Brooke (Orphans 3)

"Yes, I did."

She put her fingers through my hair and nodded. "You don't realize the damage the sun can do to your hair."

"I wore a hat," I said.

"It doesn't cover your whole head, does it?"

"Here she is. Watch this, Pamela!" Peter cried. It was when I had my first hit, a strong single to left. She nodded. "Did you rub the skin lotion into your hands?"

I had forgotten, but I nodded. She narrowed her eyes with suspicion and felt my hands.

"They're very dry."

"Here's where she strikes out their best hitter. Watch these three pitches. Look at that."

"You should go up and rub in the lotion," she said.

"I will."

"Here it comes, Pamela, the triple. Watch this. There. Wow! That was the winning run."

"She's developing muscles," Pamela said with a grimace. "What girl her age has muscles? Sports will make you too masculine," she warned. "Why do you insist on pursuing these silly sports?"

I felt my heart sink I had hoped that once she saw how good I was, she would not be so down on my participation in sports, but nothing Peter showed her on the tape seemed to impress her.

"I'm hungry, Peter," she whined.

"Fine. We're ready. So what do you think?" he asked. "We got a little Babe Ruth, huh?"

"I'd rather have a little Cindy Crawford," she quipped. "Hurry upstairs and do your hands, Brooke," she ordered.

I looked at Peter and then left the room. They were both waiting in the car when I returned.

"Watch your posture," Pamela complained from the car window as I approached. "You're hunching over too much. It's your shoulders. They're getting too big, probably from swinging that heavy stick of wood."

"It's called a bat," I muttered as I got in.

She shot me a fiery look of irritation and then caught sight of herself reflected in the glass and worried about a redness in her right cheek all the way to the restaurant.

Not another word was said about my softball game. For all she cared, I could have struck out every time at bat.

Even Mrs. Talbot back at the orphanage had been prouder of me.

Before dinner ended, I looked at Pamela and asked, "Did you ever play softball, Pamela?"

"Me? Of course not." She sniffed. "Hardly."

"Then how do you know you don't like it?" I followed.

"What?"

"It's like if you never tasted caviar but said you don't like it."

She looked at Peter. "Whatever is she saying?"

Peter smiled, but I didn't smile back. And then, for the first time, I saw a dark shadow in his eyes when he glanced at Pamela and then at me.

I looked away and thought about the wonderful feeling that had traveled through me when I connected at the plate and that ball went sailing. All the lotions, herbs, vitamins, and shampoos couldn't make me feel better about myself than I had at that moment. What would happen if Pamela made me stop playing? Would I ever feel good about myself again?