Free The Girl Who Threw Butterflies by Mick Cochrane

Niekro brothers. She explained that in honor of Wilhelm, most knuckleball pitchers chose to wear the same uniform number, 49, Wilhelm's age when he retired.
    “It's like a club,” Lonnie said.
    “I guess it is.”
    “A secret society,” Lonnie said.
    “Something like that,” Molly said.
    They sat there for a moment, not saying anything. Lonnie took the ball from Molly and slowly arranged his fingers into the knuckleball grip she'd demonstrated, not perfect, but pretty close. He'd been paying attention.
    “You really miss your dad,” Lonnie said. He said it quietly, almost to himself, but Molly heard him, loud and clear.
    It was so simple, so true. Molly felt it like a punch in the gut. All of a sudden there was something happening in her chest, something behind her eyes.
    Molly already knew that she was going to tell Celia this story—the boy at the door, their baseball date. It would make a good story. Celia would appreciate it. But Molly understood that when she told it, she was going to leave some things out. She would leave out the part when she started crying. She wouldn't try to describe the way her shoulders shook, how Lonnie took her hand and held it tight, not patting, not rubbing, just a good firm grip, how he waited quietly while she regained her composure.
    It wasn't that she didn't trust Celia. But some things couldn't be put into words. What happened to her insides when Lonnie mentioned her dad. It was sorrow. It was grief. It was what your body felt when it knew the sad truth.
    Molly would tell Celia they'd talked some more, but she'd be vague about the details. She wouldn't pass along what Lonnie told her about missing his own father. His wasn't dead but divorced, living in a new house in a distant suburb with a new wife and a new baby, a new car, every-thing so sparkling and perfect that he and his mother now seemed shabby in comparison. They seemed like an embarrassing mistake, the first draft of a life his father had discarded.
    That was private. That was between the two of them. It was something he had entrusted to her, and she intended to be worthy of it.

10. A ZEN THING
    n Monday morning, in homeroom, Celia gave Molly something. It was a thin, beat-up paperback book. About Zen and the art of archery.
    “You need to read this,” Celia said.
    “Archery?” Molly said. “As in bows and arrows?”
    “You need to read this,” Celia said.
    “As in Robin Hood? You're kidding, right?”
    “Molly,” Celia said. Her tone of voice was kindly but stern. It was how you'd talk to a naughty toddler or a wild puppy. “You need to read this.”
    “Because …”
    “You need to read it,” Celia said, “because you need to read it. Trust me. It's a Zen thing.”

    Later that morning, during study hall, when she probably should have been doing a math worksheet, Molly took a look at the book. There were loose pages and passages underlined in red and blue. The paper was yellowed with age. Probably it had belonged to Celia's brother Michael, who was currently or used to be a Buddhist.
    The book was about a guy who goes to Japan to study Zen. But you don't just study Zen; you don't just read a book or take a class. You have to learn to do something, to master some kind of art—flower arranging, drinking tea (ac-cording to the book, drinking tea could be an art), archery, whatever. You have to devote yourself. It didn't matter what you did, what mattered was how you did it. And to learn to do it right apparently took a long time. The author of the book seemed to have practiced with a master for years—years!—before he made much progress with his bow and arrow. A lot of it sounded like gibberish, like New Age babble: Consciousness and Unconsciousness, Emptiness, Illumination, Oneness, Artless Art.
    But by the time the bell rang, Molly had at least figured out where Celia was coming from. Baseball might be like archery. The real contest was with yourself. That's what the book said. Throwing a