A High Five for Glenn Burke Read online

“That one’s a little low,” the ump calls. “Ball one.”

  It’s a good thing it was, because I didn’t see the pitch until after it crossed the plate.

  My bat feels heavy, and I know if my bat feels heavy, my timing’s going to be off. I rest it on my shoulder and adjust my helmet. Then I wipe the corners of my eyes with my sweatband.

  I’m not solar-powered today. I’m the opposite of solar-powered today.

  “Renegades are ready, Renegades are ready,” Webb says. “Show them how we do, Number Three.”

  The Knights pitcher rocks into his windup.

  Bye Bye Birdie was incredible last night, but I only know it was incredible because everyone else said it was incredible. I spent the entire show thinking about Zoey and how—

  I start to swing, but I don’t want to swing, so I check my swing but not in time. I foul the chaser over our dugout.

  “Incoming!” Malik’s mom shouts and rings her cowbell. “Incoming!”

  The ball lands nowhere close to the bleachers.

  Malik’s standing in the dugout with his arms covering his head.

  His mom’s not annoying too many people yet. Luis’s dad and Alexander’s parents are the only other ones in our bleachers, which is how it usually is for the first few innings on triple-header days, especially when it’s blazing like this. Mom and Dad aren’t coming at all today because Dad has work and Mom couldn’t find anyone to look after Semaj.

  I wipe the sweat from around my eyes again. I never got to wish Zoey good luck because she told me she hated me and was never talking to me again before I got the chance.

  “Strike three!” the umpire calls.

  My bat doesn’t move. It’s the first time I’ve struck out looking all season.

  * * *

  “I got it! I got it! I got it!” Malik calls for the pop-up behind short. He drifts toward second and raises his glove to shield his eyes from the sun. “I got it!”

  But from where I’m standing in center, I know Malik doesn’t got it.

  “Mine! Mine!” Ben-Ben shouts from second. His glove’s also up, and he’s moving to his right. “Mine! Mine!”

  Malik stops and pulls back his glove.

  Ben-Ben stops, too.

  The ball falls between them. Carter charges off the mound and picks it up. By the time he does, the runner from second is crossing the plate, and the Knights are extending their lead to 4–0.

  “Time-out, ump,” Webb calls, walking out onto the field.

  The ump raises his arms. “Time is called.”

  As he heads to the mound, Webb waves to Ben-Ben and Malik and then points to me. I’m still standing where I was when the ball left the bat. I want no part of what’s about to go down at this meeting, but I can’t show up Webb, so I jog in.

  “Happy now?” Webb says. He takes the upside-down sunglasses off the brim of Ben-Ben’s cap and then grabs the pair off Malik’s. “We told you this would happen.”

  “My bad,” Ben-Ben says. “My bad.”

  Malik takes out his mouthguard. “Yeah. Sorry, Webb,” he says.

  “Your bad? You’re sorry?” Webb stuffs the sunglasses into his back pocket. “We can’t keep giving away outs. That’s what we did in the opener, and that’s why we lost.” He puts his hands on his hips. “We’re beating ourselves out here.”

  We lost the opener 5–1. The game had been tied 1–1 going into the sixth, but Jason airmailed a throw that led to a run, Ernesto missed a cutoff that led to another, and then their DH smacked a two-out, two-run single that put the game out of reach.

  “Why didn’t you call it?” Ben-Ben asks. “Why didn’t you call it?”

  It takes a second to realize he’s talking to me.

  “The play was right in front of you,” he says. “Why didn’t you call it?”

  I didn’t call it because I was thinking about Zoey and what she may have said when she found out what I’d said about her. I was thinking that if she said something to someone, then he, Malik, and Carter, and everyone on the Renegades might know about me.

  That’s why I went 0 for 4 with three strikeouts in the opener. That’s why I’m 0 for 2 in this game.

  “I thought … I thought Carter was going to call it.”

  “No way.” Ben-Ben waves his hands. “No way.”

  “You always make that call,” Malik says.

  “Yeah, you always call it,” Carter says.

  “The play was right in front of you,” I say.

  I look at Webb. He’s staring at me in a way I’m not used to.

  “Shake it off, Malik,” I say, patting his shoulder with my glove.

  He shrugs it off.

  I flinch. Everyone sees. Everyone.

  “What’s up with you today, Silas?” Ben-Ben asks.

  I swallow. “Me?”

  “Yeah, you,” Ben-Ben says. “You haven’t hit the ball past the pitcher all day.”

  I wave my glove at him. “Well, I’m not the one dropping pop-ups.”

  “Well, I’m not the one making up stories about imaginary girlfriends and—”

  “Are you kidding me right now?” Webb cuts him off. “Gentlemen, I have no idea what this is, but whatever it is, you need to work it out. But not right now. Right now, you need to put whatever this is aside and play Renegades baseball. That’s it. Renegades baseball now, work it out later. Full stop.” He claps at each of us. “Come on now. Let’s get this last out.”

  “Rock ’n’ roll,” Malik says.

  “One more.” Ben-Ben pats Carter’s shoulder with his glove. “One more.”

  “Renegades are ready.” Webb claps as he backpedals away. “Renegades are ready.”

  Ben-Ben knows. Ben-Ben knows because Zoey told him. They’re in the same robotics club. I never realized they were. I can’t believe I never realized they were.

  I turn around and jog back out to center. I’m trying not to cry. I’m doing everything in my power not to cry.

  * * *

  I dip my gray hand towel into the melted ice at the bottom of the cooler and then drape it over my head. The cold water drips down my neck and rolls down my shoulders and back. The heat and humidity have sapped me of everything. The heat and humidity have sapped all the Renegades of everything.

  We lost the second game 10–2. On Carter’s first pitch after the dropped pop fly, he gave up a two-run homer. Then the Knights scored four more in the next inning, three on a bases-loaded single and two-base throwing error.

  We’re all sitting in the shade behind the bleachers. Luis is next to me on the other side of the cooler. I have the towel over my head, and I’m staring at the apricot fruit bars in my cap on the grass.

  “That ump was the worst,” Carter says. “I’d throw a pitch, and he’d call it a ball. Then I’d throw the same pitch, and he’d call it a strike.”

  “The ump isn’t why you gave up seven runs,” Malik says.

  “I gave up seven runs because you couldn’t catch a pop-up,” Carter says.

  “No,” Malik says. “That was one pop-up and one run.”

  “What are you talking about?” Carter says. “That was three runs. Two more scored on the next pitch.”

  “Dude, you threw the pitch!” Malik yells.

  “You were the reason I threw the pitch,” Carter says. “It should’ve been three outs.”

  I haven’t said a word the whole time I’ve been sitting here because I’m still too stunned to speak. How did I miss that Ben-Ben and Zoey know each other? How did I miss they’re in robotics together? How well do they know each other? What else have they said about me?

  “That umpire was the worst,” Kareem says.

  “The next time he makes a bad call,” Carter says, “I’m saying something.”

  “I know, right?” Kareem says. “I’m saying something, too.”

  “Shut up, Snickers,” Theo says. “You’re not saying anything.”

  “Snickers.” Luis shakes his head.

  I peek out from under my towel. Theo is s
pitting seeds at Kareem, and Luis is smirking, but I don’t say anything. I should, but I don’t.

  Kareem reaches into his Renegades bag and takes out his beef jerky. He’s pretending not to feel the sunflower seeds and hear the digs and see the looks, but he does. We all know he does.

  I glance at Theo. He’s sitting in the exact spot where I had all the costumes laid out on the grass the other day. If I hadn’t done my show, Theo and Kareem would have never made the comments. If they’d never made those comments, Webb would’ve never heard about it and said something, and Coach Noles and Brayden would still be on the Renegades. If they were still on the Renegades, the rest of the Renegades would’ve never been talking about them in the bleachers, and I would’ve never said what I did about Zoey.

  I rub my eye with my palm. If I’d never told Zoey, none of this would have happened. None of this.

  We’re going to lose the next game. The Renegades are about to get swept in a triple-header by a team that should have a hard time scoring runs against us, and I’m the reason. I know I’m the reason.

  “We’re not losing this next game,” I blurt out. I yank the towel off my head and swat the grass. “The Renegades aren’t losing three in a row to the Knights.”

  “If you keep striking out, we will,” Ben-Ben says. “Try getting on base.”

  “I’m going to,” I say. “Believe me.”

  “Believe you?” Ben-Ben says. “Whatever you say, dude.”

  I look right at Ben-Ben, but I don’t say anything. I can’t believe this is happening, I can’t believe this is happening, I can’t believe this is happening.

  “What?” Ben-Ben says. “What are you looking at?”

  I still don’t say anything.

  “Dude, the whole team knows you’re a liar,” he says.

  I flinch. The whole team sees me flinch. What did Zoey say to Ben-Ben? How much did she say to Ben-Ben? They all know what she said, but I have no idea what she said, and even if I did know—

  “Anyway, I have a girlfriend,” Ben-Ben mocks me. He stands up and flips his hair. “I’m kicking it with that girl Zoey.”

  I press my trembling palms against the grass, and when I do, I realize it’s not just my hands that are shaking. My whole body is.

  “I’m at her house every Wednesday.” Ben-Ben flips his hair again. “We’re the only ones there.” He stares down at me. “What do you think we’re doing, singing karaoke?”

  I peep Malik. He shakes his head and looks away.

  “So what is it?” Ben-Ben kneels in front of me. “Is she your girlfriend or not?”

  I don’t answer because I can’t answer, because all my strength is going toward holding myself up and fighting my tears.

  “Liar.” Ben-Ben stands back up and kicks the bottom of my cleat. “Dude, you and your girlfriend need to get your stories straight.”

  26

  IT’S NOT OKAY!

  “No!” I shout, throwing back my comforter. “Semaj, put it down!”

  “Bat,” she says.

  “Put it down!”

  “Baseball bat.” She taps the end of my bed with my yellow Wiffle.

  I was dead asleep until two seconds ago, and when I opened my eyes, I was greeted by the sight of Semaj in her onesie standing at the foot of my bed holding my bat like a lightsaber.

  “You don’t belong in here!” I kick off the rest of my covers.

  “Semaj baseball bat,” she says. “Semaj baseball bat.”

  “Put it down!” I jump out of bed.

  “Semaj baseball—”

  “No!” I grab the bat and rip it out of her hands. “Put it down!”

  “Silas!” Mom bursts into my room.

  “Get her out of here!” I shake the bat in Semaj’s face.

  “Silas!” Mom grabs my arm.

  “She was about to smash my José Altuve!”

  “She wasn’t near your bobbleheads!”

  “Yes, she was!” I whirl around and fling the bat onto my bed. It bounces off the wall and lands on the floor by the closet.

  “Silas!” Mom shouts again.

  Semaj starts to cry.

  “What is she doing in my room?” I yell.

  “This is how I have to start my Sunday morning?” Mom wraps her arms around Semaj and glares at me. “You happy now?”

  “No, I’m not happy now!”

  Mom squeezes and rocks Semaj. “It’s okay,” she says. “It’s okay, Pumpkin, shh.” She shakes her head at me.

  I shake my head back. I’m wide awake now, and right away, I think about yesterday. I think about standing in center field during the last inning of the third game—a game we lost 5–0—with tears streaming down my cheeks.

  I have no idea when I finally fell asleep last night, because I couldn’t stop thinking about how Zoey and Ben-Ben know each other from robotics. I missed it. It never crossed my mind. But it has to cross my mind. I can’t miss things like that anymore, because if I do miss things like that, people are going to find out about me. And people can’t find out about me.

  I press my palms against my temples. I should have never listened to the kids in the videos, and I should have never listened to what was written in the letters, and I should have never said something to Zoey, and I should have never said something to Webb, and I should have never—

  “Silas, I need your help around here,” Mom says, speaking softer. She’s still rocking Semaj, who’s still crying. “I can’t do this by myself.”

  “She came into my room and woke me up,” I say.

  “I know she did, but I need you to be more sensitive to—”

  “I need to be more sensitive?” I point to myself. “I’m always sensitive. I have no choice but to be sensitive—”

  “Lower your voice.” Mom cuts me off. “Please don’t upset Semaj even more than—”

  “No! I don’t want to lower my voice. I’m tired of lowering my voice.” I flail my arms. “I’m tired of being sensitive. People need to be sensitive of me. People need to be—”

  “Hey, hey, hey.” Dad walks in with his hands up. “What’s going on?”

  “Silas is having a rough morning,” Mom answers calmly.

  “Is this about baseball yesterday?” Dad asks.

  “Baseball bat,” Semaj says, whimpering.

  “It’s okay.” Mom pulls her closer. “Shh.”

  “Losing three games like that can be tough.” Dad rubs his bald spot. “You’re having such a great season and then to drop—”

  “This isn’t about baseball, Dad.” I flail my arms again.

  “Okay, then what’s this about, Swade? What seems—”

  “That!” I shout. “That’s what this is about!”

  “What?” Dad’s hands are back up.

  “Stop calling me that!” I stomp my foot. “I don’t want you calling me Swade anymore!”

  “Then I won’t call you Swade anymore.” He nods once. “Okay?”

  “No! It’s not okay. You say it is, but it’s not.” I smack my sides. “How can you be so clueless?”

  “Silas, this isn’t like you,” he says. “I don’t know where this is coming—”

  “I know you don’t! That’s the problem.”

  “Silas, lower your voice.” Mom strokes Semaj’s hair. “Please.”

  “You’re so clueless, Dad! Do you ever hear anyone else call me Swade anymore? Do you? Don’t you see the looks I give you when you do? Don’t you see the looks Mom gives you? She knows how much I hate it. Ask her. Oh, wait, you can’t ask her, because you two don’t even talk to each other anymore.”

  “Silas, please,” Mom says.

  “No, Mom,” I say. “It’s the truth, and you know it. Stop pretending it’s not.” I smack my sides again and turn back to Dad. “I’m glad you can’t come to my games anymore. Do you know why? Because it’s humiliating. It’s humiliating when you call me Swade in front of everyone. I’m not Swade! I don’t want kids calling me that. I’m not Swade!”

  “Okay.” Da
d leans against the doorframe. “I’ve retired the nickname.”

  I sit down on the edge of my bed and cover my eyes with my palms. I think about the text I sent Zoey last night when I couldn’t sleep. I wished her luck in the rest of the competition, but before pressing Send, I stared at the screen for the longest time because I would need to know if she read it. And I needed her to read it, and I still don’t know if she has because I’m afraid to check and see.

  I slide my hands around my head and press them against my temples again. Why did I tell Zoey? Why did I tell Webb? How could I do this to myself? How could I have not known this would happen?

  “I don’t want to play baseball anymore,” I say.

  “Baseball,” Semaj says.

  “Why not?” Mom asks, still speaking calmly.

  “Wow,” Dad says. “I didn’t see that coming.”

  “Gil, please,” Mom says. “Let him answer. Why not, Silas?”

  “I just don’t.” I lower my hands and shake my head. “I’m not … I’m not having fun anymore.”

  “Does this have something to do with your coach leaving the team last—?”

  “No, Dad, it doesn’t,” I interrupt. “I’m just not having fun anymore. I haven’t for a while.”

  “Why is this the first we’re hearing about it?”

  “Gil, please,” Mom says again.

  “Can I skip practice on Tuesday?” I ask her.

  “Tuesday or the rest of the season?” she asks.

  “Tuesday,” I say. “I need a self-care day.”

  Mom smiles. “I can go along with that,” she says. “Gil?”

  Dad shrugs. “If Silas is missing practice,” he says, “he needs to be the one to tell his coach, not you.”

  “I know,” I say. “It’s a team rule. Webb says you have to call if you can’t make a practice or a game.”

  * * *

  I put off making the call until after dinner. Since my phone is in my room, I use Mom’s to call Webb. I dial his number, press Speaker, and place the phone on the kitchen island. I want the call to go right to voice mail—I need the call to go right to voice mail—but it doesn’t. Now I need him not to answer. He doesn’t after the first ring, he doesn’t after the second, he doesn’t after the third …