the day i met brian hoffman
52 days until i turn 18
Bubblegum Pink is the nail polish of the day.
Matt Higgins will definitely like it—he’s into all things girly-girl, so I add another coat before blowing on my nails. Tonight we’re meeting at this field party, and I fully expect we’ll make out behind a hay bale or something.
Drew is lounging on my bed, reading Cosmo. “So I signed you up to be manager for my baseball team.”
“What?!” Careful not to mess up my polish, I mute the TV and sit up to face him. “Why?”
“I can’t stand the idea of you holed up in your room while I’m playing ball this spring. You should come to practice tomorrow morning.” He smells a perfume ad, cringes and sticks his tongue out.
My heart pounds faster than light speed. I hate baseball. I know, I know. That means I’m not a true American. It probably means I’m not human. But I gave up foam fingers, peanuts, and the Atlanta Braves when my mom announced she’s a lesbian and ran off with her friend who was more than just a friend. A year ago January, she divorced my dad, and I divorced her dreams of me playing softball for Hundred Oaks.
“No way,” I say, examining my nails.
“Come on, Parker!” He thumbs through the magazine. “Please?” he whines.
“What’s involved?” I try to act nonchalant, but Drew looks up with a knowing smile. He’s lived down the street from me my whole life—I’ll do anything for him.
“Taking stats and helping with equipment.”
Taking stats is way easy. I could do it in my sleep.
“It’ll be a cinch,” Drew says, reading my mind. He shows me a cartoon couple using a dining room table for Kama Sutra maximum effect. “Jesus Christ,” he says. “Is that move physically possible?”
“Try it out with Amy and let me know.”
He glances at me sideways, then turns the magazine vertical and studies it closely. “I’m flexible, but not that flexible.”
“Can you imagine needing a hip replacement at seventeen? You could get a cane with flames painted on it.”
“Or maybe one with skulls.”
“Pirate ships!”
“Don’t change the subject…So there’ll be plenty of guys for you on the team.” He snorggles. That’s our special word for snorting and giggling. It’ll be in Webster’s any day now.
I have to admit I love the way cute guys look in baseball uniforms. Plus, I’d get to spend more time with Drew. Lately, his idea of fun has been going to Jiffy Burger with Corndog and Sam Henry and acting like they’re the characters from Seinfeld, talking about nothing. Drew invites me along sometimes when they need an Elaine, because I’m really good at punching Corndog (George Costanza) and yelling “Get out!” and Drew says I dance worse than the real Elaine. But it’s been getting kinda old. How many times can those guys debate who has better fries: Sonic or Jiffy Burger?
And what else do I have to do this semester? It’s February, I’ve got a 4.0, and classes don’t matter at this point—the only way Vanderbilt could revoke my early admission would be if I went on the news and advocated for Tennessee to secede from the union.
On the other hand, this could be a lot of work. I’d probably end up doing hard stuff like lugging water coolers around and washing dirty jockstraps or something.
On the other hand, I don’t want to be lonely.
Jockstraps it is.
When I was five, Mom discovered a recipe for homemade edible Play-Doh. We loved cooking together, especially fancy stuff like foie gras grilled cheese. We sat at the kitchen table, which was covered by the previous week’s comics, and mixed flour and sugar and peanut butter together and rolled it into shapes. I had dinosaur cookie cutters, so I made a Play-Doh T-Rex. Mom made a triceratops. I bit its head off, and she joked, “My little praying mantis.” We giggled and giggled and gorged ourselves on that Play-Doh. The next day we went to church and Mom and I kneeled at the altar. As I prayed, I didn’t ask you for anything. I only thanked you for giving me Mom.
Written on February 12 before the party at Morton’s field. Burned using a candle.
On Saturday morning, Drew and I arrive at the baseball field behind Hundred Oaks High—aka the only place I dread more than Chuck E. Cheese (I worked there last summer and almost died because I had to wear a Crusty the Cat costume).
We step out of his red VW bug into the sun, and the crisp wind bites my face. I pull my arms up inside my fleece and begin the trek across the parking lot to meet the players, who are warming up by doing throwing exercises and sprints. I stare at the most popular guys at our school.
Popular-schmopular—any cute guy will do. Last Sunday after church? I hung out with this guy Aaron on the swings at the playground, listening to him talk about how much his school sucks (he goes to Woodbury High) and how Nirvana really is the best band ever. I disagree—I’m into modern stuff like Paramore and the All-American Rejects, but I couldn’t get a word in because he kept talking and talking and talking. Before he drove home with his parents, I let him kiss me beside the turtle sandbox thing, so people will know I like boys.
“Over here!” Coach Burns calls, beckoning us.
“Oh, dear me,” I croon to Drew. “Your coach is older than baseball itself.”
“I think he coached my grandpa.”
“And his grandpa.”
“Everyone’s been saying he’ll retire after this year. Would you rather retire or work your whole life?”
“I’d retire tomorrow if I could, and I haven’t even started working yet,” I reply. “When you retire, would you rather spend time playing golf or bingo?”