CHAPTER
ONE
I SPENT SIX MONTHS planning for the Kansas City Royals game—quietly hoarding a few dollars each week, going behind my mom’s back to arrange the day off, finally getting my license so I could drive. She’d been a Royals fan since Gramps took her to a game for her fifth birthday, and she hadn’t been back to one since. Everything had to be perfect.
When I handed the tickets to the man behind the booth at Gate D, he tipped his hat to me. “I hope you and your sister enjoy the game.”
“Thanks.” He wasn’t trying to flatter us, and I didn’t bother to correct him. Trying to explain how my thirty-five-year-old mom had an eighteen-year-old daughter took a lot more energy than I was willing to expend on strangers. I’d learned that lesson a long time ago.
Mom practically bounced on her toes as we stepped through the gates of Kauffman Stadium, into a sea of blue and white and the kind of buzz TV couldn’t capture. I didn’t have a Royals jersey, so I’d settled for the white peasant top embroidered with little blue seashells Gram had made for me to celebrate uploading my first YouTube video. Dozens of people milled around the food stands and carts selling hats and giant foam fingers. The scent of popcorn and fried bread made my mouth water. It had been a long drive from Honeyfield, and I hadn’t eaten breakfast.
“Macy, I don’t know what to say. I can’t believe you did this for me.” Mom’s eyes shone in the bright sun. I didn’t want her to ruin her makeup.
“Hey.” I handed her a napkin. “‘There’s no crying in baseball,’ remember?”
“Right.” She sniffed, as if trying to will her precarious tears back in. “You’re right, as usual. What should we do first? Grab our seats?”
“Food.” I took her arm and dragged her to the nearest hot dog stand.
Once we loaded up with eats, drinks, and souvenirs, we headed down to Section 316, Row C. My hat didn’t fit properly thanks to my curly pigtails, and my blond hair wasn’t long enough to pull into a ponytail. Oh well. I mashed it down on my head anyway. Even in the shaded section, the plastic seat warmed my legs. Little kids with sticky cotton candy fingers toddled up the stairs with their families, while vendors tried to stay out of the way.
The stadium filled up quickly while I took several photos of me and Mom with the field as our backdrop. I flicked through them, trying out different filters and found the best one to post on Instagram. The whole baseball vibe made me want to do a Royals theme for my next YouTube video. Maybe a group of Kevin Costner films? I shook my head. Fear of mentioning the White Sox under our roof, let alone crafting a uniform for Field of Dreams’s signature team, had kept me away from that particular review for years. I’d have to think of something else.
A shadow fell over us. Mom groaned as a guy who had to be near seven feet tall took the seat right in front of her, practically blocking the prime view that had eaten up half my savings to secure.
“Trade seats with me,” I said.
She leaned from side to side, trying to see around the guy. “Are you sure?”
“This is your day.” Plus, I wasn’t nearly the fan she was, much to her disappointment. “You know I’m going to get bored by the second inning and just start playing on my phone.”
“I don’t know.” The worry line between her eyebrows appeared, though a faint outline had started to take up permanent residence on her face.
“It’s fine. Honestly. Come on.” I stood, balancing my Coke and hot dog in one hand while I pulled her up with the other.
I turned to my seat a little too fast, just as a guy was coming down the other side of the aisle. I stumbled, somehow managed to stay on my feet, but my Coke and hot dog were goners. Unfortunately, they’d gone all over the guy’s shirt.
“Shi—” I glanced at my mom. She didn’t get after me for cussing at home, but she hated when I did it in public. “Shoot. I’m so sorry.” I picked up a few scattered napkins and dabbed at the KC on his shirt. He looked to be about my age. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“No big deal.” He pulled the cotton T-shirt over his head and draped it over the back of his chair. “See?”
“I do see.” I nodded slowly, trying to figure out a discreet way of checking to see if my jaw was still attached, or if it had come unhinged and fallen to the ground.
The guy had abs, like body-spray-commercial abs. The kind of abs that created shadows in the ridges of his muscles. I had a strange urge to poke him in the stomach to see if it felt as hard as it looked. A woman in the row behind me had an enormous pink bow tying her hair in a half ponytail, and she giggled as she caught my eye and winked.
“Looks like we’re going to be seatmates for the next few hours, so no point in getting hung up over an accident. I’m Eric, by the way. This is my buddy Rod.” He stuck his thumb out to the shorter guy behind him I’d just noticed.
“I’m …” What was my name again? “Macy. Evans. The Third.” I wasn’t the third of anything. Why did I just say that? Did the glare coming off his abs fry the portion of my brain that controlled coherent thought?
“Cool. You look familiar, Macy Evans the Third. Liberty High?”
I shook my head.
“Eric Dufrane.” He pointed at himself. “I just graduated from there yesterday.” He sat, spreading his legs out until they spilled over into my seating area, which made him at least 40 percent less attractive. Bummer.
“I just graduated too, from Honeyfield High, up north. I drove down here so I could surprise my mom for her birthday.”
She bent forward and gave a little wave. “Sorry my daughter is a klutz.”
“No problem, Mrs. Evans the Second.” He flashed a Colgate-worthy smile, but she’d already abandoned her chair to chase down the guy selling foam fingers in the aisle.
Eric settled into his seat, taking up even more room. “Wow, your mom is hot.”
Gross. What a waste of perfectly good abs.
After the anthem, the opening pitch, and that mortifying moment where Mom tried to get everyone to do the wave, which petered out after five people, I opened my YouTube app. I tried to watch the game. Honestly. But between tall guy and the manspreader with abs, I had zero chance of enjoying the experience.
The John Hughes/Molly Ringwald review I’d uploaded a few weeks ago of Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink, and The Breakfast Club had topped out at twenty thousand views, better than my other videos, which had barely gotten over ten thousand. A respectable number, but not enough. I needed at least a million to attract sponsors and start making real money. I already dressed like characters from the films I reviewed, but I needed to do something more to stand out.
Two days ago, I’d uploaded my take on late-nineties rom-coms: She’s All That, 10 Things I Hate About You, and Never Been Kissed. The white feathered top Drew Barrymore wore in Never Been Kissed had been a nightmare to construct, and 10 Things was the only movie that really held up. My comments section agreed. It had also been my best editing job to date. I had high hopes, but the ticker moved slow. Three thousand views so far. Only 997,000 to go.
I wasn’t even alive when most movies I reviewed were made, but thanks to my job, I had access to the best and worst of the VHS world. And if Hollywood ever stumbled upon my YouTube channel, they’d have a whole road map for how to remake those films, especially if they wanted to do better by women.