Double Play, Page 2

  “Okay.” He couldn’t help feeling and sounding glum.

  Glenda led them to the media room, where JY and Jalen stepped up onto a small stage and sat down side by side, facing a slew of camera lights and eager faces. The room exploded with questions until Glenda leaned into the microphones and held up her hand. “One at a time. One at a time. Mark, you first.”

  A gel-haired young man wearing a tight suit cleared his throat and asked, “JY, can you tell us who the boy is exactly, and how he’s responsible for salvaging your career?”

  JY smiled broadly and put a hand on Jalen’s shoulder. “This is Jalen DeLuca, he’s a fan, and he contacted me through some mutual friends.”

  JY flicked his eyes toward the doorway, where Cat stood with her mom and Daniel.

  “He told me he could help me out of my slump, that his dad had this amazing dish, this stuffed calamari that’d bring me luck. Now, I had a laugh over that, but then I got to thinking, the way things were headed, why not try it? His dad’s place is in Rockton, where I live, the Silver Liner Diner, right next to the train station. I like Italian food anyway, so I figured I’d give it a shot and then—bingo—I batted a thousand. Well, only a fool wouldn’t keep eating that lucky calamari, so I kept at it these last three nights and . . . well, you saw how it went.”

  • • •

  Again the room erupted in a storm of questions until Glenda repeated her call for order, then pointed to the blond woman from FOX. “Margaret?”

  “Two nights ago, Jalen told me it was him.”

  “I—” Jalen began to speak, but JY kicked him under the table. “I only meant we, my dad and me, because I help him in the kitchen.”

  “And”—JY leaned into the microphones—“Jalen being able to come watch me play along with his friends was part of the deal. Torin, how about you? Two weeks ago I think you called me ‘washed up.’ How about now?”

  The handsome gray-haired man who’d first called Jalen “Calamari Kid” blushed before he said, “Looked that way, but not anymore. You saved your career! How does that feel?”

  “How does it feel?” JY leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His eyes filled, and it looked like he might spill a tear before he regained his composure. “It’s like that car crash that almost kills you and you pull over and you realize how close you came and you’re just flooded with . . . joy? Gratitude?

  “Let me make something clear. I came up with the Yankees. I turned twos with Jeter and played behind Mo Rivera. I’m going to go out a Yankee, like they did.” Yager grinned. “It’s all good, especially with lucky calamari.”

  The lights and the questions and the excitement dazed Jalen, so when Glenda ended it before the media was ready to stop, and he was shuffled out of the room, he couldn’t recall most of what had been said. On the car ride home, he realized how tired he was, too tired to celebrate, to chatter, to even notice the diner, repairs completed and slumbering in the dark in preparation for its big day. So when Cat’s mom dropped him off in front of his sagging house and he waved good-bye from the front porch, it seemed like the whole thing might have been a dream.

  Inside, his father jumped up from his chair. The TV flickered on the wall.

  “Jalen!” His father hugged him tight and kissed his cheeks. “I didn’t hear you coming. I was watching the TV, and I did not see the lights. You friends, they go? They don’t want something to eat?”

  “No, Dad.”

  “I see you on the TV!” His father pointed to the muted flat-screen. “They’re all talking about JY and about you.”

  “Not the diner?”

  “Oh yeah, they talk plenty about the diner, and they say tomorrow—the grand reopening—she’s gonna be like a rock concert! Everybody wanna be there. Everybody gonna be happy!” Jalen’s dad put his hands on either side of Jalen’s face and looked into his eyes, choking up just like JY had done at the press conference. “Jalen . . . is my dream coming true, and you’re the one who’s making it happen.”

  Jalen hugged him hard and took a deep breath. “Dad, I’m so tired. I gotta get some sleep. Remember, we gotta be at the bus by six tomorrow morning.”

  “What bus?”

  “Dad, the tournament’s tomorrow. The Rockets?”

  “Oh yeah! And I gotta get the sandwiches ready.” His dad slapped a hand against his bald scalp. “You go to bed. I’m gonna get everything ready, then make them in the morning so they fresh.”

  Originally, Coach Gamble had agreed to take Jalen onto the travel team even though he only had half the thousand-dollar fee, so long as Jalen’s dad supplied sandwiches for the players when they traveled and catered the end-of-season banquet. But Cat—being the shrewd negotiator she was—had gotten JY to agree not only to tweet the Silver Liner into the limelight, but also to pay the rest of Jalen’s fee if Jalen helped him.

  “Dad, JY paid Coach Gamble so you don’t have to make any sandwiches.”

  “I know, but I wanna do that for the boys. They gonna love my sandwiches.”

  Jalen knew better than to argue with his father about food, so he quickly took care of business in the bathroom before flopping down in the narrow bed in the corner of his tiny room. He set his alarm for five o’clock and reached for the light switch. When his eyes caught sight of the picture on his bureau, his fingers froze. His mother’s image—a beauty with big eyes, dark skin, and full red lips—smiled out into the room.

  Without warning, Jalen choked up like his father and JY before him. Today had been one of the biggest days in his life, tomorrow would be another one, and with a kick that reminded him of the time he’d put a fork in the electric outlet, he suddenly missed her. He didn’t just miss her presence, having a mom to come home to who baked cookies or helped with science homework. He missed her from the inside out, as if suddenly aware of an enormous empty space in his chest that just wasn’t supposed to be.

  He stared for quite some time at the picture, and she stared right back, and it was as if she was calling to him and he knew—deep down—that she wanted him to find her. Something had kept them apart, and he suspected that it wasn’t entirely her own doing and that she needed him to reach out. He just knew it.

  And, as he switched off the light and shut his eyes, the only thing that allowed him to fall asleep was the promise that he’d find her.

  6

  IN THE MORNING, HE SPRANG from his bed, slapping at the alarm until it went quiet, then bolted for the bathroom. Somewhere between a shower and brushing his teeth he really woke up, and it was his own baseball tournament that occupied his mind. The restaurant, his friends, JY, being a baseball genius, and even the mother he was determined to find all dropped back to the end of the line, crowded out by thoughts of ground balls, strikes, home runs, and double plays.

  He smelled breakfast as he pulled on his uniform, so the snap of eggs and bacon didn’t surprise him as he rushed into the kitchen. His father smelled of shaving lotion, and he looked and moved about the kitchen like it was midday, not early dawn.

  “There’s my boy. Right on time.” His father carried the hot skillet to the table and slid some breakfast onto two plates. “You eat, then you play good.”

  Nerves dampened Jalen’s appetite, but he knew a long day should start with a good breakfast, and his father would be upset if he didn’t eat, so he chewed and swallowed.

  “Leave the plates,” his father said. “I take you to the bus, and then I clean up.”

  “You’ve got a lot of work to do today, right?” Jalen was thinking about the grand reopening.

  His father put a thumb in the center of his chest. “Is not work for me to cook. It’s what I do. Is a joy.”

  “Like baseball,” Jalen said.

  “For you is like baseball. Play, not work.” His dad’s face glowed behind the small wire-frame glasses and his blue eyes sparkled. “You get your bag, I get the sandwiches.”

  “When did you make them?” Jalen asked.

  “About four. I got
a big day today. I’m no sleep.”

  “Dad, I said you didn’t have to.” Jalen dipped out of the kitchen and back down the short hallway to retrieve his gear bag.

  His dad held the front door for him and said, “I’m thinking about you and your team eating these sandwiches, and I’m thinking I’m gonna help you win. It’s makin’ me happy.”

  Jalen chuckled and got into the minivan. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Already the chill from the night air seemed to be fading, and the clear pink sky above promised a beautiful day for baseball. In that light, Jalen could make out more of the details of their home. Once a railroad shed, it had been cobbled into a small, disjointed house through the years. Even Jalen’s inexpert eye could see where the bedrooms had been added, a stained blue tarp bridging the old and the new to keep water from leaking between the rooflines. One broken window had been replaced by a board, and the porch rested crookedly on piles of cinder blocks and fieldstones. The part of the porch that once wrapped around the side had collapsed after a snowstorm, but you could still see the unpainted scars where it had been attached, and their nail holes bleeding rust. In the daylight, it was an embarrassment, and it knotted Jalen’s stomach to think about one of those reporters showing up and possibly snapping a picture.

  Meanwhile, Jalen realized they weren’t moving. He shifted his focus to the tired-sounding engine as his father turned the key again and again before stopping with a sigh.

  “I don’t know. Maybe she’s flooded.”

  Jalen looked at the clock on the dash. It read 5:43, but the school parking lot was ten minutes away. A chill, along with the words of warning Coach Gamble had given them all—be there by six or we leave without you—passed through his brain.

  “Maybe we become a famous restaurant,” his dad said as he popped the hood. He fished some tools out of the case behind the driver’s seat and held up a wrench at Jalen. “Then we gonna get a new van.”

  His father hustled outside, raised the hood, and bent over the engine. Jalen stood beside him, willing the thing to work, but with very little idea what was happening. His father always insisted that engines weren’t something he should worry about.

  “You keep doing good in school,” his father would say as he swished Jalen away from any mechanical projects he might be after. “You gonna be a doctor or a lawyer. You’re not gonna have space in your brain for mechanics, too.”

  Right now Jalen wished he knew, wished he could help, but he could only stand with his hands shoved deep into his pockets and worry as time seeped away.

  “Now she’s gonna work!” His father wiped his hands on his pants and slammed the hood with confidence.

  Jalen scurried into the passenger seat. His father got in and turned the key.

  The engine groaned in a steady beat without catching fire. His father kept the key turned until the groan became a weary moan that steadily slowed before he let go.

  “The battery, she’s gonna die.” His father stared hard at the controls. “I got maybe one more try. Maybe two.”

  His father suddenly slammed a hand on the dash, and Jalen did the same, even though he was pretty sure that wouldn’t help the situation. The clock now read 5:49.

  The reason everything in the past few days had happened was because Jalen wanted to play on the Rockets. It was the only show in town, a 13U travel team that would give him a summer of competition on the bigger field. It wasn’t Little League anymore. At this stage kids began to play on a field as big as the pros used—ninety feet between the bases instead of sixty.

  It was a transition Jalen knew he had to make, or be left behind forever as a young baseball player with no hope of making it to the pros. All the trouble he’d been in and out of was so he could play. Even the excitement of helping JY salvage his career, and being part of his favorite team’s wins, didn’t compare to how important today was to him. And, because of all that other stuff, Jalen was already on probation with his coach and had been strictly warned that if he missed this morning’s bus, he was finished.

  So he clenched his jaw and tried not to shout at his father. “Dad, hurry!”

  His father—not a churchgoing man—did have a silver cross he wore around his neck, and at times like this, he pulled it out and kissed it before closing his eyes and turning the key once more.

  7

  THE ENGINE TURNED, COUGHED, CAUGHT hold, and roared to life.

  “Hurry,” Jalen said.

  They flew past the diner, and Jalen’s dad couldn’t help puffing up with pride.

  “Look at her, Jalen,” he said, “she’s like-a new.”

  Jalen looked anxiously at the clock before looking out the window. Except for a few remaining pieces of construction equipment and some orange barrels to keep people off the newly planted grass, no one would have suspected that just a few days ago there’d been a pretty serious kitchen fire. His dad was right, the place looked like new, and in a way, it was new. All that, Jalen knew, was thanks to James Yager. But if he was being honest, JY wouldn’t have gotten involved if it wasn’t for Cat. She was the mastermind behind it all, the one with enough nerve to ask for—or maybe she’d actually insisted on—JY’s help.

  On the street leading from the school they passed drivers in various cars and SUVs heading home, having dropped their kids off on time. The clock said 5:59 when they raced up and shuddered to a halt behind the diesel fumes shrouding the bus. Jalen dashed toward Coach Gamble.

  The enormous man held a clipboard in his hand.

  “You just made it,” Coach Gamble snorted, looking at his watch.

  Jalen stepped up onto the first step of the bus, insuring he wouldn’t be left behind, before turning to see his dad trundling up along the length of the bus, with the cooler in both hands weighing him down.

  “Coach,” Jalen’s dad said brightly, “I got you sandwiches for the team. They gonna love ’em.”

  “What?” Coach Gamble scowled at the cooler. “Oh, I got Subway, so we’re all set.”

  “Well, I make them, so I leave for the boys in case they want some, no?” Jalen’s dad was smiling, and Jalen flared with shame. The way his father talked embarrassed him in public, so there was that shame. But he was ashamed of himself, too, for wishing the father he loved wasn’t so different.

  “Yeah, sure. Put them underneath with the equipment. That’s fine.” Coach Gamble turned to Jalen. “Don’t just stand there. Give your dad a hand, and stow your gear underneath too. That’s how we do it. Then get on board, because we are leaving this minute.”

  Jalen stowed his gear bag next to the rest and helped his father slide the cooler into an empty spot before kissing him good-bye.

  “You gonna have-a good luck today,” his father said. “I feel it! And don’t forget you sandwiches. They gonna help!”

  “Bye, Dad. See you tonight for the party.” Jalen boarded the bus, looking for Daniel.

  The door hissed shut, and ignoring Jalen, Coach Gamble roared, “Roll it out, Bussie.”

  As Jalen made his way down the aisle toward the back, where he suspected Daniel would be, someone tripped him. Jalen stumbled, but caught himself and looked back to see Chris Gamble and Dirk Benning—both the coaches’ sons—grinning at him.

  “Did Jalen just kiss some bald guy?” Chris asked Dirk without taking his hateful eyes off Jalen. Chris was not only the coach’s son, he also was the biggest kid in the sixth grade, by far. Even the eighth graders gave him space, so he was used to saying whatever he liked to whoever he felt like saying it to.

  “Yeah, a real smoocher,” Dirk said, making kissing noises with his own lips before breaking out in a hearty laugh.

  An idea crossed Jalen’s mind connecting Dirk’s noises with Chris’s gigantic butt, but he tossed that into a wastebasket of other crumpled-up insults he kept in the corner of his mind. Instead he said, “He’s my dad.”

  “Oh, Daddy, kissy, kissy.” Chris now made kissing noises as well.

  Then Daniel appeared. He lived above the stable
on the estate Cat’s stepfather owned, and he never invented an insult that went to waste. He pushed past Jalen, sticking his butt out at the two coaches’ sons and patting it. “Hey, meatheads. Put your lips right here and kiss this. You see my man on the news last night, amigos? Jalen, maybe these two should come to the grand opening tonight and meet all the Yankees players?”

  Daniel stopped patting his rump and stood up. “Oh, I forgot. No meatheads allowed. Come on, Jalen.”

  “Whatever,” Chris spewed. “Calamari makes me puke.”

  “And the Yankees stink,” Dirk added, sputtering.

  Daniel stiffened, ready for a fight.

  8

  JALEN TUGGED HIS FRIEND TOWARD the back of the bus, knowing that not only would Daniel lose the fight, but that it also would probably get them both kicked off the team. “Thanks, Daniel, but we gotta ignore those two.”

  “Hot sauce, I don’t know about that,” Daniel said. “In the dojo they always say ‘fight fire with fire.’ ”

  “That’s the dojo, amigo.” Jalen took a seat second to the back, and Daniel slumped down opposite him. “Those two know nothing about kung fu.”

  “One day I’m gonna chop that Chris right in the fat part of his neck, and he’s gonna go down like an elephant, I swear,” Daniel said. “Then he’ll know all he needs to know about kung fu.”

  “Easy, amigo.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Daniel brightened. “We got a big day, right? 13U? Ninety-foot bases? First time I’ve pitched in a game from the big mound. You think I’ll be okay?”

  “Of course you will. It’s me I’m worried about. One day of practice, and I looked so bad they were ready to give me my money back.”

  “You were under a lot of pressure,” Daniel said. “Now you’re fine.”

  Outside the window, the sun’s first rays glittered through the treetops alongside the highway. Jalen squinted. “I think about everything it took just for me to be here . . . .”

  “Yeah, but think about what it all did,” Daniel said. “Silver Liner is gonna rock, and soon you won’t be worried about entry fees or anything.”