Free Hush, Hush #1 by Becca Fitzpatrick Page A

into the dirt on the wrong side of the foul line.
    “That’s a strike!” Miss Sully called from her position between first and second bases.
    Elliot hollered from the dugout, “That had a lot of spin on it— send her a clean one!” It took me a moment to realize he was talking to Marcie and not me.
    Again the ball left Marcie’s hand, arching through the dismal sky. I swung, a pure miss.
    “Strike two,” Anthony Amowitz said through the catcher’s mask.
    I gave him a hard look.
    Stepping away from the plate, I took a few more practice swings. I almost missed Elliot coming up behind me. He reached his arms around me and positioned his hands on the bat, flush with mine.
    “Let me show you,” he said in my ear. “Like this. Feel that? Relax. Now pivot your hips—it’s all in the hips.”
    I could feel my face heat up with the eyes of the entire class on us. “I think I’ve got it, thanks.”
    “Get a room!” Marcie called to us. The infield laughed.

    83
    “If you’d throw her a decent pitch,” Elliot called back, “she’d hit the ball.”
    “My pitch is on.”
    “Her swing is on.” Elliot dropped his voice, speaking to me alone. “You lose eye contact the minute she lets go of the ball. Her pitches aren’t clean, so you’re going to have to work to get them.”
    “We’re holding up the game here, people!” Miss Sully called out.
    Just then, something in the parking lot beyond the dugout drew my attention. I thought I’d heard my name called. I turned, but even as I did, I knew my name hadn’t been said out loud. It had been spoken quietly to my mind.
    Nora.
    Patch wore a faded blue baseball cap and had his fingers hooked in the chain-link fence, leaning against it. No coat, despite the weather. Just head-to-toe black. His eyes were opaque and inaccessible as he watched me, but I suspected there was a lot going on behind them.
    Another string of words crept into my mind.
    Batting lessons? Nice … touch.
    I drew a steadying breath and told myself I’d imagined the words.
    Because the alternative was considering that Patch held the power to channel thoughts into my mind. Which couldn’t be. It just couldn’t.
    Unless I was delusional. That scared me more than the idea that he’d breached normal communication methods and could, at will, speak to me without ever opening his mouth.

    84
    “Grey! Head in the game!”
    I blinked, jerking to life just in time to see the ball rolling through the air toward me. I started to swing, then heard another trickle of words.
    Not … yet.
    I held back, waiting for the ball to come to me. As it descended, I stepped toward the front of the plate. I swung with everything I had.
    A huge crack sounded, and the bat vibrated in my hands. The ball drove at Marcie, who fell flat on her backside. Squeezing between shortstop and second base, the ball bounced in the out-field grass.
    “Run!” my team shouted from the dugout. “Run, Nora!”
    I ran.
    “Drop the bat!” they screamed.
    I flung it aside.
    “Stay on first base!”
    I didn’t.
    Stepping on a corner of first base, I rounded it, sprinting toward second.
    Left field had the ball now, in position to throw me out. I put my head down, pumped my arms, and tried to remember how the pros on ESPN
    slid into base. Feetfirst? Headfirst? Stop, drop, and roll?
    The ball sailed toward the second baseman, spinning white somewhere in my peripheral vision. An excited chanting of the word “Slide!” came 85
    from the dugout, but I still hadn’t made up my mind which was hitting the dirt first—my shoes or my hands.
    The second baseman snagged the ball out of the air. I dove head-first, arms outstretched. The glove came out of nowhere, swooping down on me. It collided with my face, smelling strongly of leather. My body crumpled on the dirt, leaving me with a mouthful of grit and sand dissolving under my tongue.
    “She’s out!” cried Miss Sully.
    I tumbled sideways, surveying myself for injuries. My thighs burned