Brooke (14 page)

Because I had no ride, Rosemary had her brother David come by with her to pick me up. David did not attend a private school. I thought that was odd until he explained he had made friends with kids who attended public school and didn't want to leave them.

“I've got some friends over at Westgate, too,” he told me soon after I got into the car. “They said there's more excitement about this game than some of the boys' games. For the first time in years, there might be a real contest.”

As it turned out, that was an understatement.
The girls at Westgate were stronger and more determined than any others we had played. It had become a question of honor for them to defend their school's string of victories against Agnes Fodor. How could anyone lose to a school full of spoiled, rich, bratty girls?

But our team was determined, too. Coach Gross-bard gave a great pep talk.

“Everyone out there thinks you're all a bunch of namby-pambies. They'll expect you to crack under pressure and fall apart just as we have in the past, but there's a new spirit here, and each and every one of you has improved,” she said, gazing my way. “I'm proud of you girls. Go out there and show them what you're really made of.”

We cheered and took the field. I did my best pitching and kept them to a single hit through the first five innings. The problem was their pitcher, a tall, dark, brown-haired girl with a body so muscular that it would put Pamela into a faint. She threw bullets over the plate. I struck out twice. No one was able to get a hit. Cora managed a fly ball, but it floated right to their center fielder.

An error on our side put a girl on base for them at the top of the last inning. The next girl struck out, but the next hit was a short fly that fell between second base and our center fielder. Her throw managed to keep their runner on third. One of their better hitters came up. I took deep breaths and looked at the crowd. There was a hush of expectation. Some people looked as if they were holding their breath. I spotted Mr. Rudley in the stands. He
smiled at me and held up his thumb. It would have been nice to see Peter there cheering me on, too, I thought.

My first pitch went wide, but my second was in the low portion of the strike zone, and the batter went after it and missed. She fouled off my next pitch. Then she hit a hard line drive right at me. I stood my ground and caught it even though it stung right through my glove. Instantly, I spun and threw the ball to first. Their runner had gone too far and couldn't get back in time. It was a double play.

Our fans roared. Parents, siblings, and friends were standing and cheering us as we came off the field. It was still anyone's game. Then our first batter struck out on three pitches, and our confidence began to fall. No one said it, but I could practically hear people thinking that we would be the ones who wore out first.

I was up fourth, but someone would have to get on base. Heather was up next. She struck out with her eyes closed, backing away from the plate so much she brought laughter and sarcasm from the other side.

“What's the matter, honey, you afraid you'll mess up your makeup?”

“Afraid you'll ruin your nose job?”

“Watch yourself. That ball's got your name on it: Chicken Girl.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd in waves. Despite our good showing, they still saw us as a joke. I saw how my teammates were taking it to
heart. If we didn't do something now, we would surely lose, I concluded.

Eva Jensen was next at bat. I stopped her on the way to the plate.

“She's pitching a little more inside. Just step back and try to hit it to right field,” I suggested. She nodded and took her stance. The first pitch was too low, but the second was right where I expected it would be. Eva stepped back and swung. It was a solid hit that bounced hard in front of the first baseman. She misjudged it, and it went over her head and into right field. We had a runner on first.

I looked at Coach Grossbard, who had heard me give Eva the advice.

“She's smart,” she said, referring to the pitcher, “but she's not going to give you anything good.”

I nodded and went to the plate. Once again, a hush came over our fans. The pitcher tried to get me to go after two pitches that were low and away, but I held back. The next pitch was coming in perfectly over the outside corner. It was the sort of pitch that required strength to hit. I leaned to the right and came around, catching the ball just down from the top of the bat enough to get a solid connection.

It soared.

And soared over the left fielder's head, and it kept going, clearing the fence. I had hit a home run.

I had been to ball games at public school, especially exciting basketball games when the crowd's roar was so high and loud my ears rang. That was the way it was now. As I rounded the bases, our
side was screaming so loud it actually made my ears hurt. Mr. Rudley had a big, wide grin on his face, and Coach Grossbard . . . Coach Grossbard had tears of joy streaming down her cheeks as I passed her between third and home plate.

Cora gave me a hug that nearly cracked my ribs. Everyone on the team was around me, Heather hanging on the perimeter with a plastic smile on her face. I couldn't remember when in my life I was more excited and proud of myself. The crowd was full of appreciation, but sadly, neither my new mother nor my new father had been there to see it. I was as alone as I had ever been, even now, even when I wanted parents so much it made my heart ache.

Lisa Donald announced a victory party at her house. Everyone on the team was invited, of course, even Coach Grossbard. It was to be a barbeque. When I returned home, I rushed into the house, hoping my invitation to Lisa's might get Pamela to see how important all this was to me and perhaps make her proud of my accomplishments finally.

Instead, I found her in a mad tizzy. Peter wasn't coming home as early as she had expected, and before I had a chance to tell her anything, she cried, “Everything's falling apart!”

“What's wrong?” I asked, standing in the entry-way, holding my glove and the winning ball in my hand. Everyone on the team had signed it, Coach Grossbard's signature biggest of all. The date of the game was there as well.

“Your pageant audition has been confirmed, but how I could have forgotten the most important thing, I don't know. It's probably because of all the turmoil surrounding your piano lessons,” she concluded, popping my bubble of excitement.

“What important thing?” I asked.

“Your pictures! Your photographs! Oh, where is he? Where is he?” she cried toward the doorway.

“Who? Peter?”

“No, not Peter. The photographer. I told him to be here and get set up before you returned. I want the pictures taken in the atrium outside the living-room patio doors. Those flowers will provide a colorful background. It will just look more . . . royal and make you seem more of a princess. Well, why are you just standing there?” she screamed. “Go upstairs and get the grime out of your skin. Bathe, shampoo, and start on your makeup. We've got to be ready in an hour.”

“Don't you want to know what happened at the game?” I asked.

“Game? What game? You mean the, what do you call it, softball game?”

“Yes. We won. I hit a home run in the last inning and won the game. It was like the World Series or something. There were a lot of people there, more than ever, teachers, too. I pitched great. There's a party to celebrate at Lisa Donald's house. Everyone on the team is coming. Our teachers and parents are invited, too.”

“Who has time for that? Are you mad? This photo shoot will take hours. We can't submit just
any pictures to the pageant judges. These have to be professional, photos taken the way a model takes them. Would you stop wasting time and go up and get ready. I'll be along to choose what you should wear. Of course, we'll have you wear more than one outfit. And the bathing suit I bought you last week. Go, go, go,” she cried, waving at the stairway.

I gazed down at the softball. What was the point of showing it to her? She might have it thrown into the washing machine. I started up the stairway.

“Can we at least go to the party when we're finished?”

“We'll see,” she said. “I can't be thinking about any of that right now. Joline! Joline!” she cried.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Get up there and draw her bath. Quickly.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Joline said, and hurried to the stairway. She passed me by and was in the bathroom, fixing my bath of oils before I even took off my uniform.

I just sat there, dazed. I was certainly in no mood to pose as a model for beauty pageant pictures. I had come home on a cloud and now felt as if I was being dragged by my hair to be propped up on some stage surrounded by strangers, gaping at me with numbers in their eyes.

Naturally, I wasn't moving fast enough for Pamela. When she came bursting into my room, I was just sitting at the vanity table to blow dry my hair.

“Aren't you ready yet?” she screamed. “You can run like the wind around those stupid bases at a ball game, but when it comes to getting ready for
something really important, you're a turtle,” she fired at me as she crossed the room to my closet.

“My ball game is really important,” I insisted, pride flooding into my spine. She ignored me and rifled through the clothes hanging in my closet.

“I want something with color, and yet I want to make a simple statement of your beauty.”

“I'm not beautiful,” I muttered, mostly to myself.

She heard me, though, and whipped around. “Stop that! I don't want to hear that anymore. I told you, if you tell yourself you're not beautiful, you won't be. Attitude comes through. Why have I been working so hard with you, training you on how to sit, to walk, to talk, to hold your head, even to turn your eyes, if I didn't believe you were beautiful? Pictures don't lie, either, so you had better change your attitude before you go downstairs. I want to see that effervescence, life, youth, your eyes radiating with confidence. Stop staring at me!” she yelled. “Get your hair brushed and your makeup done!”

“Okay,” I said.

“Don't say okay. Say yes. Don't you remember what I told you? Okay is too . . . inferior,” she declared for lack of another term.

She pulled out what she wanted me to wear and then found my new bathing suit.

“The photographer has arrived. He's a highly regarded professional. He's setting up in the atrium right now. I'll discuss with him what you should wear first and then return. By the time I do, you
should be ready to put on your dress. Understand?” she demanded.

“Yes, but if we do finish in time, can I go to the victory party? Please?”

“We'll see,” she said, and stormed out of the room. I gazed at the clock. The team members and their families were just starting to arrive at Lisa's, and I was trapped at home. My only hope was to cooperate and get it done as fast as possible.

I was ready when Pamela returned. She told me to put on the light blue dress with the V-neck collar. She made sure my padded bra embellished my small bosom and then brought me a thin string of her own pearls to wear. After I was dressed, she stood me in front of the mirror and fixed my hair.

“You look flushed. I knew this would happen. I knew you would get too much sun out on that ball field and ruin your complexion,” she said, and made me sit while she adjusted my makeup until she was satisfied. It took almost a half hour.

“When is Peter coming home?” I asked on the way down.

“I don't remember,” she said. “Later,” she muttered. I was hoping he would arrive before the photo shoot ended and would agree to take me to the party.

The photographer was a pleasant young man with dark curly hair. His name was William Daniels. From the way Pamela had raved about him, I expected someone much older and more experienced. When William began, however, I saw that he
really knew what he was doing. Every time Pamela made a suggestion, he calmly pointed out why it wouldn't work, why the lighting would be wrong, why my profile wouldn't be as complimented, or why the backdrop would lose its value.

William sensed how tense and unhappy I was immediately and did what he could to make me relax.

“Don't fight it,” he whispered while he was adjusting my posture. “We'll get finished faster if you relax and just let it happen.”

He was right, of course, and I stopped wishing and hoping it would be over.

“Great, good. That's it,” he kept saying. Pamela relaxed more, too.

I hurried upstairs to change my dress, but when I returned, Pamela didn't like the way my hair had lost its shape and made William wait while she brushed it again until it satisfied her.

We had been working nearly an hour and a half. I knew the party was in full swing at Lisa's by now, and I imagined they were all wondering when I would arrive. Heather was probably telling them that I wanted to make a special entrance and was being late deliberately. That was something she would do.

Pamela had even more problems with my bathing suit picture. As soon as I put on the suit, she groaned.

“Can't you stop those muscles from popping out in your legs?”

“I'm not doing anything,” I said.

“Is there anything you can do?” she asked William.

He studied me a moment, adjusted my stance, and shook his head. “She's got a great little body, Mrs. Thompson. I don't see why you want to hide it.”

“They'll think she's one of those women bodybuilders or something. Who wants an Amazon to be Miss America?” she snapped. “Relax your arms,” she told me.

I tried to stand as loosely as I could, but nothing I did satisfied her.

“They'll hate this shot,” she muttered.

“Let's just see,” William said. “I might be able to touch it up here and there.”

“That'll work for pictures, but not when she's walking on the stage in the flesh,” she moaned.