Mom started to say more, then stopped. She picked up her purse and handed Mr. Thurman’s envelope to me. “Fill out everything you can, and I’ll do the rest when we get back. Do Antonio’s form, too. Okay?” She turned to Curtis. “The Corolla is almost out of gas. We should take your truck.”
Seven
I got good news that night: Antonio agreed to give Laurelhurst baseball a try. Mom told me when I showed her where she needed to sign the forms. “He said no at first, but then Curtis asked him to give it at least one shot, and Antonio said he would.” A little smile came to her face. “I know. I was surprised, too.”
I was glad Antonio was going with me. Really glad. But later, when I was in my room, an unexpected sadness came over me. Curtis wasn’t ever going to win Father of the Year, but he tried to point the way. Sometimes Antonio listened; sometimes he didn’t. Either way, Antonio had a dad—something I’d never have.
When school let out Tuesday, I got my duffle bag from my locker and hustled to the bus stop. There were seven minutes between the final bell and the bus’s arrival—plenty of time.
But as the minutes ticked away, I worried. Where was Antonio? Right as the bus pulled up, he bounded down the school stairs. “Hurry,” I yelled, standing half on and half off the bus so the driver couldn’t shut the door and drive away.
Twenty minutes later the bus pulled to a stop at Sandpoint Way and we got off. What struck me first about Laurelhurst were the trees. They were everywhere, lining every street. Some were red and orange. Others were tall evergreens. The trees at North Central High were the same tree, over and over. Laurelhurst trees were different kinds, and they glowed in the late-afternoon light.
“Do you know where this field is?” Antonio asked as the bus rolled away.
I checked the map I’d printed from a library computer and pointed. “Two blocks that way.”
When we reached the diamond, about a dozen guys were loosening up on the infield. Mr. Thurman must have been looking out for us, because he waved and smiled as soon as we stepped onto the field.
“Laz! Antonio! Come on and meet the other guys.”
I handed him the envelope with the completed forms. He took it and tossed it into a box with other envelopes. Next he introduced us to the Laurelhurst players, explaining that North Central High was dropping baseball, so we were going to try out for their team.
We warmed up, Antonio and I, by playing catch. Talk filled the air around us, but the only sound between us was the smack of a baseball hitting leather.
We’d made about twenty throws when a whistle blew and the workout began. Mr. Thurman had four stations set up around the diamond, with adults running each of them. The other kids knew the names of each of the men, but I called them all Coach. Antonio did the same.
We rotated through in small groups. Fielding. Throwing. Hitting. Base running. At every station Antonio and I stuck together. That ended when Mr. Thurman separated pitchers from position players. While I was in the outfield playing long catch with Kevin Griffith, the kid who had been the Seattle Marauders pitcher, Antonio waited his turn to hit off the pitching machine.
I kept peeking over. I wanted Antonio to show Mr. Thurman that he was a player. Wasn’t he ever going to get his turn?
And then he was up.
It went as I’d hoped: he drove the ball hard, smacking line drives to all fields.
Near the end of practice, I was called to pitch live batting practice. Twice Mr. Thurman told me not to throw hard. “Even ninety percent is too much. Don’t risk injury.”
For the first three batters, I tossed up slow fastballs, if there is such a thing. Then Ian Thurman stepped into the box. He was my last batter, and he got seven pitches. I threw the first five the way I was told, and he blasted line drives into the gaps. I would have been okay with that if he hadn’t grinned after every hit. When my sixth pitch was roped 350 feet to dead center, I stepped off the mound and looked hard at him. I wanted him to know what was coming. He gave me a nod. I climbed onto the mound, went into my motion, and came with everything I had. He swung from the heels . . . and missed.
The next kid stepped to the plate, and I went back to throwing watermelons.
Finally, a whistle blew and the workout was over. “Thursday. Same time.” Mr. Thurman called out. “And remember—there are a lot of good teams in the state. The one that wins that championship will be the one that works the hardest. So be here.”
Eight
Antonio and I reached the bus stop just in time to see the bus pull away. Who knew how long it would be before the next one? Plopping down on his duffle bag, Antonio looked straight ahead.
Mr. Thurman’s gold Lexus SUV pulled to a stop across the street. The driver’s window lowered, and Mr. Thurman called out. “Can I give you boys a ride?”
“That’s okay,” I called back.
“It’s no problem. Buses don’t come too often around here.”
I looked at Antonio, and he shrugged. We grabbed our stuff and hurried across the street.
This is how dumb I can be. I was surprised to see Ian in the front passenger seat. Where else would he be?
As Mr. Thurman drove toward Jet City, he asked questions about the workout. Was it too long? Not long enough? What would make it better? Ian had his iPhone out, thumbs flying. Antonio said nothing, leaving me—the stutterer—to do the talking.
As we headed north on Aurora Avenue and neared Jet City, my stomach knotted. I didn’t want Ian to see Jet City, didn’t want him to go to school the next day and say—Those two guys from North Central? You’re not going to believe this, but they live in a trailer.
Mr. Thurman pulled to a stop at a red light by the driving range. Without warning, Antonio threw open the door. “This is good right here,” he said, grabbing me by the elbow and yanking me.
“Hold on. Are you sure?” Mr. Thurman said, but by then we were both on the street. I managed a thank you before Antonio slammed the car door shut. The light turned green, and the Lexus drove off.
“Couldn’t take it any longer,” Antonio said.
* * *
That night, everyone was home at dinnertime, which didn’t happen often. Mom bought bean salad and French bread to go with the macaroni and cheese she had made. “We made the news,” she said as she spooned the gooey pasta onto the plates.
“How?” Antonio asked.
“There’s an organization—Keep Seattle Affordable—that is trying to save Jet City.”
“A bunch of do-gooders against a multimillion-dollar developer,” Curtis grumbled. “Who do you think will win that battle?”
“At least they’re trying,” Mom said.
The bean salad and bread made their way around the table.
“How did the practice go?” Curtis asked as he piled food onto his plate.
“It was g-great,” I said. “I learned a l-lot.”
Curtis looked to Antonio. “So you’re going to keep going?”
Antonio shook his head. “Laz can do what he wants, but I’m never going back there.”
My eyes went wide. “I thought you l-liked it,” I said.
“Yeah? Well, you thought wrong,” he said.