Not Here to Be Liked by Michelle Quach

Author:Michelle Quach
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Katherine Tegen Books
Published: 2021-07-12T00:00:00+00:00

20

AT THE FIELD, LEN AND I SIT DOWN IN THE bleachers, where we’ve got a pretty good view of home plate through the chain-link fence. We’re on the side that’s closer to the visiting-team dugout, and I can see a few of the Willoughby guys, clad in maroon and white, playing catch.

“It’s called warming up,” says Len.

“Sure,” I say.

One of the juniors, Luis Higuera, notices Len and waves. “Len-chan!” he yells, which is probably the only Japanese he knows. He and a senior, Adam Gibson, jog over to the fence.

“How’s it going?” Len calls out, grinning wide.

“You gonna pitch for us today?” says Adam. “I’ll let you start.”

“Nah, man, still recovering.” Len points at his elbow.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Luis. “That’s why we’re stuck with this guy.”

“Go fuck yourself, Higuera,” Adam says cheerfully.

Len surveys the blustery sky, which is cloudless and unnaturally bright. “You guys gonna be all right in this wind?”

“Dude, it sucks.” Adam pulls his cap down while Luis shakes his head and makes the sign of the cross. Then Adam nods at the camera. “You’re documenting this?”

“Yeah, Eliza and I are covering the game for the Bugle.” Here Len gestures at me.

“Hey, aren’t you that feminazi girl?” asks Adam, acknowledging me for the first time. Luis elbows him, as if trying to keep him civilized, but Adam looks from Len to me and then winks. “Guess you guys made up, huh?”

I feign innocence. “About what?”

“All right,” the umpire hollers. “Let’s go!”

As the guys take their places—Hargis out on the field, Willoughby in the dugout except for Luis, who’s the first one up to bat—the wind picks up, swirling the dirt into a Dust Bowl situation that takes a solid minute to settle down. Len and I have to hitch our collars up over our faces to avoid breathing it in.

Finally, the umpire gives a signal to start. The Hargis pitcher, a pale redhead with gangly legs, winds his arm up and sends the ball hurtling over home plate.

“Strike!” the umpire barks.

I’ve barely had time to blink. “But Luis didn’t even swing.”

“Doesn’t matter,” says Len. He studies the pitcher for a second. “That McIntyre kid seems good.”

Luis makes it to first base, though McIntyre proceeds to eviscerate our next two hitters like the Santa Anas are barely a light breeze. But then it’s time for Jason Lee to step up to the plate.

The crowd knows exactly who he is, and its collective attention fuses into a jolt that is perceptible even through the static of the winds. All around me, backs straighten, necks crane, breaths stop—everyone is focused on this round-shouldered kid with a boxer’s swagger and a baseball bat. Even I am curious to see what he’ll do.

Unlike the other Willoughby guys, Jason appears to be a left-handed hitter. He twists one foot into the dirt, taps the same spot with his bat, then repeats on the other side. It occurs to me, as I watch him twirl the bat forward and backward before sinking into his batting stance, that Jason makes that stick of aluminum seem like it’s weightless.

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