2. Jace #2
A few people slow down, and there’s a small crowd forming around us all, and I’m aware I need to hurry this along.
The last thing I need is to get caught up in something that makes its way back to my dad.
He’s already got a laundry list of what I’m apparently doing wrong—I don’t need to add “starting fights in the hallway” to it.
“No, I don’t want to be a girl,” Sparkles spits out, glaring at me with those bright blue eyes again. “And I don’t see why you care so much. Me wearing makeup has absolutely nothing to do with you.”
He’s still holding that ridiculous glittery notebook, so I grab it out of his hand and dangle it between us.
“Come on, Sparkles. You shouldn’t flash gay stuff like this around.”
“Well, I am gay, sequins or not,” he huffs out, completely unashamed.
I still, not expecting him to admit to that so freely.
Especially not in front of everyone.
I don’t think I’ve ever met a queer person before. Definitely not anyone who was so vocal about it.
He’s acting like being gay is no big deal, like he wouldn’t get destroyed in the locker room or at home because of his admission.
Do his parents not care?
They must not because he’s wearing makeup, and they’d have to know about that, right?
He clearly doesn’t give a shit about fitting in or being liked. Just walks around like it’s okay to be different, without a worry in the world.
How can his life be that easy?
My dad would lose it if I ever said something like that. Not that I would, I’m definitely straight, but my dad and the other coaches always make little comments that’ve made it more than clear that being gay isn’t something you should be proud to advertise.
But Sparkles seems to have missed the memo—once again.
“All this sparkly crap is distracting,” I say, louder than I need to. “It’s like you’re asking for people to make fun of you, dressing like that.”
He narrows his eyes. “Like you? Why don’t you just leave me alone?”
“Can’t,” I snap. I don’t know why the thought of ignoring him sounds so impossible.
“Someone’s gotta teach you not to be so fucking weird,” I add, grasping for a reason that makes sense.
“I’m trying to help you out here. Ditch the makeup and shiny clothes, and we’ll leave you alone.
Simple as that. No one wants to see a boy dressed like this.
My sister doesn’t even wear that much makeup. ”
My dad doesn’t actually let my sister, Molly, wear any makeup. Granted she’s in middle school, but still.
“Do we need to teach him a lesson?” David asks, crossing his arms and flexing like he’s trying to appear even more menacing than he normally is.
The threat is clear in his tone. David’s very competitive, which makes him a great teammate, but he’s always taken things a little too far when joking around with the other players or heckling the other teams.
David doesn’t understand that I don’t really want him to hurt Sparkles—just like he always misses my dad’s condescending comments—but I’m also very aware of everyone looking on.
I know it’s only a matter of time before a teacher comes to investigate, so I need to shut this down in a way that appeases the crowd and David’s desire to put this guy in his place without escalating things too much.
“Nah, not today,” I answer. “Let’s get to practice. This weirdo isn’t worth our time.” I knock into him with my shoulder as I walk past, trying to give a little warning that this could have been way worse.
“I’ve never seen you try to put losers in their place before. Finally grew some balls, huh?” David taunts as we walk to the locker room.
“Shut up, you know I can’t get in trouble.”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t forget about me when you go pro. But if that freak gets too distracting, let me know. I’ll take care of him.”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” I assure him, because for whatever reason, I really don’t want David to fuck with him.
If it comes to that, I’ll be the one to do it.
It isn’t until we’re nearly at the locker room that I realize I’m still holding onto his notebook. I should probably throw it away, but at the last second, I slip it into my bag instead.
I never got Sparkle’s real name, and all throughout practice, my thoughts keep drifting to him. The way his makeup made his eyes look so bright or the shiny way his lips looked.
Such a freak.
“Ryan! What the hell was that? You call that a throw?” my dad shouts at me from the dugout, loud enough for the whole team to hear. “Smith could’ve crawled to second and still made it.”
Today is our first unofficial practice of the year.
On the first day of school, no less. Baseball is a spring sport, but for any guys who aren’t in other sports, he expects us to show up nearly every day of the week for practice or weight training.
And no matter how brutal he gets with me on the field, everyone just shrugs it off as his coaching style. Just Coach Ryan doing his thing.
Except no one seems to realize the insults don’t end when we’re at home.
He’s right, though. I’m the school’s best catcher, and I should be more focused. There are other guys on the team, but I can’t count on them to cover for me if I want to be great.
This is why distractions are dangerous.
“Sorry, Coach,” I yell back, adjusting my helmet and settling into my stance to call the next pitch.
“Sorrys are for losers. You’re better than that,” he barks.
I nod sharply again and lock-in to practice.