Chapter 4
LENNON
T here’s already a figure sitting on the bleachers when I hop over the gate onto the far edge of the baseball field.
My stomach sinks as I walk across the brown grass. I was confident—certain—he wouldn’t show.
“You’re early.” I state the obvious as I take a seat one row below Caleb on the hard metal. I’m not sure what else to say to him.
The metal bleachers are the same temperature as the early morning air. I shiver as I sit, glad I bundled up in extra layers. The first streaks of sunrise are only just beginning to creep across the horizon; nowhere near powerful enough to warm the metal.
“So are you,” Caleb observes. His words are casual, just like his stance. He’s slouched between two of the risers, and the brim of his baseball cap is pulled low, masking most of his face. “Hoping to wrap this up early so you can leave for your Arctic expedition?”
I roll my eyes, and he gives me one of his rare, genuine grins.
Maybe it’s the time. I’m not used to interacting with other people this early, and I haven’t had time to raise the protective shield that’s fully in place by the time I arrive at school. I’m uncharacteristically honest with him. “I was going to leave at 5:31,” I admit.
Caleb chuckles. “Why do you think I showed up early, Matthews?”
“I’m offended you think so little of me.” I’m not; I’m surprised he predicted I’d try to get out of this again, and that he made certain I wouldn’t be able to.
“You already admitted to it, Lennon. No need for the fake indignation.”
Ordinarily, it’s a comment I’d bristle in response to, but Caleb’s voice isn’t mocking. It’s matter-of-fact.
“Let’s get started,” I say, biting back the sarcastic comment I have ready.
Despite the chilly temperature and early hour, Caleb actually seems to be in a decent mood. Pissing him off is probably not the best way to get this over with quickly and painlessly.
Caleb doesn’t say anything, which I take as an agreement. “Where do you want to play next year?”
“Pass.”
“You can’t pass on an interview question.”
“I just did,” Caleb retorts.
I grit my teeth. So much for a decent mood. “I can’t write an article about ‘pass,’ Caleb.”
“Then ask a different question.”
I exhale, loudly enough for him to hear. “Fine. What’s your favorite thing about playing baseball?”
Caleb’s blue eyes swim with humor. “That’s your second question?”
“I’m not the freaking sportswriter. I don’t know anything about baseball. What do you want me to ask you?”
Caleb scoffs, but the exasperated sound doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s still amused. “I’m good,” he states.
“What?”
“You asked me what my favorite thing about playing is. I’m good.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Between that answer and “pass,” I’m picturing this article stretching about two lines.
“It’s the one thing I never have to think about,” Caleb continues.
“When I’m out on the mound, everything is simple and straightforward.
Throw the ball as fast as I can to the spot where it needs to go.
Yeah, we practice a ton, and I’ve had great coaches, but I’ve always been good at it.
Technically, baseball is a team sport. But when I’m pitching, it’s all on me.
It’s the one thing that clicks, you know? ”
A snarky response is waiting on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t voice it.
Maybe I have some sense of what he’s talking about.
There are moments, when I see an A on a paper or am galloping around the practice track, that I feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be, doing what I’m supposed to be doing.
But more often than not, I feel like I’m too busy doing exactly what’s expected to explore anything else.
To find that sense of belonging Caleb’s describing.
Maybe because I’ve grown up in this town that’s intent on driving my family out.
I clear my throat and move on to the next question on the list. I’ve read all of Simon’s past sports articles. Almost every one of the athlete interviews he’s done have been verbatim retellings of the conversation, printed in question-and-answer format.
That’s not going to work for my conversation with Caleb, for obvious reasons.
My best bet is to keep Caleb talking and hope he gives me enough information I can cobble together for a decent story.
Commenting about how, of course, throwing a baseball seems simple and straightforward probably won’t help.
I ask Caleb about his first baseball game (he won), his pregame rituals (according to him, he has none), and his favorite game he’s played in (quarterfinal junior year).
I sigh. “I’m out of questions,” I admit.
Rather than look irritated, Caleb appears entertained. “I’m flattered you over-prepared.”
My eyes narrow. “This was kind of short notice. I’ve never covered sports, and Simon and Julie didn’t exactly have helpful suggestions.”
Caleb leans back against the bleachers again, looking intrigued. “What were their suggestions?”
“Simon sent me some bullet points with a lot of abbreviations in them. Julie wants to know if you’re single.”
“Did you look up the abbreviations?” Caleb asks, disregarding my second sentence.
“Of course. His questions still didn’t make any sense.” I sniff. Although I did research them while trying to both tie my sneakers and eat breakfast.
“To you,” Caleb surmises with a smirk.
“To me,” I concede. “Plus, I figured anyone who truly cares about an RBI or a WHIP would know where to look that up.”
Caleb laughs, and the husky warmth of it somehow infiltrates the three layers I’m wearing. “Probably true.” He stands and pulls on his backpack. “You coming?”
“What? Where?”
“To the library. I can’t sit on these bleachers anymore. It’s a miracle anyone watches our entire games.”
I stand and stretch. “Uh, yeah, I guess.” That’s exactly where I was planning to go, but I’m wary of spending any more time with Caleb alone. I doubt anyone but Mr. Gibbs will be there this early. I don’t have a better option, though, so I climb down after him.
We walk side by side along the deserted sidewalk, and it’s incredibly bizarre.
I’m hyperaware of everything: the thump of my heavy backpack, the slap of my sneakers against the pavement, the rapid pounding of my heart.
The back of my hand brushes Caleb’s once, accidentally.
I snatch it back, cheeks burning as I keep my eyes aimed straight ahead.
We’re almost to the front doors when Caleb speaks. “I am, by the way.”
“What?” I glance at him. He’s focused on the brick building we’re approaching. It’s an imposing facade better suited for a university than a public high school, complete with columns and framed windows. Landry doesn’t do anything in half-measures.
“Single.” Caleb glances over at me, his indifferent expression becoming a smirk, probably in response to the confused expression I can feel wrinkling my brow. “You said someone asked.”
“Someone?” For whatever reason, that’s the word I focus on. Maybe because I’m weirdly…relieved that’s his answer. “I just told you her name is Julie.”
Caleb looks amused by my response. “Fine, Julie asked.”
“You only bother to learn girls’ names if they’re popular?” I snap.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m witnessing this conversation from a distance, watching what will come next but unable to stop it. Around most people I think, then react. Around Caleb I react, then double down.
Caleb reaches out and pulls open one of the four front doors, gesturing for me to walk in first. I stalk through the opening, annoyed at him for being nice to me when I’m not being nice to him for essentially no reason. This is the worst possible time for him to try being a gentleman.
He catches up to me easily. “I know your name. And popular isn’t exactly the first adjective that comes to mind.”
I should probably be affronted, but I know he’s right. I doubt a single person in Landry would consider me popular. I’m being ridiculous but am too stubborn to admit it. And wondering what adjective does come to mind.
“What an honor,” I mutter before marching into the front office to sign the early arrival sheet.
The school secretary blinks sleepily as she looks up from her steaming mug of coffee.
“Good morning,” she greets us.
“Good morning.”
I wonder if I’d be standing here with Caleb if I’d showed up to this office the first day of freshman year after he’d already left.
I quickly block the thought. Too many tiny moments have determined major parts of my life.
It’s easier to think we were destined to spend high school arguing no matter what.
I lean over the desk to sign my name, then step back so Caleb can do the same.
The secretary’s eyes bounce back and forth between the two of us.
I’ve never shown up this early to school.
I’m usually running late after rushing through the morning chores.
Maybe she doesn’t even recognize me, since I’m no longer a gangly freshman.
Maybe she’s staring because she’s as enamored with Caleb as the rest of the town.
The only sound in the small office is the pen scratching against paper as Caleb signs his name.
As soon as I hear the sound stop, I head toward the door that leads into the school hallway, pushing the metal bar to fling the glass door open.
Unlike the last time I left this room with Caleb Winters behind me, I don’t drop the door on him.
But as soon as I feel him start to hold the weight, I lower my hand.
“You think she remembers us?”
I glance at Caleb, surprised and somewhat alarmed to realize we were both thinking the same thing. It suggests a familiarity I didn’t think we shared. “Remembers what?”
He grins, likes he knows I’m only feigning forgetfulness. “The day we met.”
Not the first day of freshman year.
Not the day I got him lost.
The day we met .
“You’re hard to forget.” As soon as the words are out, I wish I could shove them back into my mouth.
“I didn’t think you knew what a compliment was, Matthews.”