Auggie
“I AM THE SCHOOL’S SPORTS CORRESPONDENT: I AM ONE HUNDRED percent sure that no one paints their face for high school baseball games.”
My parents ignore me and continue turning my face into an overly school-spirited art piece.
Kate is standing in the doorway to the bathroom, arms crossed over her chest and grinning like the Cheshire cat. “I think he needs more red on that side, Daddy,” she says. “The brighter, the better.”
Tonight is Janko’s first game of the year.
Ever since he started really playing in middle school (our elementary school T-ball team, The Mighty Bluebirds—I excelled at picking grass and making sure my pants stayed clean—didn’t count), my family has always gone to his first games together.
But Leo texted our new “friend group” chat and said we’re all going to go support him.
And we’re going ALL. OUT! she texted.
When I broke the news to my parents that I was going without them, they were disappointed.
When they found out it was because I was instead going “ALL OUT” with a group of pretty girls, they joyously pulled out the face paints and spray hair dye and got to work on me.
Half of my hair is red, the other half is white, and I believe my face matches.
“Back when we were in high school, everyone painted their faces for the big football games,” Dad says. “This is nothing. I knew some guys who would paint their whole bodies and not even wear a shirt and—”
“One, that’s football,” I say. “Two, I am not one of those guys.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. “Look at my son. Going to a game with his friends. His friends! Not just his notebook and pen—even though it is impressive that you’re there to update the school on sports scores.”
I wonder how much of a loser my dad actually thinks I am.
“I don’t just write down the scores. I… I correspond,” I say. “And I don’t know if I would exactly call them my friends. I barely even know them and I’m pretty sure they wish I wasn’t coming, but they have to ask me because of Janko and—”
“Oh no, poor Auggie,” says Kate. “Going to a baseball game with a bunch of hot girls. Woe is him. Whatever will he do?”
“You’ve literally never met them,” I say.
“Yeah, but Janko’s hot. So I assume Janko’s girlfriend is hot. And so I bet her friends are also hot,” Kate says, twirling her hair around her finger.
“Don’t call my best friend hot.”
“He’s hot,” she says. “I know he’s hot. We know he’s hot. Everyone knows he’s hot.”
Mom puts her brush down and looks at me, hands on her hips, visibly proud of the work she’s done. “And when they see you like this, they’re going to think you’re just too cool. You look confident and fun—”
“So they won’t be able to tell who I am, got it,” I say.
“Stop that,” Dad replies, setting his own brush on the counter. “Buddy, you sell yourself short. Just put your real self out there and the people will come running.”
I stand up and look at myself in the mirror. The only thing that affirms who I am is my blue eyes peeking out through layers of makeup. Blond hair gone. Pale skin gone.
At least no one will think that Pool Puker finally decided to show his face in public.
When I pull into the parking lot, I do not see a single other person with face paint or hair dye.
I knew that would be the case, and I tried to explain it to my parents, but when they’re set on something they will not be deterred.
And Leo, Mayte, and Claire seem to have tons of innate confidence.
I’m sure they’ll be as committed as my parents are to expressing school spirit.
I check my phone as I start my way to the baseball field. The girls are already there in the stands, and now it’s just a matter of finding them. We’re early and there aren’t many people here yet, but everyone who is present stares at me as I walk by. I keep my head down and finally find them.
Sans face paint.
Sans hair dye.
All three of them have deep red lipstick, white crop tops, and hair tied up in red bows. Mayte’s in blue jeans, Claire’s in a short red skirt, and Leo’s wearing black leggings. They’ve got school colors on. They look absolutely stunning.
They are not ALL OUT.
Claire glances at me and then does a double take, leaning over to Mayte. “Is that Janko’s friend?”
Mayte looks at me, squinting her eyes. “Auggie?”
All three girls look at me.
I can feel myself transform quickly from human-boy-man-covered-in-paint to deer-in-the-headlights-covered-in-paint. I open my mouth, but no words come out. Talk, my brain screams at my mouth. Say words, you stupid little painted deer—
“I… I thought you guys said we were going all out.”
They’re still staring.
I want to make this situation sans Auggie.
“We did,” Leo says.
“But… then… I mean… why—”
“I never wear red lipstick,” Claire says.
The other girls nod.
I am still standing, arms at my sides, looking at them. I feel like my feet have been glued to the stands. Someone squeezes past me to their own seats, staring at me the entire time.
“Do you want to, like, sit down or something?” Leo asks.
I nod and plunk down next to Claire as if gravity has somehow gotten stronger. Claire turns to Mayte and Leo, and they all begin to talk, paying me less and less attention until they’re completely absorbed in their own conversation.
Mental note: Never listen to my parents ever again.
I grab my phone and open the school newspaper group chat.
ME: Anyone at the baseball game?
I stare at my phone, watching as the message is immediately read by most of the staff. Nobody responds. Okay then.
I pull my notebook out of my drawstring bag and open it to a blank page. If no one’s here, I’ll jot down some notes, slap together a quick piece, and maybe the entire newspaper staff will stop looking at me like I’m a heathen for puking in a pool one time and I can get back in their good graces.
“So how’s your day been, Auggie?” Claire asks. She’s trying not to look at my face. She’s trying so hard not to look at my face.
“My parents did this,” I blurt out. “The face paint and stuff. I didn’t do this.”
“Cool,” she says. “They, uh, they did a good job. It’s really… um…” She looks down at my journal. “Are you writing a story or a journal or something?”
“I’m the sports correspondent for the school newspaper.”
She tilts her head. “We have a school newspaper?”
“Yeah,” I say. “But it’s fine because no one knows about it.”
“Oh. Cool.” She smiles at me and then turns back to Leo and Mayte.
I sigh.
People continue to show up as it gets closer to game time.
Other students snicker as they walk past me.
Janko’s parents don’t recognize me at first but are absolutely thrilled with my excessive support for their son.
Someone’s grandmother asks if I’m the team’s mascot.
That one makes Mayte giggle and smirk at me. I ignore her.
When Janko comes out onto the field with the team to stretch, Leo jumps up and starts to cheer.
Mayte and Claire do the same. I stand up with them and clap, but it feels weird because it’s just Janko doing leg swings.
And as soon as I’m on my feet, everyone who had faded into their own conversations has their eyes on me again.
There is pointing, there is laughing, there is confused conversation about who at school is this pumped about our baseball team.
“You’ve got this, Janko!” Leo shouts.
Janko turns and breaks into his eye-squinting smile when he sees Leo, and for a moment I am not thinking about how much I hate myself.
My best friend looks happier than I think I’ve ever seen him, and I am a big fan of that.
He starts waving wildly like he’s five again, back on The Mighty Bluebirds, about to crush the other team of kids.
Leo does the same. It is disgustingly like a romantic comedy, and I feel a pang of happy jealousy.
I glance at Mayte. She’s staring at Leo, bright smile pasted across her face. If I could read minds, I’m almost positive she’d be thinking the same things I am.
The game finally starts, and I watch it in silence while the girls chat without pausing to breathe.
I think I mean that literally. They truly don’t seem to take any breaths.
They talk about Janko being a good kisser, which is uncomfortable, and then they talk about homework and then they talk about Mayte and Leo’s apparently headstrong “abuelita” who is doing well after being sick or something and about Claire’s college visit with her parents this weekend and after five innings of not saying a single word, I get up and walk over to the bathrooms and snack shack.
I consider going to the bathroom and washing off my face and hair, but then everyone would know Pool Puker was here, which I think would be even more embarrassing.
Dad gave me my allowance today instead of Saturday on the condition that I stay for the entire game, so I order a plain hot dog and a Sprite and then sit on a bench by myself.
I honestly don’t know what’s worse: Leo, Mayte, and Claire laughing that I’m here painted like the world’s biggest high school baseball fan, or Leo, Mayte, and Claire not acknowledging that I exist at all.
I’m glad I was sitting by Claire because she’s nice enough and because then I don’t have to try to make friendly small talk with Mayte, pretending we had anything other than an embarrassing, horrible dinner that both of us wish we could forget.
Or, technically, not even a dinner considering Mayte ran out before our food was served.
“Auggie?”
I look up. Leo’s walking toward me from the bathrooms. “Oh, hey,” I say.
“Where’d you go? You were there one second and gone the next. We didn’t know where you were.”
I nod at the snack shack. “Yeah, I just went to grab a hot dog.”
“Gotcha,” she says. “Hey, you don’t by any chance have a few extra bucks to grab some popcorn, do you? Mayte was talking about how good it smells, but I left my purse back in my car. I swear I’ll pay you back.”