Page 69 of Chasing Headlines

Ramona, Oklahoma

Istared at the handset. The email claimed it was from “Coach Nevins”, one of the assistants who managed evening study hall. The message said it contained midterm study materials, but the subject line seemed off: “Study Hall materials you requested”. I didn't go to study hall, I'd also not seen any emails where the first name was “Coach”. And I hadn't requested anything.I'll ask Coach on Monday.

“How's the arm doing?” Dad asked as he sat in the same faded recliner he always did. The thing had been around since the last one broke down—the summer before sixth grade. Mom had been the one . . .

I winced and forced the memory from my mind. “Not a pitcher, Dad.” I tucked my phone back into my pocket. The living room, this place, I could almost pretend when I was in my dorm room, that she was just far away. At home. Alive.

But coming here . . .

“I know that, son. But how else do you—?” He sighed. “Never mind. You doing ok?”

No, I'm not ok. My life started sliding sideways, out of control, ever since Mom died. Everything I'd worked for. Everything I wanted . . .I hung my head.

“How's the schoolwork? Making new friends and having a good time?”

There was an edge to his voice. I knew where this was going.

“Didn't go away to college, you know. Just studied classes nearby at the junior college. My Dad wanted me to learn the business side of running the farm, that was the only reason.”

“I know. College wasn't my first choice, but Mom wanted me to go.”And I didn't have much of a choice.

“Your mother was from a different universe sometimes. I don't know how I got so lucky.”

“You met her at the junior college.”

“Her father was the baseball coach. You get all that from her side.”

I bit my tongue. His brother played through high school, but they weren't on speaking terms. My Dad could hold a grudge like no one else I knew.

There are the things I can change. And the things I can't.I took a deep breath.

His lips stretched into an expression that I couldn't name. It just looked . . . old. Aged. Worn. His skin sagged from his features like it was too tired to hold on anymore. Bags pooled under his eyes.

This is what you get for kissing girls instead of chasing baseballs, huh, Mom?I shook my head.

“Son?” He cleared his throat like he was about to launch into a speech.

I rubbed at my forehead as if I could massage the irritation away. “Yeah.”

“I think it's time I considered selling this place.” He let out a heavy breath.

I nodded slowly as if I was considering his words. I knew he expected me to have some kind of reaction, but I wasn't sure what the farm or selling it—what any of it had to do with me.

But what was I supposed to say? I didn't want to set the man off. He had a temper when he got going. I studied my hands in case they held an answer. But the more I searched inside for any sort of reaction or even something I could pretend to feel for his sake, the less any of this part of my life felt like . . . it belonged to me.

God, why couldn't I get my shit together? Why did everything feel like I was running with everything I had just to not fall backwards? Fall behind. I'd had no time to study, midterms were already here. And I was unprepared. On edge.

The exhibition game was coming up. And so far, Schorr seemed content with his lineup from last year. None of us freshmen were getting any looks. Meyers and Jacobs were being considered for long and middle relievers. No starts.

Latske and Jimenez were getting some reps at catcher, but there'd been a gap left at the position. Jimenez normally played right field. Latske seemed their first choice.

“Son?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you hear what I said?” Dad's voice rumbled.

“Selling the farm. Yeah, I heard you.” I glanced away, my eyes catching on the hallway to their bedroom. My chest tightened. What I wouldn't give for her to emerge from that room . . . Like the old days, when she'd make me pancakes on a Saturday morning.