“She’s not wrong.” He winks at her. “Hey, Rain.”
“If I remember correctly, I helped change your diaper, so—”
“I can assure you the bat’s bigger now.”
She throws her head back and laughs as she reaches over and jacks his brim down. “That would be a strike, My.” She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the announcer stand.
“First one always is,” he calls after her.
“Then I’d change my game, Steel!” She laughs as she drags me behind her.
Standing on the field, mic in hand, I look for a focal point. There are no blinding lights to get lost in; no roaring crowd, excited to see us perform. There is only my family and people who would rather see me fall flat on my face.
I hear a loud whistle and know it’s Amias. I scan the line and see him taking off his hat and placing it over his heart.
There, I tell myself, there is your focus.
The track begins and, with it, Rain and I sing.
I see one of the players shift and don’t even have to look to know who it is, but I do. I look and see him, hat turned backward instead of over his heart, because he’s such an ass.
When he smirks, I know he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and I about miss my note when he takes it off and places it over his heart. I smile as I sing.
When the song is done, he’s the first to clap, and when I look back at Amias, he’s glaring at him.
Fuck.
We quickly hand off the mics, and now it’s me pulling Rain behind me, because Amias, although even-tempered normally, seems to be about ready to flip shit.
“My!” I call from across the field, hoping to stop him as he storms into the dugout.
By the time I get there, he has already grabbed Marcello by the shirt and is pushing him against the cage.
“You even look at her again, and I will fuck up your face. You feel me?” He slams him against it again.
“My, no!” I push through his teammates and grab him. “My, he and I are good.”
“You’re good. He’s a fucking punk-ass bitch.”
“My!” I force my body between theirs. “It’s over. It’s been long over. It wasn’t all him.” I pry his hands off Marc’s jersey. “We should have stayed friends. We’ll be friends again, and so will you two.”
“Debatable after that little show of aggression,” Marc says smugly.
“Shut up,” I sneer at him then turn back to My. “It’s over.”
In the most condescending tone, Marc starts his shit. “Tris and I are working—”
“Say her name one more time, and I will smash your fucking teeth down your throat, and then I’ll break your fucking jaw!” My yells at him.
“Yeah? Just like you and Maxi pad have tried to make a villain out of me so I don’t get laid? How’s that working out?”
I glare back at him.
“My bad, Tris. Come on home, and I’ll pick out all the red fruit snacks for you. Push you on the swings.” Marc steps back and spreads his arms out wide.
“Oh my God, shut the hell up.” I laugh. Hell, he even laughs. And, in the most fucked-up situation, the most fucked-up day, I feel … okay.
Better than okay.
I feel free.
“Come on; Rock ’Em, Sock ’Em.” Rain grabs Amias and jacks him back.
On our way to the security of my family in the stands someone calls my name from behind and I turn around and mutter fuck under my breath.
“Who’s that?” Rain snickers under hers.
“Who would have known you had such a beautiful voice?”
I cannot believe I seriously have to face this snatch; I think as she approaches.
“My girls love your music; would you mind taking a selfie with me? They’ll love it!”
What the fuck? I think as she stands next to me, arm extended and ready to hit the camera button.
“I see your nose healed and clearly you don’t think I’m a threat anymore huh Pinkertits?” Mrs. Pinkerton gasps, I throw up a peace sign and hit the camera button for her. “By the way, your class sucked.”
Wild Things
Tris
We did the band’s beach shoot and, even in the unseasonably cold Jersey weather, the sun was shining and I managed to smile and make it look realistic.
I went shopping with Mom and Brisa for her graduation dress and to pick Amais up something because he had no interest in “doing that shit.” Spoiler alert: neither did I, yet there I was, doing shit.
Today, I sit in the same office where I lost my shit and spilled all my tears with Marc so Marley and I could come up with a “sustainable mental health plan to fit my lifestyle.”
She isn’t comfortable giving me a diagnosis. She says, in her years of practicing, she has seen clinicians who are eager to diagnose clients and those who prefer to take it slow. She prefers to take it at a pace that best benefits her clients.
The first question asked of me is what I thought would change with a diagnosis.
When I don’t answer, she leans back and waits for me to respond.
I really don’t want to, but I need to make an effort to make things better. I desperately want to be able to tell people, those who need to know, what is wrong with me. I also want to understand it myself so that I can take the right meds.
“Being vulnerable with your pain and suffering is one of the hardest things for a person to do. A person who is highly intelligent, like you, even harder. The first time we met on our video session, you closed up like a clam. The emergency sessions were hard, but you persevered. Because of that, I know beyond a doubt that you will get through. The other day, right here, you did it, Tris. You did what so many can’t. You let go of the one thing hurting you the most, and you stopped it by accepting any responsibility you felt you played in it. I’m not saying that’s how I would have handled it, but I am not you. So, for what it’s worth, I am proud of you.”
“I’m proud of me, too, I suppose. But, in effort to being open and vulnerable, I feel myself getting dark again.”
“Depressed?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I tuck my legs beneath me. “I just need to be somewhere else.”
“You have a show in a few days to end your tour, right?”
I nod.
“Okay. And after that?”
“How about before that? How about from now until then? I need—”
“A change in scenery?”
“I want to go back to Italy, like we planned before my epic breakdown.”
“Let’s call it what it really was—your epic breakthrough.”
“Right, and now I’m back to feeling like I wanna crawl out of my skin.”
She scribbles something down. “You need to stay busy. Staying too long in one place makes you feel stuck.”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“Then you are going to play on my stage for a bit. You’re going to help me come up with your treatment plan and, once a week, we talk about what is working and sustainable and what is not. Deal?”
“Do you let everyone do that?”
“No. Only the ones who truly want to get better and who I can tell need a sense of control.”