Chapter 3
Chapter Three
ECHO
S tarting school tomorrow has my nerves all over the place. I’m supposed to be working on my room, emptying the rest of my boxes, but instead, I fall onto my bed and let the afternoon sunshine warm my face. I think about Dustin and how cute he is. I spotted him when I was singing on stage, a boy I haven’t seen this whole month we’ve been here. I haven’t really seen any kids my age yet. That’s why I was so eager when I saw him. While everyone was watching me, I only took notice of his eyes on me. Leaning forward, he was intently watching me with fixated eyes. It made me feel something I hadn’t felt since I first started singing on stage—butterflies.
“Ugh,” I groan. “Knock it off, Echo,” I tell myself as I roll onto my stomach. “The last thing you need is to start getting boy crazy. That’ll have your dad pulling the plug on everything.” I remind myself. I don’t need to step into the danger zone from the get-go.
But on the other side, I’ve been hoping to make at least one new friend at church who could help me not feel like such an outsider the first week of school. At least, I finally made conversation with someone who looks close to my age the day before school starts. A cute someone, that is. While he seemed nice and funny, he’s merely just an acquaintance at this point. An acquaintance that surely won’t take me under his wing and show me the ropes. I’ll be going in blind. Going into unknown territory where I know no one, but they all at least know who I am. Not to mention, there’s usually a stigma that comes from being the preacher’s daughter. I will either be instantly classified as a goody-goody or a rebel in disguise. I’ve learned that small towns usually have their cliques set in place since grade school. Heck, since their parents were in grade school. It’s like a pact they’re all born into.
Trying to squeeze into one of those this late in the game can be almost as impossible as trying to beat Timmy Tyler at Red Rover back in fourth grade. All I can say is I gave it my all. As in, my left incisor that had been holding on for dear life was finally defeated when I did a flip over his arm and landed face-first on the ground. Despite that, Timmy still didn’t loosen the death grip he had with his teammate Alex. The teacher literally had to say game over for that to happen. At least the Tooth Fairy took pity on me and left me five dollars under my pillow. Who’s the real winner now, Timmy? I wonder where Timmy would be if he had taken scholastics as seriously as he did Red Rover. I mean, he was already rocking his second year of fourth grade. He had to excel at something. Being a human brick wall, it was.
At least I’ll have softball. I think as I roll out of bed. I have to start practicing soon. It’ll be my escape.
A much-needed escape from my overbearing father.
THE AROMA OF dinner fills my room and summons me to the kitchen. I walk in just as my mom sits the pan of pork chops on the stovetop and shuts the oven door with her foot.
“Do you need any help?” I ask, moving quickly her way to assist.
“Everything is done in here. Could you set the table?” She gestures to the plates and utensils she has sitting out on the kitchen island.
I grab the items and walk through the archway that leads to the dining room. The area is naturally bright with the curtains to the double windows pulled to the side. I begin humming as I set the table, taking the extra time to place everything just right. Although I’m nervous about this new beginning tomorrow, I’m also excited. I’ve learned over the years that it’s all about your mindset. I know I have a perma-grin plastered on my face, but it’s hard not to be giddy when everything seems to finally be lining up for me.
My mom sets the last item on the table. “I think we’re ready. Honey,” she hollers, “dinner’s done.”
“Yeah, honey.” I snicker as my dad rounds the corner. He looks my way, a smile barely crossing his face. “It’s okay to smile, Dad. I’m pretty sure the Lord would approve,” I say as I pull my chair out, knowing I just poked the bear.
I try to keep my thoughts to myself because they never get perceived correctly, but as I get older, it’s getting harder to remain tight-lipped. I glance at him and regret it. While the Lord might approve, my dad does not. Sometimes I wonder what made him become such a stick in the mud. Thankfully, he doesn’t voice his disapproval. He takes his seat at the far end of the table and blesses the food. My mom then gets up and fixes his plate like she does for every meal before sitting back down to make hers.
“Why are you in such a cheerful mood?” my dad asks, seeming to imply that I’m not usually cheerful.
“School, softball, new beginnings. Life in general. You know, the things I’m usually happy about.” I shrug to play off my annoyance at his question.
“I’m sure it has nothing to do with that handsome boy who was at church this morning. I saw you two talking after service.” My mother snickers, giving me a quick wink. I wish I could kick her foot under the table without getting reprimanded for it.
“Better not have anything to do with some boy,” my father warns, adding, “And don’t be encouraging that, Donna.”
I glance at my dad, watching him take a bite out of his roll. Wrinkles are beginning to fill in around his mouth. His once dark brown hair has lightened over the years. It’s even thinned out some. His brown eyes dart my way, catching me studying him.
Caught off guard, I stammer. “It doesn’t. Okay?” I push around my green beans with my fork, no longer hungry.
“Oh now, Eric,” my mother chides.
My eyes focus on her perfectly manicured nails as she cuts her green beans. Who cuts green beans?
“It’s perfectly natural for teenagers to have crushes.”
I sigh quietly. My mother is always trying to smooth things over, but she can try all she wants. We all know her say is never the final one.
“You know how kids are these days, Donna. They just can’t be trusted,” Dad says matter-of-factly around his mouthful of food.
I drop my fork. The metal hitting my glass plate gains their attention.
“Oh, so now I can’t be trusted.”
My dad swiftly angles his head in my direction, and I unrelentingly hold his stare. His eyes are filled with disdain, lacking the compassion I long for.
“Don’t take my words out of context, Echo Dian.” He shakes his head, dismissing the tension, and goes back to cutting his pork chop. Unbothered as always. I could argue and point out how I didn’t take his words out of context, but it would be useless. I’ll always be wrong, and he’ll always be right. Seems to be the ongoing theme. Sometimes I just wish he’d be quiet. Listen to absorb, not listen to reply. He’s so used to people going to him for answers that he forgets to be a safe harbor for his own family. I’ve become rather observant being an only child. My mom is loving as can be, but sometimes I wish she’d toss the June Cleaver act and say what she’s really thinking. She might be fine with being a pushover, but that’s something I’ll never be.
“Can I be excused?” I drop my napkin onto my plate and scoot my seat back. The wooden chair legs squeak, sliding across the linoleum flooring.
“Sure, honey,” my mother answers, giving me an understanding nod.
“You haven’t even touched your food.” My dad motions, pointing his fork at my plate.
“I’m not hungry. I think it’s first-day nerves.”
My dad shrugs and I take the gesture as a small win as I head to the kitchen.
I sit my pork chop to the side on a napkin before scraping the rest of my plate in the trash can. I wash my dishes, wrap my pork chop up in the napkin, and head to my room. I lied when I said I wasn’t hungry.
Unlike me, my mom has wasted no time unpacking. The hallway is filled with family photos—mostly of me. The places we lived in before were fully furnished, and when we lived in an RV, there wasn’t space for much. I never took into consideration what all my mom has been giving up this entire time as well. Selfishly, I’ve been too focused on what I’ve been missing out on. I slow down, fully examining each picture. I look happy in them. My mom looks happy, too. My dad…well, my dad looks constipated.
Starting from the beginning to the end of the hall, it’s almost like a moving photo album. Mom and Dad’s wedding pictures—happy. Dad and baby Echo—happy. Dad and toddler Echo holding a plastic bat—happy. But as I grow, his smile fades. It’s almost like watching reality sink in over time. He now looks as if he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. I wonder if my dad enjoyed his life growing up. I wonder if my dad enjoys his life now. Sometimes I feel like he’s just on autopilot, going through the motions. It’s a sad thought and the main reason I can never stay mad at him. His heart is always in the right place. I just wish he’d show it more.
I let my door lightly shut behind me and rest my back against it. The sun is still out, filling my room with its warmth. I’m thankful it hasn’t set yet. It brightens the light-yellow walls I’m surrounded by. This is all so new to me. I’ve never had my own room before. I don’t know how to decorate it or make it mine. I’m just thankful to have my own bed. I walk forward, climb onto my bed, and sit Indian style on it. I’m facing the window, looking into our fully fenced back yard. There’s a big willow oak in the middle out back. I notice the remnants of rope dangling from the lowest thick branch. I imagine a tire swing full of kids laughing; carefree. Part of me wishes I could go back to those days and experience them all over again. Back when my dad was more carefree.
I HAVE THE worst case of first-day jitters as I walk through the school’s double doors. You’ve done this more than a dozen times. You’re a pro . I keep trying to remind myself. But the fact that I tried on my entire closest this morning before settling with a simple pair of jeans, Switchfoot T-shirt, and my new shell-toe Adidas sneakers has me questioning my ‘pro-ness.’ I do almost look like a skater chick, though. Brian would be proud.
But none of my mental mantra or ego boosting is calming my nerves. I’m nervous as hell. Yeah, Dad, I said hell. And not in the biblical sense.
Thankfully, my parents and I did a full walk-through, so I know the basic layout and the direction I need to go. But doing that walk-through in real time with the halls filled with kids is kind of distorting my memory. I spot a sign on the brick wall and follow the directions that lead to the office. Being a late enroller postponed the availability of my schedule, meaning I have no clue what classes I have.
“Can I help you?” the older lady with short blond hair asks as I step up to the desk.
“Yes, ma’am. I need to pick up my schedule. My name is Echo Price.”
“Just one second, please.” She begins typing into her computer before getting up and walking to the back of the office.
I turn around and walk over to the announcement board. All kinds of sports-related news fill it, along with fundraisers and future upgrades the school has planned.
“Echo.” I turn around to see a man in gym shorts and a school T-shirt.
“Yes.” I grab the hand he has extended.
“I’m Coach Fields. I heard you tell Mrs. Carter your name and wanted to introduce myself,” he explains.
“Nice to meet you, Coach.” I smile, hoping to make a good first impression, although I know the only impression to make is on the field. “I met your father, and I’m glad to finally meet the girl he’s been bragging about.” He raises his coffee cup to his mouth and takes a slow sip of the steaming brew.
My cheeks heat with embarrassment. “I really wish he hadn’t done that,” I say, looking down at the ground. I know my dad thinks I’m the best, but it doesn’t mean everyone will agree with him. Plus, it just puts even more pressure on me.
“Ahh.” He waves off what I said. “Us parents only want what’s best for our kids.” I nod in response before he continues, “Anyways, I’m going to tell you the same thing I told him. Our starting pitcher graduated this past school year. So now we are basically having tryouts for the position. But don’t let that discourage you. Even if you don’t get picked for the pitcher’s mound, I’m sure we can find somewhere to fit ya.” He smiles with a nod, and I do the same, hoping mine doesn’t look as fake as it felt. Not that proving myself is something new, but playing another position on the field surely would be. It’s just more motivation for me to put in the necessary work. Now that I’m finally in school and my senior year, this is my last chance to get noticed by scouts. I can’t screw it up.
“Ms. Price.” I turn back to the front desk where the secretary is standing. “Here’s your schedule, dear.” She smiles, holding out the paper.
“It was nice meeting you, Coach Fields,” I finish before grabbing my schedule and hurrying out. The last thing I need is to be late on my first day of class.
Reading the numbers on the lockers, I continue walking down the hall, trying to find mine. I want to put my backpack up and make my way to first period. I round the corner and see a group of guys in ball hats with a few girls in the mix. Typical jocks with their little groupies. Besides me initially noticing them, I pay no further attention as I continue my journey.
“Echo,” I hear, stopping me in my tracks. An uncontrollable smile creeps upon me and butterflies consume my abdomen. Again. I turn around, tilt my head to the side, and purposefully ogle Dustin as he makes his way to me.
“Did he just say Echo?” A thin blonde with too much blue eyeshadow snickers.
A couple of the guys laugh, and I roll my eyes. I don’t know about them, but I’m in high school, not elementary. And the last time someone made fun of my name, they ended up eating their lunch off the cafeteria floor. Pick something better to laugh about. I know I’m supposed to be the example, be the bigger person, but sometimes turning the other cheek is hard. I keep my smile planted and my eyes on Dustin as he makes his way toward me. He stops right in front of me, big grin and all.
“What kind of name is that?” The overly tan brunette laughs. I almost expect her to twirl her gum around her finger all valley girl like.
Like, totally!
“We can’t all have boring names like Kelly and Jamie,” Dustin hollers, looking back over his shoulder. The girls scoff and I put my hand over my mouth to stifle my laugh. He looks back my way, flashing me that golden boy smile of his. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s cool. I’ve heard it before. I just expected high schoolers to be a little more mature.” I say the last part louder than necessary.
“Were the kids at your former school civilized?” He raises his eyebrows with a look of confusion.
“Oh no. I was homeschooled before we moved here,” I reply, remembering he doesn’t know anything about my past.
“You poor, sheltered girl.” He laughs, patting my shoulder. “And now you’re being released into the wild.” He teases before saying, “Guess I’ll just have to watch over you.”
I want to retort that I haven’t been sheltered. I went to school until middle school. I’m always around people. I can take care of myself. But the idea of him watching over me sounds too appealing to refute.
“Schedule?” he asks, pointing to the paper in my hand.
“Yeah.” I bite my lip, unable to stop grinning at him.
“Let me see,” he says, reaching for my schedule. Dustin quickly glances over it, and I wonder if we have any classes together. “Looks like you have Mrs. Whiteman for English first up. She’s right down this hall.” He gestures. “Now let’s go get you situated.” He holds his arm out for me.
“Let’s,” I reply, looping my arm into his. I can’t help but have high hopes this year is going to be one of the best.
I WALK THROUGH the front door and drop my key on the entryway table. “Mom,” I holler, making my way back to my room.
She replies, “In the kitchen.”
I toss my backpack on my bed, kick my shoes off, and shimmy out of my jeans. I grab my oversized shorts out of my drawer and slide them up, then put my sneakers on. Yanking the scrunchie off my wrist, I begin to loosely braid my hair as I walk to the kitchen.
“How was your first day?” my mom asks with a smile as I lean against the counter. Her eyes glance up momentarily before darting back down at whatever her hands are mixing together in the bowl. Meatloaf, maybe? She blows at the piece of bang that keeps falling in her line of sight and I take in her Suzy Homemaker demeanor as she fixes dinner in a dress and heels. Obviously, with an apron covering her attire. She looks up again, pausing her meat mashing. “Echo?” Her eyebrows knit with worry as she waits for my reply.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I shake my head and smile. I put my hand on my hip, thinking back on my day. “It was really good.” I begin a slow nod, hoping the excitement from my day isn’t evident.
“That’s great.” She lets out an audible sigh as if she’s been holding her breath, expecting the worst. “Can you grab about ten of those crackers and crush them into my bowl?” She nods to the other side of the counter where the unopened package lies.
I wipe the residual cracker crumbs off on my shorts and give my mom a quick peck on the cheek. “I’m going to go outside and practice.” I throw a cracker in my mouth and head for the back door.
It’s hot. While I’m used to heat, the humidity is what’s going to take time adjusting to. Thankfully, my dad perched my makeshift pitching mound under the big willow oak. A couple rectangular hay bales stacked on top of each other, showcasing a bull’s-eye, lean against the privacy fence. I wince at the splotches of white powder that stick out like a sore thumb on the fence before spraying it off with the hose. It’s just one of the ways my dad tests how good I’m getting when he’s not here to catch for me. The thing that sucks about his process is the powder doesn’t really show on the actual target. Therefore, only showing the times I miss, not the accuracy of my pitches. But knowing that the wall gets cleaned fresh each time, and I practice throwing my filled bucket of ten softballs at least five times, he has a good idea of how well I’m pitching. While I enjoy the alone time, or him not breathing down my neck if I don’t throw with precision and speed every single time… I’d love to have someone catch for me so I’m not having to track down all the balls just to do it all over again times five.
Four buckets down and I hear the back door close. I keep my focus, holding my hands together outstretched in front of me, and slide my foot as soon as my arm winds then releases, snapping as the ball hits close to the center mark. I continue with the rest of the balls as my dad just watches and assesses. He follows me as I walk to the target and start gathering the balls. He tosses me a couple and then eyes the fencing.
“Looks like you only had a few strays this round.” His brow rises, and he nods in approval. I wish I could get this rise out of him more often.
I sit the filled bucket down and sit on it. “I met Coach Fields today. Guess you can say I’m determined to make starting pitcher,” I admit. With my hand, I shield the sun from my eyes and tilt my head up in his direction. He looks off as if he’s in deep thought, but I can still see a sense of pride in his eyes.
“Just stay focused and stay away from all distractions.” His voice is curt. Heaven forbid he give me a ‘thatta girl . ’ I inwardly roll my eyes and let out a low sigh. “Come on, dinner’s ready.” He turns to the house, and I watch momentarily, missing the days when I was younger. My stomach growls and I stand, grab my bucket and glove, and head for the house.