Dare You To. Katie McGarry
see when I reach the parking lot eats at my soul: Mom in a bloody pulp and her asshole boyfriend standing over her. Tears burn my eyes and I trip as I round the corner of the building, scraping my palms on the blacktop. I don’t care. I need to find her. My mom …
My mom swings a baseball bat and shatters the back window of a shitty El Camino.
“What … what are you doing?” And where did she score a baseball bat?
“He.” She swings the bat and breaks more glass. “Cheated.”
I blink, unsure if I want to hug her or kill her. “Then break up with him.”
“You crazy ass bitch!” From the gap between the two apartment buildings, Mom’s boyfriend flies toward her and smacks her face with an open palm. The slap of his hand across her cheek vibrates against my skin. The baseball bat falls from her hands and bounces three times, tip to bottom, against the blacktop. Each hollow crack of the wood heightens my senses. It settles on the ground and rolls toward my feet.
He yells at her. All curses, but his words blend into a buzzing noise in my head. He hit me last year. He hits Mom. He won’t hit either one of us again.
He raises his hand. Mom throws out her arms to protect her face as she kneels in front of him. I grab the bat. Take two steps. Swing it behind my shoulder and …
“Police! Drop the bat! Get on the ground!” Three uniformed officers surround us. Damn. My heart pounds hard against my chest. I should have thought of this, but I didn’t, and the mistake will cost me. The cops patrol the complex regularly.
The asshole points at me. “She did it. That crazy ass girl took out my car. Her mom and I, we tried to stop it, but then she went nuts!”
“Drop the bat! Hands on your head.”
Dazed from his blatant lie, I forgot I still held it. The wooden grip feels rough against my hands. I drop it and listen to the same hollow thumping as it once again bounces on the ground. Placing my hands behind my head, I stare down at my mom. Waiting. Waiting for her to explain. Waiting for her to defend us.
Mom stays on her knees in front of the asshole. She subtly shakes her head and mouths the word please to me.
Please? Please what? I widen my eyes, begging for her to explain.
She mouths one more word: probation.
An officer kicks the bat from us and pats me down. “What happened?”
“I did it,” I tell him. “I destroyed the car.”
RYAN
SWEAT DRIPS FROM MY SCALP and slithers down my forehead, forcing me to wipe my brow before shoving the cap back on. The afternoon sun beats down on me as if I’m simmering in hell’s roasting pan. August games are the worst.
My hands sweat. I don’t care about my left hand—the one wearing the glove. It’s the throwing hand I rub repeatedly on my pant leg. My heart pounds in my ears and I fight off a wave of dizziness. The smell of burnt popcorn and hot dogs drifts from the concession stand, and my stomach cramps. I stayed out too late last night.
Taking a look at the scoreboard, I watch as the temperature rises from ninety-five degrees to ninety-six. Heat index has to be over one hundred. In theory, the moment the index hits one-o-five, the umps should call the game. In theory.
It wouldn’t matter if the temperature was below zero. My stomach would still cramp. My hands would still sweat. The pressure—it builds continually, twisting my insides to the point of implosion.
“Let’s go, Ry!” Chris, our shortstop, yells from between second and third.
His lone battle cry instigates calls from the rest of the team—those on the field and those sitting on the bench. I shouldn’t say sitting. Everyone in the dugout stands with their fingers clenched around the fence.
Bottom of the seventh, we’re up by one run, two outs, and I screwed up and pitched a runner to first. Damn curveball. I’ve thrown one strike and two balls with the current batter. No more room for error. Two more strikes and the game’s over. Two more balls and I walk a batter, giving the other team a runner in scoring position.
The crowd joins in. They clap, whistle, and cheer. No one louder than Dad.
Grasping the ball tightly, I take a deep breath, wrap my right arm behind my back, and lean forward to read Logan’s signal. The stress of this next pitch hangs on me. Everyone wants this game done. No one more than me.
I don’t lose.
Logan crouches into position behind the batter and does something unexpected. He pulls his catcher’s mask onto the top of his head, places his hand between his legs, and flips me off.
Damn bastard.
Logan flaunts a grin and his reminder causes my shoulders to relax. It’s only the first game of the fall season. A scrimmage game at that. I nod and he slides his mask over his face and flashes me the peace sign twice.
Fastball it is.
I glance over my shoulder toward first. The runner’s taken a lead in his hunt for second, but not enough to chance a steal. I cock my arm back and throw with a rush of power and adrenaline. My heart thumps twice at the sweet sound of the ball smacking into Logan’s glove and the words Strike two falling out of the umpire’s mouth.
Logan fires the ball back and I waste no time preparing for the next pitch. This will be it. My team can go home—victorious.
Logan holds his pinkie and ring fingers together. I shake my head. I want to close this out and a fastball will do it, not a curve. Logan hesitates before showing me two peace signs. That’s my boy. He knows I can bring on the heat.
Keeping his hand between his legs, he pauses, then points away from the batter, telling me that my fastballs have been straying outside. I nod. An understanding to keep placement in mind with my speed. The ball flies out of my hand, punches Logan’s glove right in the middle, and the umpire shouts, “Ball!”
I stop breathing. That was a strike.
The fence rattles as my teammates bang on it, screaming at the injustice. Shouting at the umpire, Coach stands on the verge of no-man’s-land between the dugout and the field. My friends on the field whistle at the bad call. The crowd murmurs and boos. In the bleachers, with her head down and lost in prayer, Mom grasps the pearls that hang around her neck.
Dammit. I yank hard on the bill of my hat, trying to calm the blood racing in my veins. Bad calls suck, but they happen. I’ve got one more shot to close this out. One more …
“That was a strike.” Dad steps off the bleachers and heads to the fence right behind the umpire. The players and the crowd fall silent. Dad demands fairness. Well, his version of fair.
“Get back in the stands, Mr. Stone,” the ump says. Everyone in this town knows Dad.
“I’ll return to my seat when we have an ump that can call fair. You’ve been calling bad this entire game.” Even though he said it loud enough for the entire park to hear, he never raised his voice. Dad’s a commanding man and someone this entire town admires.
From behind the fence, Dad towers over the short, fat ump and waits for someone to make right what he views as a wrong. We’re carbon copies of each other, my dad and I. Sandy hair and brown eyes. Long legs. All shoulders and upper arms. Grandma said people like Dad and me were built for hard labor. Dad said we were built for baseball.
My coach steps onto the field along with the coach from the other team. I agree. The ump’s been calling bad, on both sides, but I find it ironic that no one had the guts to say anything until Dad declared war.
“Your dad’s the man.” Chris walks onto the pitcher’s mound.
“Yeah.” The man. I glance over to Mom again and at the empty space where my older brother,