Free Throwing Like a Girl by Weezie Kerr Mackey Page A

bouquet of yellow roses. He walks toward the bleachers while we’re still supposed to be sprinting in shifts on the field. But because Coach is distracted by the delivery man, she forgets to blow the whistle for the next shift, so we stop to breathe and watch as the guy gives her the flowers. We’re gulping air when she pulls the little card out and reads it.
    After she does, she looks up at the Peyton Plastics building, where all the construction workers have gotten to their feet, taken off their hard hats, and stepped back a few paces to let one of their own come through. It’s hard to see from here, but I’m pretty sure the guy that walks forward and takes a bow is Mack Elliot. And her reaction confirms it. She nods back and turns away so he can’t see her smile, as if he could from that far away.
    “Okay, girls, go home. Have a nice weekend. Stay out of trouble,” she tells us.
    Back in the locker room, Frannie and Mo invite me to a pep rally that’s later tonight.
    “For…the football team?” I ask, confused.
    “No, that would be
every
Friday during school hours in the fall,” Frannie says, pretending to be shocked by my lack of knowledge. “This is the tiny
one
they have for boys’ soccer. Once a spring. But it is in the football stadium, if that’s any consolation.”
    In Chicago, boys’ and girls’ soccer is played in the fall, and there aren’t any pep rallies.
    “We’ll pick you up at seven?” Mo offers.
    “Sounds great!” I exclaim, excited to have plans on a Friday night. I wonder if Nate will be there, but don’t ask.
    I grab my stuff in the locker room and race out to the lowerschool, where I see Rocky’s little brothers waiting. I wonder if I should say something, introduce myself. But they take care of it for me.
    “Hi, I’m Thomas,” the older one says.
    “I’m Ella. Nice to meet you.”
    “I’m Mikey. I’m eight.”
    “Hi, Mikey.”
    “Rocky says you play softball. Are you as good as her?”
    “Not from what I’ve heard.”
    Their car swings around the loop and screeches to a halt in front of us.
    “Cheese, you’re gonna kill somebody,” Theresa says from the front seat. She opens the door, climbs out, and gets in back grumpily.
    “Nice hit out there today,” Rocky says as I get in.
    “Thanks.” Then I turn to Theresa. “Are you sure you want to sit back there? I wouldn’t mind.”
    “Whatever,” she says, without looking at me.
    “Theresa’s cranky because she doesn’t get her license for two years. Just ignore her.”
    We drive for a little while, and I give Rocky directions. But then there’s a whole long stretch where she talks about practice. About the mistakes and the weaknesses. About how I can improve my hitting, catching, and throwing.
    “I’m sure the coach would really appreciate your input,” Theresa grumbles from the back.
    I realize that I probably
could
use some help, even though it’s hard to hear the bad stuff.
    Rocky glances at me and smiles. “I don’t mean to get all preachy.”
    “No, I’d love a personal coach.”
    When Rocky drops me off, Theresa gets out again and climbs in front. She doesn’t even look at me, but it’s hard not to stare at her because, even frowning, she’s so pretty.
    “Thanks for the ride.”
    “Sure,” Rocky says.
    “See you Monday.”
    I practically dance through the front door.

My mother is verbally trying to force a taco salad from my plate to my mouth. I keep telling her I’m not hungry. But we’re both so excited I’ve been invited somewhere that she abandons the fight to get me to eat, and I abandon my wrath at being forced. Standing before the fridge in bare feet and wet hair, I drink a glass of milk and grab a handful of carrots to make her happy. I don’t tell her about tomorrow morning’s Safeway rendezvous for the Marriage Project—which she’ll call a date. I have to focus on one thing at a time: what to wear to the pep rally.
    The few weeks I’ve been here I’ve watched