Brooke (Orphans 3)

"Really?" he asked. He sounded amused, and I could see he was trying not to smile.

"Come over here and feel them. Come on." "I believe you."

"This is just ridiculous. A daughter with hands like a ditch digger. I want you to come up to my room after dinner. I have a hand lotion you'll have to use continually. You rub it in four or five times a day."

"Four times a day? You mean even while I'm at school?" I asked.

"Of course. How much longer will this baseball nonsense continue?" She was beginning to pout.

"We only have a few games left," I said. "I came on late in the season."

"Good," she muttered, and returned to her chair.

I was afraid to tell her that I had already agreed to try out for the girls' basketball team. The coach saw me shooting baskets with some seniors and asked me to come to tryouts next week. Besides that, Coach Grossbard believed I might get chosen for the all-star game this year and have to go to a special practice after the end of our softball season. Sports were the one thing I knew I was good at--and I didn't intend to give them up.

Peter decided that he would drive me to my game on Saturday. I was dressed in my uniform when I came bouncing down the stairs. Pamela was expecting her masseuse, but she was still downstairs giving Joline some instructions about a new juice drink that included herbs which she claimed retarded the aging process. As soon as she saw me come down the stairs, she began a stream of complaints.

"Is that their uniform? You're dressed like a boy. Why don't you wear a skirt, at least?"

"They can't wear skirts, Pamela," Peter said, laughing.

"Why not?"

"They might have to slide into base. They have to wear something practical."

"Why don't they wear some decent color combination, then?" she followed.

"These are the school colors," I explained.

"Whoever picked them out is not very creative. Remember what I said you're to do as soon as you come home," she told me, and continued up the stairs, mumbling under her breath.

"She's really very proud of you," Peter tried to assure me. "It's just that sports have never been important to her."

On the way to the game, he talked about his own interest in sports and how he followed football and tennis.

"I play a mean game of tennis," he bragged. "One of these days, take you to the club, and we'll hit a few. Would you like that?"

"Yes," I said. "I've always wanted to play tennis, but we never had anyplace to play. My old school didn't have tennis courts, but Agnes Fodor does."

"Great. Now, that's a sport I might get Pamela interested in. She likes the outfits," he told me.

The outfits? I thought. They had the least to do with why I would want to play or watch a sport. I began to wonder if Pamela and I would ever understand each other. And wasn't that important? Having a mother who understood your dreams and desires, your hopes and wishes?

As Peter and I neared the school, I thought about the team we would play today--they were undefeated. The girls on their team did look tougher, stronger, and hungrier. Their leadoff hitter was a tall African-American girl who looked as if she could drive the ball through anyone in the infield. I saw how the girls on my team stepped back when I started to pitch, anticipating a line drive. However, I took advantage of her height and kept my pitches low. She went for two bad ones and missed, and the third was a foul that our first baseman was able to catch. My team cheered, and the nervousness they had come to the field with settled.

I grew stronger with every pitch. Once in a while, I gazed at the bleachers and saw Peter smiling at me. He had brought his new video camera and was filming the game I had three hits that day, one a triple with two girls on base. It drove in what was to be the winning run.

The other team looked stunned. My team gathered around me and cheered as if they had won the World Series. As we left the field, I heard the other coach ask Coach Grossbard where she had gotten the ringer.

Peter was really excited all the way home. "Wait until I play the tape for Pamela. That last hit of yours was a beaut, right between the right fielder and the center fielder. How'd you do it?"

"My coach at my last school showed me how to turn my feet to place the ball," I explained. Peter was very impressed, and for the first time since I had moved in with him and Pamela, I felt proud of myself and confident that they could be proud of me.

When we arrived home, Pamela was still soaking in her milk bath, something she did after every massage. Peter hurried in to tell her about the game. I showered, washed my hair, and changed. Peter wanted to take us to a fancy restaurant to celebrate. But first, he wanted to show Pamela some of the highlights from the game.

I waited downstairs in the family room. The two of them finally appeared, Pamela looking radiant and beautiful. Peter put the tape in the machine and turned on the television set.

"Did you wash your hair with that shampoo I bought you?" Pamela asked me--it was obvious she didn't care about how well I'd done in the game.