New Kid Page 12

  Mrs. Hudgens stopped halfway across the kitchen and turned to Coach.

  “Well, Coach, you heard the man. You’ve got yourself a left-handed pitcher. Don’t just sit there, the rain is coming.”

  Coach grinned at Brock and nodded toward the back door. Brock didn’t need to be asked twice. As he walked across the back lawn to his spot on the rubber slab, his feet felt like they didn’t even touch the ground.

  55

  School ended.

  As the famous Yankees player, Yogi Berra, said, it was like déjà vu all over again for Brock. He’d already done the cheering rush down the hallway, the final bell still ringing, and broken into the afternoon sunlight with a sense of freedom that was without rival. Summer.

  There were finals, of course, but Brock slogged through them without any real concern. As much as he hoped he’d be in Liverpool for a long time, he knew that in all likelihood, he and his dad would have to pull up stakes sometime next year or the year after, and his dad would provide him with an impressive academic record for wherever they went next. He tried not to get too close to Bella, but that proved hard.

  She was too resilient to be put off by his sometimes silent or elusive behavior. No surprise after the way she bounced back from having the glasses knocked off her face by a dodgeball. Bella could be quiet herself and, like Brock, it wasn’t unusual for her to have her nose buried in a book. When he did have her attention, she was like a helium balloon, colorful and bouncy and impossible to keep down.

  With school over, Liverpool Elite was slated to practice four nights a week. They would travel Fridays to weekend tournaments and wouldn’t be back until Sunday evenings. While most kids had time to laze about on summer vacation, Brock knew he’d be busy. His dad was an expert at scheduling jobs around the house, especially in the summertime when there was yard work and plenty of painting to be done. It made Brock really appreciate the small window of time at the end of the day when his father allowed him to read.

  Partly, it was because Brock really did love to read. He had to. As weird as it sounded, his friends were the characters in his books. And, the one real friend he did have, Bella, would stop by during that space of time between work and dinner and just read. Sometimes they never said more than hello and good-bye, but it was great, and he took as much pleasure from sitting on an old blanket under a tree in the back lawn with Bella and a book as he did from hitting a home run.

  And he hit plenty of those. In practice, Brock not only clearly became the ace pitcher, he eliminated any question as to who should bat fourth in the Liverpool lineup. Until the kids knew about Brock, everyone assumed Dylan Edwards would bat cleanup. With Brock, though, Dylan batted fifth. That was another reason for Dylan to hate him, which he did.

  The other kids liked Brock just fine, even though he sensed some of them resented his unwillingness to accept invites of any kind.

  “Want to come over to swim in my pool, Brock? A bunch of guys are gonna be there.”

  “Wanna sleep over, Brock? We got a tent set up in the backyard.”

  “Brock, you going to the Chiefs game? I got an extra ticket.”

  To every invitation, no matter how tempting, Brock politely refused.

  56

  So it was on the Friday of their first summer tournament in Fairfield, Connecticut, Brock sat behind Coach Centurelli in the second seat from the front, just across the aisle from Bella, who sat behind Coach. Dylan and some of his closest friends sat in the far back. There was a lot of singing and sidesplitting laughter from the back. A couple of times Coach Centurelli had to get up from his seat and go back to settle things down. Brock and Bella, on the other hand, rode with their noses in their books.

  They stayed in a fancy hotel called Delamar and ate dinner in the restaurant downstairs at a table set for twenty. Brock, Bella, and the two coaches sat at one end of the table, and Dylan and his crew took the other end, with everyone else in between. Charlie Pellicer, the team’s catcher, sat on Brock’s right. As everyone was looking at their menus, he heard Charlie whisper to the next kid over.

  “No teams stay in a place like this. Even the Titans stay at Hilton Gardens, and everybody else is in the Motel Six.”

  The other kid replied, “That’s ’cause no one else is sponsored by Barrett Malone. Guy’s a jillionaire.”

  Brock looked up and saw that Coach had heard the comment and he smiled and winked at Coach Centurelli.

  When the waitress asked the coaches if they’d like a drink before dinner, Coach held up a finger and started to say something before he glanced at Brock. “Just a seltzer.”

  They ate lamb chops and roasted chicken, clam chowder and shrimp cocktails. For dessert, almost everyone ordered the double fudge cake with ice cream. Brock felt like he was going to bust a seam.

  Coach stood up and told them all to get some sleep. “Coach Centurelli will be around at ten. Lights out, and he better not catch any of you fooling around, gentlemen. Your first incident will be your last, and you know I mean it. Just ask Grayson Mack. You all probably know the story about what happened to him. Okay, good night men.”

  Everyone stood to go. Brock leaned close to Charlie. “What happened to Grayson Mack?”

  “I wasn’t there, but my brother was on the team.” Charlie spoke in a low tone. “He ran through the lobby of the hotel on a dare.”

  “So? What’s wrong with that?”

  Bella rounded the table and appeared beside him with her arms folded across her chest. “He was wearing a Spider-Man mask.”

  “So?” Brock looked back and forth between Bella and Charlie, confused by the impish smiles they wore and the laughter bubbling up from their throats.

  “That’s all he wore,” Charlie said.

  Brock joined in on the laughter. They took the stairs up to the second floor where everyone’s rooms were. Brock said good night to Bella and Charlie and his coaches and made his way down the hall. He’d just put the key in the lock when he heard the door on the opposite side of the hall burst open. Brock swung around to see Dylan standing in the doorway.

  “Yeah?” Brock knew from his dad that whenever someone tried to stare you down you were supposed to confront them.

  “Just want to wish you good night, Nickerson,” Dylan said a little too nicely.

  “Yeah, right.” Brock turned back to his lock.

  “I imagine you’ll have a tough time gettin’ any sleep though.”

  Brock’s lock clicked. He turned the handle and pushed in the door. “Not me.”

  “Oh. I just figured you’d be nervous about pitching,” Dylan said.

  Brock turned toward him again. “I’m just fine.”

  “Yeah, ’cause the ump won’t have a chalk square on his chest tomorrow. That little game is over, isn’t it? All you’re gonna have to look at is a batter, and we both know that makes you kinda skittish. But, you’ll be all right.”

  Dylan smirked and slowly swung the door closed, but even when it was shut, Brock could hear the laughter.

  57

  Of course Brock couldn’t sleep.

  He read until his eyes got heavy, then shut the light and lay there.

  After an hour or two, he’d turn the light back on, get sleepy again, turn it out, then lie there some more, twisting up in his sheets like warm taffy. When the slit between the curtains began to turn gray from the coming dawn, Brock felt sick to his stomach. This was something he’d never planned for, and it infuriated him that Dylan had been able to unravel him so easily.

  Brock rolled over one more time on his side and tears slipped down his face. It was exhaustion and anguish that finally let him get a little shut-eye. The alarm went off and the room was bright with sun. Brock bolted up from a sleep so deep he forgot for a moment where he was. He slapped at the snooze button and wrestled free from the covers. The weight of fatigue made even brushing his teeth an effort, and he cursed Dylan again as he spat in the sink.

  He filled the sink with water as cold as he could get it and d
unked his face in, huffing and snorting with discomfort, then drying it off and feeling a bit more alive anyway. Downstairs, everyone was already busy at the buffet breakfast. Brock loaded up a plate and took a seat next to Bella.

  “How’d you sleep?” She was perky and bright beneath her Liverpool Elite cap. Her glasses—like the old windowpanes all around them—winked in the morning sun.

  Brock looked at her and let his face droop. “Awful.”

  He told her under his breath what happened.

  “That jerk,” she said.

  “I didn’t even think about it, you know?”

  “It won’t matter.” Bella made her hand into a hammer and banged it lightly on the table, but hard enough to jar the silverware so it tinkled like broken glass. “You’re an awesome pitcher. People wish they had your arm. You looked great in practice throwing against batters, and half the time at Coach’s house, I was standing there at the plate for you.”

  “I know, but it’s different.” Brock poked at a hunk of scrambled egg, too nervous to be all that interested.

  “It’s not different unless you make it different.” Bella raised her chin and frowned at him. “Come on. You’re not going to let that beanpole get inside your head, are you?”

  “I know,” Brock said. “But he already is, and that makes it even worse. I know I’ve got the arm, but a pitcher has to have the nerve too.”

  “You’ve got nerve. How long did it take you to put Nagel in his place? Bop. Pow. You were on top of him punching his lights out, and that was the first day of school. That’s how you should look at this. This is your first day of travel baseball. Pow. Take it to these guys.”

  “Okay,” Brock said. “I guess.”

  He couldn’t even read on the bus ride to the park. That’s how distracted he was. When they got off and Dylan saw the bags under Brock’s eyes, he grinned with delight.

  “Come on.” Bella nudged him in the ribs. “Let’s go get you warmed up with Coach. That’s what he does with his ace pitcher.”

  Everyone heard Bella shout her last two words and even Brock saw how it made Dylan cringe and turn his ears a burnt red.

  58

  After a fifteen-minute warm-up, the game started. The team they played first was from Carlisle, Massachusetts. They were small but fast, and they scurried around the field on defense quick as cockroaches, making plays that left Liverpool without a run, even though Brock hit a double and two of his teammates hit singles. Brock had to bite hard on the inside of his cheek in order not to smile when Dylan struck out.

  He was glad for it, but when the inning ended, it was his turn to twist a bit. He marched out to the mound and threw a few pitches to Charlie Pellicer. He didn’t put any real heat on it until the last pitch, and when he did, he couldn’t help notice the look on the Carlisle coach’s face, let alone the first batter’s. The batter glanced up at his coach, who put a hand on his shoulder and said good luck.

  “He puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like you.” Those were the Carlisle coach’s last words of advice to his lead-off batter, and Brock had to hide his smile behind the pocket of his mitt.

  The weariness from lack of sleep fell from Brock’s shoulders like a superhero’s cape. Jittery excitement lit up the nerves in his arms and legs, but it wasn’t a bad excitement, it was pure, like Christmas morning. He couldn’t wait to see what he was going to get because he knew it was going to be good. The ump hollered for them to play ball. The batter worked his face into a sneer and stepped into the box.

  Brock stepped into position on the mound, foot braced against the rubber, eyes on first base.

  “Hey, Brock!” The shout came from Dylan on second base, just out of Brock’s field of vision. “Just see the catcher’s mitt. Don’t look at the batter!”

  Brock couldn’t keep his eyes from flickering toward home plate, looking not at Charlie Pellicer or the umpire or anything, except the batter.

  59

  When he felt the house of cards inside his mind begin to collapse, Brock rushed his windup and threw. The ball missed the plate by six feet, and Charlie had to scramble back into the fence to retrieve the pitch and toss it back.

  “You’ll be fine!” Coach Hudgens shouted from their dugout. “Just relax and put it in there.”

  Brock didn’t look, but he could hear Dylan snickering, just loud enough so no one else could probably hear it. Brock took a deep breath, wound up, and threw again. This one hit the batter in the arm, and the batter took a base.

  Brock licked his lips and worked his tongue around on the inside of his mouth, trying to swab it down, but without success. He might as well have swallowed a handful of dirt. The next batter stepped up. Brock concentrated on breathing. He forgot to even look at the runner on first, and when he threw a worm burner, Charlie barely scooped the ball out of the dust, bobbled it, and the runner stole second.

  “Don’t worry, Nickerson,” Dylan hollered with false enthusiasm, “you can do it. You’re fine. You’re gonna do this.”

  “He’s right, Brock!” Coach Hudgens shouted from the dugout, apparently unaware that Dylan was taunting him. “You’re fine!”

  Brock hated that kid.

  Somehow on his next pitch he managed to throw a strike. The ball smacked Charlie’s mitt with a respectable crack. Bella cheered from her spot beside Coach in the dugout, then quickly covered her mouth. Brock took very little comfort in the strike. It was a good thing, but it hadn’t come from any source of control. He’d just chucked it, and wasn’t sure he could get it in there the same way again.

  He checked the runner over his shoulder, wound up, and threw. The batter took a swing at the high pitch and missed. Charlie made a super leap to snag the pitch and keep the runner from stealing third. He had a 1-2 count, but the batter should have let the last pitch go. He needed that first strikeout. Then, maybe he could settle down. Maybe that was all he needed, so he decided to slow things down. If he didn’t put any heat on it, he could lob it in for a strike, couldn’t he?

  He took a deep breath, checked the runner, wound up, and threw.

  This time it went right down the pike.

  This time the batter swung and connected and blasted the pitch out of the park.

  Brock’s eyes went right to the dugout where Bella bit into her lower lip.

  Coach buried his face in his hands.

  60

  Brock couldn’t even finish the first inning.

  It was 6–0 when Coach called time out and walked out to the mound.

  “Listen, buddy.” Coach put an arm around Brock’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t doing anyone any good. I’m gonna pull you, but I’m not giving up, and you’d better not either.”

  The lower lids of Coach’s wrinkled eyes shimmered with moisture and Brock was sure he saw a tremble in his lips. “It’s over for today, but today is just one day.”

  Just like that, Brock’s dream was shattered.

  Brock hung his head and swapped spots with Dylan on second base. He didn’t try to avoid Dylan’s grin. He looked him full in the eye, soaking up his bright face like a thirsty rag, letting its poison fill his entire body. It’s what he deserved.

  He knew Coach put him at second to help preserve a shred of Brock’s pride, but when an easy grounder came his way and he bobbled the throw and the runner made it safe to first, Brock couldn’t think about anything but the moment the game would end and he could be free from this torture. His arms—weighted with exhaustion and anguish—moved like tree trunks at the plate, and he struck out three times.

  To his credit, Dylan pitched well enough to at least keep Liverpool in the game. The final score was 7–4.

  The bus ride back to their hotel for lunch before the second game of the day seemed to take forever. Brock rode with his head against the window. Bella tried only once to comfort him from across the aisle, but he was having none of it.

  The bus zipped along. Brock watched the power lines swoop up and down between their poles and chastise
d himself for many things. Hadn’t his father warned him all his life about sticking his head up out of the crowd, making a target of himself. Why had he done it? Coach Hudgens, that’s why. And didn’t Nagel—a goofball himself—warn Brock about Hudgens. Crazy, that’s what he’d said, something everyone knew. Sure, maybe he coached Barrett Malone many moons ago. Who couldn’t have coached Barrett Malone? The guy was a wonder.

  The Liverpool Elite? A joke.

  And now, he was the joke. The only good thing about it was that he could cut the whole thing loose, neat and clean. His father would welcome him leaving the team to hole up like a rabbit in its den all summer long. He didn’t have to see Bella either. That was as easy as taking his book inside after his chores around the house were finished. She’d get it pretty quick, and instead of parking her bike in the lawn and flopping down beside him in the yard under the tree, she’d just keep riding.

  He took a deep breath and let it out, assuming the mask of indifference that he’d worked so hard over the years to make his own. When they parked the bus, Brock sat, waiting for the entire team to get off. Dylan paused to lean in and chortle, but Brock diffused that pretty quick with a blank stare that neither took offense or gave any. Dylan scrunched up his eyebrows and his puzzled face quickly went away.

  Brock just sat until the bus driver stood and addressed him. “You okay, kid?”

  Brock said nothing, but stood up, got off the bus, and went around to the back entrance to the hotel, up the stairs, and into his room while the rest of the team ate lunch. He took out his book, then put it down, unwilling to ignite any kind of thought process. He sat on the bed, closed his eyes, and soon nodded off.

  He was awakened by a knock at the door.

  “Brock?” It was Bella, talking from the hall. “Come on, Brock. Everyone has a bad day. Don’t take it so hard.”

  He squeezed his lips together until they hurt, turned over, and closed his eyes.