Girl at Heart Novel – I wait to make my move until the eighth inning. Not because I’m a chicken and can’t seem to get the words out, but because I’m a giant chicken and can’t seem to get the words out. Also, there’s the fact that if I’d asked in the first inning and he rejected me, then the rest of the game would be super awkward. I figure the eighth is late enough. Plus, it’s one of those one-to-nothing games. (Super exciting.) I’ll take any kind of drama I can get at this point. The pitcher releases the ball, and Eric sighs next to me. “Your dad wasn’t kidding about the Cubs’ bullpen. Castillo’s knuckle curve is a work of art. It truly is. I need to learn to throw a pitch like that.” I watch Castillo let loose another pitch. Slider. It looks almost as good as his knuckle curve. “You learn to throw a good knuckle ball, and you’ll have every team in the league fighting over you instead of just half of them.” The corner of his mouth tips up, but his eyes stay on the pitcher. Fastball in. “As long as it’s the same half that’s fighting over you.” I roll my eyes, but my heart warms at the praise. Eric elbows me.
“When we get drafted, we’ll just have to stipulate in our contracts that we go together. I don’t want anyone else catching for me.” I sigh. As much as I love the encouragement, it’s unrealistic. No girl has ever played in the Majors. My dream stops after high school. End of story. “Hey.” Eric finally takes his eyes off the game to frown at me. “Don’t give me that depressed sigh. You know there’s no rule in Major League Baseball that says girls can’t play.” “Yet, no girl ever has.” “So you’ll be the first.” “Pipe dream. I’m done at the end of this season. You know it, and I know it. It was fun while it lasted, though.” Eric glares at me. “Charlotte Hastings, you are the best hitter in our division, and you have the best stats of any catcher in the state.
You have every bit as much of a chance as the rest of us, and you deserve it even more because you work twice as hard as all of us put together.” That isn’t true. Eric works just as hard as me. Dad’s been coaching us both since we were four. And a good lefty pitcher is hard to come by. He already has tons of scouts watching him. As long as he finishes this season without getting hurt, he’s a shoo-in to get drafted out of high school. It won’t work that way for me. That’s just reality. Still, if Eric wants to tell me I’m good enough to play in the Majors, who am I to stop him? The thing is, he’s not just saying it. He genuinely believes it. I may be a realist, but Eric will be surprised when no college or pro teams come knocking on my door.
Eric throws his arm around the back of my chair and gives me a squeeze. I want to melt into a giant puddle from the hug. Eric’s hugs are second only to Dad’s. “Don’t be down on yourself,” he says. “Things will work out. You’ll see.” He squeezes me again and then leaves his arm on the chair behind me. My heart races into overdrive. He’s got his arm around me! That’s new. Maybe I do have a shot. And speaking of… I take a deep breath. It’s now or never. “So…” I clear my throat. “Total subject change here, but…” Eric shoots me a sideways look, waiting for me to spit it out. It’s not like me to be so nervous. I mentally kick my chicken butt and strive for a nonchalant shrug when I say, “Do you have any plans for prom?” He grins. “Yeah. I’m taking Shelly Turner.” He says this like it’s nothing. Like it’s the most casual thing in the world and not the life-ending confession it is. My thoughts come to a screeching halt. He’s already got a date. I lean forward, and his arm falls off the back of my chair. He moves it back to his own space. “Shelly Turner?” I ask. We’ve never spoken, but I suddenly hate her.
Eric’s smile widens. “Hot, right?” “Sure, she’s hot. If you go for the too-perfect, curvy redhead Jessica Rabbit/Scarlett Johansson bombshell look,” I grumble. I can’t help it. I’m battling heartbreak and the green-eyed monster at the same time. Eric looks at me as if I’m crazy. “Um. Duh. Every guy is into that look.” I roll my eyes and focus back on the game. The Pirates are up now, and we walk the first batter. Ugh. Our bullpen should take notes from Chicago. (Don’t tell Dad I said that.) As if the news of Eric and Shelly isn’t bad enough, he has to go and ruin my night even more by saying, “Some of us guys on the team are getting a limo together.” My mouth falls open, and a new kind of hurt settles in my chest. “Diego and Kev, too?” Eric frowns at my frown. “Yeah, and a couple of the others.” I don’t know what to say. My own teammates—my best friends—made plans for prom together, and none of them invited me. That actually hurts worse than Eric having a date. “So what, you all made plans and just didn’t want to invite me?” I can’t keep the hurt out of my voice. It’s enough to make Eric take his eyes off the game again and gape at me in surprise. “We didn’t think you’d want to go.”
Didn’t think I’d want to go to my own senior prom? Everyone wants to go to their senior prom. “Why not?” Eric blinks at me a couple more times, and then a small laugh escapes him. “Hastings, come on. You’re not exactly the formal dance type.” The pain in my chest cuts a little bit deeper, and I have to swallow a lump in my throat. I fold my arms and try not to glare at him. I’m unsuccessful. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He shakes his head, still smirking. “You know you’d have to wear a dress, right? And do your hair and your makeup, and wear girly shoes or whatever? And you’d have to dance. Plus, you’d have to find a date. No one goes to prom alone.” It’s like he has no clue how insulting he’s being. The pain is trying to swallow me whole, but now he’s making me angry, too. Anger is good. I can work with anger. Anger will keep me from doing what I really want to do, which is run away to the bathroom and cry in a toilet stall like a loser until the end of the game. “You don’t think I could get a date?” Eric shrugs and goes back to watching the game.
“Honestly, I don’t want to think about you dating. Diego was right before. You’re practically a sister to me. I don’t want to see you making out with guys or whatever.” I scoff, but Eric only smirks at me. “Besides, no guy is good enough for you. I’m going to be as bad as your dad when it comes to guys trying to date you. Diego and Kev will, too. We’re all going to have shotguns. I’m afraid you’re screwed.” I’m so angry, and I’m hurt, and my heart is breaking, but at the same time a sick part of me is touched. Eric thinks no guys are good enough for me? It’s just sweet enough to keep me from bursting into tears. But when he shoots me a playful smile, I respond with one that’s more of a grimace. I can’t look at him anymore. I turn all of my focus back on the game and concentrate on not crying. Eric definitely doesn’t return my undying love. A part of me knew this was coming, but that doesn’t mean I was prepared for how much it hurts. “Hey. Hastings. You okay?” I slump down in my chair and pull the brim of my baseball cap lower over my eyes. “I’m fine.” “Are you mad at me?” I don’t dare look at him, though I can feel his eyes burning a hole in my head. “Why would I be mad at you?” If he doesn’t know, I’m not going to spell it out for him.
“I don’t know, but you seem mad.” “Well, I’m fine,” I snap. Yeah, that was totally believable. Eric sits back with a glare. “Geez. Relax. I honestly didn’t think you’d want to go. But if you do, then find a date and come with us. You know you’re invited. You don’t have to get all huffy about it.” I grind my teeth. At this point, it’s better to not engage. “Yeah, sure, whatever. I’ll let you know.” That seems to appease Eric, and he goes back to the game while I sit and stew and agonize in silence. My life will never be the same again. I just want to go home where I can sneak a pint of Ben & Jerry’s into my bedroom and cry my eyes out over some cheesy teen rom-c0m on Netflix. It’s a good night for The DUFF. I totally feel Bianca’s pain. At least I waited until the eighth inning. I only have to sit through one more before I can go home. And hey, even a one-to-nothing snoozefest is still a Pirates win. So at least something went right today. I barely eat or sleep the rest of the weekend. How can I, after Eric crushed me? I’m flat-out exhausted by the time Monday morning rolls around, and I fall back to sleep after I shut off my alarm. Dad realizes I slept in and wakes me up soon enough that I get to school just as the bell rings. But I didn’t get a shower or breakfast, and I barely scoot into my first hour without earning detention.
I slump down into my chair only to face the curious stares of my tablemates, who also happen to be my teammates. I’m not a social person. Eric, Diego, and Kevin are my only friends. The only other people I even know in this school are my teammates. Luckily, I have three of them in my chemistry class, so I didn’t get paired with a bunch of strangers all year. Right now, I kind of wish I did, because as soon as Mrs. Kendrick explains the day’s lab and lets us get to work, the guys start in on me with a million questions. At first, I don’t know what their problem is. They don’t usually pay me much attention. I’m part of the group, but I don’t talk much, and they don’t try to make me. I’m not shy, just really introverted, and it’s easy to sit back and let Reynolds, Cabrera, and Springer do all the chatting. I’m not sure why they’re all staring at me this morning, but they seem to be waiting for something. Reynolds grins at me and then starts the conversation off with “You look like cr@p, Hastings.” I roll my eyes but smile, too. I like Reynolds. Mark Reynolds is a utility outfielder and the team goofball.
His teasing is always all in good fun. Aside from Eric, Diego, and Kevin, Mark and his best friend, Jace King, are the only guys who really make an effort to talk to me. But Jace is the team captain. He probably feels obligated to include me, and I’m sure he encourages Mark to do the same. No one else bothers. It’s not that the team doesn’t like me—at least, I don’t think it’s not—we’re just not close. A) I’m a girl. The guys are used to me now, but it can still be weird sometimes when they fart or make jokes about girls and stuff, and B) Since I mostly keep to myself, the guys on the team are friendly with me, but we’re not friends. Not really. More like acquaintances. We don’t hang out outside of team stuff. I want to argue with Mark about the state of my appearance, but I do have dark circles under my eyes, and I’m a frazzled mess this morning.
He’s right. I look like cr@p. “Just what every girl wants to hear, Reynolds. Thanks. For your information, I didn’t sleep last night.” There’s a heavy pause that I don’t understand. “Bad night?” Reynolds asks, probing for something. All three of them watch me intently again. It’s so weird. “Yeah, I guess,” I admit. Then Springer shocks me so much I nearly fall out of my chair. “Tough breakup, huh? You okay?” “Breakup?” I honestly have no clue what he’s talking about. Cabrera elbows him, but Springer’s got chronic foot-in-mouth disease and never knows when to shut up. “You and Sullivan. He’s going to prom with Shelly Turner. The whole team’s trying to figure out who dumped who.” Mark kicks Springer under the table. “Dude. Shut up. That’s rude.” Springer’s face turns red, and he grimaces at me. “Sorry.” It takes me a moment to process what he said, because it feels like it came out of left field. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that they all assumed Eric and I were a couple.
We’re always together. But I am surprised. We’ve never held hands or pecked or done any of the things couples do. I’m also shocked that the team has been talking about us. I wouldn’t have thought they cared so much. Eric is just like me—part of the team but somehow still separate. I guess we kind of live in our own little bubble. “Um.” My face feels like it’s on fire. I shake my head and try to get my brain started again. “Eric and I aren’t…I mean, we’ve never…we’re best friends, but…” Now it’s their turn to look shocked. “You weren’t dating?” Springer asks. “Seriously?” “This whole time?” Reynolds asks. I shake my head.