it because you had me? Is it because of Mom? Did that make you less self-centered? But I can’t bring myself to ask those questions aloud. I’m afraid of the answer.

  After an extra-long shower, I take my time blow-drying my hair and getting dressed again, hoping Jason Brody will be long gone by then. No such luck. He and Dad are sitting in the kitchen eating sandwiches. Yep, my dad and the alleged ex-convict—hot, alleged ex-convict—hanging like old pals. Great.

  The only thing left for me to do is make my own lunch. Coach Kessler’s diet includes lots of big, healthy-sounding words, so I’ve made some minor adjustments to make it work in my favor. I trade the whole grain bread for a giant kaiser roll and pile it with cheese, turkey, roast beef, lettuce, tomato, mayo, spicy brown mustard, and banana peppers. I reach for the Doritos, but self-control wins and I decide on an apple and yogurt to accompany my mess of a sandwich.

  “Yeah, I don’t know,” Brody says, continuing whatever conversation they’d been discussing before I walked into the kitchen. “School and me…we just aren’t compatible.”

  School? Why are they talking about school?

  “I’m not talking about school,” Dad says. “Just the GED. You can even get a tutor to help you prepare. All you have to do is take the test.”

  “You mean pass the test,” Brody corrects. “All I have to do is pass the test.”

  Dad leans back in his chair, appearing surprised by this response. “Look, I think you have a great baseball career ahead of you, all I’m saying is that having a plan B is not a bad idea.”

  I head toward my room with my lunch, but Dad stops me. “Sit, Annie.”

  With a loud sigh, I take the chair beside Dad and across from Brody. “Don’t you think I’m old enough to eat in my room? There’s not as many bugs here as in Arizona.”

  Dad slides a book in my direction. Complete Guide to GED Preparation is written across the front. “Do you know any of this stuff?”

  “Probably not well enough, considering I haven’t graduated high school.” I lift the sandwich to my mouth. It’s almost too big for me to take a bite.

  Brody watches with interest. “That’s quite a sandwich.”

  “I’m carb loading,” I say with my mouth full. For Dad’s benefit, I flip open the book, leafing through the math section. I swallow the big bite before speaking this time. “It looks like pre-algebra, some basic geometry, maybe a little of algebra I.”

  Dad claps his hands together, looking pleased. “Great! You can help Jason study.”

  My eyes widen. What happened to the tutor plan? Or maybe I am the tutor?

  The amusement that came with watching me eat my sandwich drops from Brody’s face, and he stands up, pushing his chair back and taking the book out from underneath me. “That’s all right. I’ll figure it out.” He turns to Dad. “Thanks for the books and the extra practice.”

  Dad looks like he wants to say something but after glancing at me, changes his mind. “No problem. Come by again tomorrow if you want.”

  After Brody is out the door, Dad angles his chair to face me, staring hard. “That was rude, Ann.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” I protest, filling my mouth with more bread and meat to avoid this confrontation.

  “That’s the problem.”

  “Get real, Dad. He doesn’t want some high school kid teaching him equations. That’d totally bruise his ego.”

  “It wouldn’t if you were nice about it.” He stands up and shoves his chair back into the table and hobbles over to the sink to load the dishwasher. “Not everyone is lucky enough to have a parent who forces them to go to school and actually do well. Some kids get into trouble and have no one to help them out of it.”

  Is that what happened to Brody? He didn’t have anyone to answer to? My stomach sinks. The bread in my mouth goes down in one dry lump. There’s really no worse feeling than getting called out on your wrongdoings by your dad. He doesn’t toss up criticism lightly. In other words, he’s almost always right and it absolutely infuriates me. But today I feel a lot more guilty than angry.

  “Imagine if I didn’t have my high school diploma, Ann.” He lifts his non-leg as if I need a reminder. “The best I could do before this coaching gig was a fifteen dollar an hour job. Without that diploma, it would have been so much worse. Give the k
id a break, would you?”

  My face heats up. When did I become so judgmental? “I’m sorry. I’ll apologize or something, okay?”

  He looks at me then turns back to the sink, shaking his head. “Forget it, Ann. I’ll get someone else to help him. Maybe Savannah.”

  I don’t know why, but the idea of Savannah and her much kinder disposition huddled close to Brody while discussing verb tenses bugs me. I reach for Dad’s phone on the table, find Brody’s number, and while his back is turned to me, I program Jason Brody’s into my phone.

  It takes me the rest of my sandwich and half the apple before I figure out what to text.

  ME: Just so you know, I’m barely pulling Cs in my class. Haven’t exactly been honest with my dad about this. So I’m probably not the best tutor—Annie Lucas

  I wait only three minutes for his one word—two letter—reply.

  BRODY: OK

  A little while later, I’m in the kitchen scarfing down the Doritos that I resisted earlier, when I spot, through the kitchen window, a blue convertible rolling down the street. A blond leggy (okay, I can’t see her legs, but I know they’re super long) girl probably five years older than me is behind the wheel. And in the passenger seat, one arm tossed across the girl’s seat, is Jason Brody.

  I roll my eyes, disgusted. That’s what I get for apologizing. I should probably warn Lenny about the potential for random undergarments turning up by her pool tonight.

  And I actually felt sorry for him about an hour ago.

  Vow to avoid substitute relief pitchers officially reinstated.

  opening

  Day

  Chapter 6

  Lenny London: Why not just skip ahead to the World Series? Why all the foreplay? I smell a conspiracy within the hot dog industry.

  4 hours ago

  Annie Lucas: What is the statistical probability of throwing a strike? I mean, I know it’s harder than shooting fish in a barrel, but how much harder? And what really defines a strike? Throwing it within the strike zone or getting the batter to swing and miss? These seem like two very different skills.