and not bad at first base.
That’s where I’m heading now.
I can ride my bike to practice,
which is good since there’s no
one here to drive me.
I’m grabbing my glove
when Dad calls.
You up for burgers after work?
“Sure!” We hardly ever go out
to dinner on days Dad works.
He doesn’t get off until eight,
which makes dinner pretty late
on school nights.
But hey, it’s spring break!
“Where do you want to go?”
I was thinking Steak ’n Shake.
Their burgers are amazing,
but it’s clear across town.
“Are you going to pick me up?”
I hadn’t planned on it. Why?
“Too far for me to ride my bike.”
He pauses. What about Will?
He can drive you, can’t he?
He’s supposed to be transportation
when I need it. That’s why Dad
bought him his clunker.
“Um. He isn’t here, and I’m not
sure when he’ll be back.”
This Pause Is Longer
I think I blew it.
Is Will gonna be mad
I said something?
Probably, I’m guessing.
Finally, Where did he go?
“He said he was meeting
friends at the arcade.”
What arcade?
“I don’t know.”
How long has he been gone?
“A couple of hours.”
Longer, but I won’t say so.
Not okay. He’s supposed
to be taking care of you.
I can picture Dad’s face,
all red and puffed up. Mad.
“It’s okay, Dad. I’m twelve,
I can take care of myself,
and I was just heading out
to practice anyway.
I always ride my bike there.”
He takes a deep breath.
You’re a good kid, Trace.
“You’re a good dad, Dad.”
I mean it. He isn’t perfect,
but he tries really hard
to take decent care of us.
Thanks, son. Listen. If Will
isn’t back by the time you get
home from practice, I’ll put
you in an Uber or something.
It’s Steak ’n Shake or bust.
“Yay!”
In fact, bring a friend if you
like. Make it a sleepover.
“Really? Awesome.”
Okay. My break’s over. Text
me if you need that ride.
“Bye, Dad.”
What got into him? I haven’t
had a friend spend the night
in a while. Something’s up.
No Time
To think about that now.
My coaches don’t appreciate
when we’re late
for practice.
I strap my glove and bat
to my bike, jump on,
pedal hard.
Feel the burn,
some people say.
I can, and what that means
is the lunch calories
my body’s burning are turning
into kinetic energy—
the energy of motion.
That’s what moves the bike.
I’m kind of a STEM geek.
Formulas and equations
make sense to me
because the rules
stay the same.
They don’t have minds
that can change,
like people do.
Math and science
are important elements
of so many different things.
Music, for one.
There’s math in the patterns
that make songs, science
in the way sound waves move.
When I play my keyboard,
it’s sort of like solving equations.
Sports? All of them rely
on math and science,
especially physics.
Take baseball.
Pitching, fielding,
batting, running, sliding.
Natural forces come
into play.
Energy.
Motion.
Friction.
Drag.
Momentum.
Gravity.
Understanding how
they interact can make
you a better player.
So, yeah, I’ve studied
up a little. Okay, maybe
more like a lot.
Pedaling My Bike
As hard as I can,
I zip by our next-door neighbor
Mr. Cobb, who lets me
mow his lawn and pull weeds
to earn spending money.
He’s a funny old guy,
but kind of nosy. Like,
he’s always got gossip
to tell while he hangs out,
“monitoring my progress.”
Mr. Cobb waves like he wants
to talk to me, so I yell,
“I’m late!” If I stopped,
practice would be half over
by the time I got there.
I make it just as Coach Hal
calls us to the batting cages.
Before we line up, he makes us sit.
I want you all to welcome
our newest player, who just
transferred from Santa Monica.
Say hi to Catalina Sánchez, everyone.
Catalina? A girl? On our team?
Girls don’t even play
ball with us at school.
I’m not the only one who groans.
Coach Hal won’t have it.
Seriously? Maybe you all
need to run a few laps.
It’s okay. Her voice is cool,
not even a little upset.
I’m used to it. But call me Cat.
All the guys look around.
She’s sitting off to one side.
Why didn’t I notice her before?
Maybe because,
with her long, dark
hair pulled back and
her wearing a team
uniform, she looks almost
just like the rest of us boys.
But looking like
and playing like
are different things.
Guess we’ll see.
Okay. Let’s get in some batting
practice. You go first, Cat.
She frowns. Because I’m a girl?
No. To show us what you’ve got.
Everyone Stares
As Cat steps into the cage, left
of the plate as right-handers do,
lifts her bat to her shoulder.
Her stance is good.
So is her focus.
And her swing is level.
First try, she boosts one
deep to the outfield.
Coach Tom pitches another.
She swings a little late,
but still manages to catch
wood. This one goes foul.
Three more pitches.
Three more hits.
She moves around the plate.
She bats left-handed, too?
from both sides, not that I’ve ever seen.
I nudge my buddy Bram.
“She thinks she’s a switch-hitter.”
On the first pitch, she proves it.
Bam! She hits that baby
straight over Coach Tom’s
head and into right field.
Four more pitches.
A couple of ground outs.
The other two are solid hits.
What? No way! A girl!
And she’s just as good batting
right-handed or left? Crazy!
Coach must’ve gone easy
on her, says Bram. Maybe
you should pitch to her.
“Yeah.” I agree, but I have
a feeling it wouldn’t make
a bit of difference. She’s decent.
Very impressive, Cat. You’ll
make a great addition to the team.
Okay, who’s going next?
The rest of us take our turns
in the cage. The pressure to
outperform her is strong.
Too strong. Not one of us
succeeds. Not even just batting
from one side of the plate.
Coach Hal offers encouraging
words, but his grin keeps
stretching wider and wider.
He reminds me of a buff blond
teddy bear, because under all those
muscles and stern talk, he’s gentle.
Cat doesn’t smile or act
stuck-up. She stands, watching.
Bram and I wander over to her.
“Hey. I’m Trace Reynolds. How long
have you played Little League?
And who taught you to hit?”
She barely glances at me.
Started tee ball at four.
And my dad taught me.
Bram whistles. Your dad sure
knows his stuff. But why you?
Doesn’t he have any sons?
Cat grits her teeth. Dad played
in the majors. He has two sons.
But he says I have the talent.
Bram Snorts
I laugh.
At the snort.
At Cat’s answer.
What’s so funny? she asks.
“You are. At least, I think so.”
She could get mad. Doesn’t.
Yeah, maybe I am. Dad says
it’s one of my best qualities.
I want to know who her dad
is and what Major League
teams he played for, but Coach
Hal ends batting practice
to work on our fielding.
We all gawk at Cat,
who’s kind of amazing
in the infield.
To start, she’s fast, and her hands
are quick, scooping up
grounders and snatching flies.
As usual, Coach Tom,
who kind of specializes
in pitching, calls people
off the field two at a time
to throw and catch.
Not everybody gets a turn,
but not everyone wants one.
Pitching is hard.
Catching is worse.
I mean, watching a ball
flung toward your face,
you tense and hope it gets
really close, otherwise
you’ll have to chase it,
which, in a game, could
mean someone scores.
Not where I want to play.
I like to pitch, and today
I get to practice first.
Miguel catches, and
together we look decent.
Okay! yells Coach Tom.
Switch out! Bram, you catch.
Cat, let us see your arm.
No switch-pitching, thank
goodness. There’s a guy
in the majors who can throw
equally well with both arms,
which is totally weird.
But Cat only pitches right-handed.
I Might Be Better
But she isn’t exactly bad.
She lifts her glove
and her left knee
at the same time,
achieving balance.
Now she reaches
for power, thrusting
that left leg toward the plate
as she brings her pitching
hand back and drives
her glove forward, building
a superstrong stance.
Propelled by a shove
from her right leg,
she rotates her arm
toward the target, and zap!
The pitch hits Bram’s mitt.
Hard.
Nice! yells Coach Tom.
Let’s see another one!
Cat repeats the process.
This one’s a little low, and as
she tosses several more,
I can see that’s how
she tends to throw.
When those kinds
of pitches pull away
from a batter,
they’re really hard to hit.
A fewgo high.
A few go wide.
But Bram catches
every single one
without trying too hard,
and that is the mark
of a decent pitcher.
They make a good combo.
I can’t help but watch,
mouth hanging open.
Half in awe.
Half jealous.
How can a girl
have that kind of skill?
I’m So Busy
Thinking about that
I almost forget about
asking someone to spend
the night. I could invite
Lucas or Trevor or Antonio.
They’re all buddies.
But Bram is my best
friend on the team.
He goes to my school
and was, like, the first kid
there to even say hi to me.
If I’m gonna share Steak ’n Shake
with someone, he’s my first choice.
As Coach Hal calls us in
for the final pep talk, I ask
Bram, “Hey. Wanna get
burgers and stay over tonight?
Dad says it’s cool.”
Sure, if the PUs say okay.
PUs is short for Parental Units.
That means his mom and dad.
Bram says weird stuff like that
all the time. That’s one reason
I like him. He’s entertaining.
Bram’s PUs
Give permission.
In fact, his mom says
he can stay a whole week
so she can save money
on their grocery bill.
She’s kind of entertaining, too.
We come up with a plan.
I’ll ride my bike home.
She’ll take Bram
to their house
so he can change out
of his uniform
and grab his toothbrush.
Then she’ll drop him off.
Or, if Will isn’t home, she’ll drive
us to Steak ’n Shake to meet Dad.
After Coach Hal lets us go,
I hang out for a few,
hoping maybe I’ll see
Cat’s dad and figu
re out
who he is. But she gets
in a car with a lady.
Oh well. Maybe next time.
On the way home,
I don’t have to pedal so hard.
Still, before too long
I’m sweating.
Even with the sun dropped
behind the mountains,
the desert air is like toast—
crispy hot and dry.
In the dead heat
of a Las Vegas summer,
bike riding only happens
in the early morning
or close to dark.
Or, if I’m really lucky
and Mom’s around, she might
take me up into the nearby
hills for some hard-core
mountain biking.
Maybe next time she’s here
she won’t even ask
What about Will?
And if she does, maybe
for once I should ask back,
What about me?
Yeah, I Get It
That would make me
sound selfish.
But I’d have to work
really hard to be more
selfish than she is.
I love her lots.
I mean, she’s my mom,
and loving her
kind of goes
with the job
of being her kid.
But how I feel
about her is . . .
complicated.
She was never mean
to Will and me.
Never hit us.
Never yelled.
But sometimes
she made me think
we were in her way.
Like there were so many
places she dreamed
about seeing, and things
she wanted to do.
Only, being our mom
made them impossible.
One time she was talking
about wanting to travel
to Paris, France.
“Can we all go?” I asked.
Oh, honey, no. It would
be much too expensive.
I don’t think money
was the problem, though.
No, she wanted freedom.
She fronted her band,
Obsidian, before she met Dad,
doing a gig in the casino
where he worked.
That’s how they got together.
That’s how they fell in love.
That’s how they got married.
While Mom was still happy
at home, Obsidian mostly
only played in Vegas,
but when she decided life
with us wasn’t enough,
the band went on tour again.
Some People