What About Will Read online

  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?
/>   No one in this division bats

  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