"She's pitching a little more inside. Just step back and try to hit it to right field," I suggested. She nodded and took her stance. The first pitch was too low, but the second was right where I expected it would be. Eva stepped back and swung. It was a solid hit that bounced hard in front of the first baseman. She misjudged it, and it went over her head and into right field. We had a runner on first.
I looked at Coach Grossbard, who had heard me give Eva the advice.
"She's smart," she said, referring to the pitcher, "but she's not going to give you anything good."
I nodded and went to the plate. Once again, a hush came over our fans. The pitcher tried to get me to go after two pitches that were low and away, but I held back. The next pitch was coming in perfectly over the outside corner. It was the sort of pitch that required strength to hit. I leaned to the right and came around, catching the ball just down from the top of the bat enough to get a solid connection.
It soared.
And soared over the left fielder's head, and it kept going, clearing the fence. I had hit a home run.
I had been to ball games at public school, especially exciting basketball games when the crowd's roar was so high and loud my ears rang. That was the way it was now. As I rounded the bases, our side was screaming so loud it actually made my ears hurt. Mr. Rudley had a big, wide grin on his face, and Coach Grossbard. . . Coach Grossbard had tears of joy streaming down her cheeks as I passed her between third and home plate.
Cora gave me a hug that nearly cracked my ribs. Everyone on the team was around me, Heather hanging on the perimeter with a plastic smile on her face. I couldn't remember when in my life I was more excited and proud of myself. The crowd was full of appreciation, but sadly, neither my new mother nor my new father had been there to see it. I was as alone as I had ever been, even now, even when I wanted parents so much it made my heart ache.
Lisa Donald announced a victory party at her house. Everyone on the team was invited, of course, even Coach Grossbard. It was to be a barbeque. When I returned home, I rushed into the house, hoping my invitation to Lisa's might get Pamela to see how important all this was to me and perhaps make her proud of my accomplishments finally.
Instead, I found her in a mad tizzy. Peter wasn't coming home as early as she had expected, and before I had a chance to tell her anything, she cried, "Everything's falling apart!"
"What's wrong?" I asked, standing in the entryway, holding my glove and the winning ball in my hand. Everyone on the team had signed it, Coach Gross bard's signature biggest of all. The date of the game was there as well.
"Your pageant audition has been confirmed, but how I could have forgotten the most important thing, I don't know. It's probably because of all the turmoil surrounding your piano lessons," she concluded, popping my bubble of excitement.
"What important thing?" I asked.
"Your pictures! Your photographs! Oh, where is he? Where is he?" she cried toward the doorway. "Who? Peter?"
"No, not Peter. The photographer. I told him to be here and get set up before you returned. I want the pictures taken in the atrium outside the living-room patio doors. Those flowers will provide a colorful background. It will just look more, royal and make you seem more of a princess. Well, why are you just standing there?" she screamed. "Go upstairs and get the grime out of your skin Bathe, shampoo, and start on your makeup. We've got to be ready in an hour."
"Don't you want to know what happened at the game?" I asked.
"Game? What game? You mean the, what do you call it, softball game?"
"Yes. We won. I hit a home run in the last inning and won the game. It was like the World Series or something. There were a lot of people there, more than ever, teachers, too. I pitched great. There's a party to celebrate at Lisa Donald's house. Everyone on the team is coming. Our teachers and parents are invited, too."
"Who has time for that? Are you mad? This photo shoot will take hours. We can't submit just any pictures to the pageant judges. These have to be professional, photos taken the way a model takes them. Would you stop wasting time and go up and get ready.
I'll be along to choose what you should wear. Of course, we'll have you wear more than one outfit. And the bathing suit I bought you last week. Go, go, go," she cried, waving at the stairway.
I gazed down at the softball. What was the point of showing it to her? She might have it thrown into the washing machine. I started up the stairway.
"Can we at least go to the party when we're finished?"
"We'll see," she said. "I can't be thinking about any of that right now. Joline! Joline!" she cried.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Get up there and draw her bath. Quickly."
"Yes, ma'am," Joline said, and hurried to the stairway. She passed me by and was in the bathroom, fixing my bath of oils before I even took off my uniform.
I just sat there, dazed. I was certainly in no mood to pose as a model for beauty pageant pictures. I had come home on a cloud and now felt as if I was being dragged by my hair to be propped up on some stage surrou
nded by strangers, gaping at me with numbers in their eyes.
Naturally, I wasn't moving fast enough for Pamela. When she came bursting into my room, I was just sitting at the vanity table to blow-dry my hair.
"Aren't you ready yet?" she screamed. "You can run like the wind around those stupid bases at a ball game, but when it comes to getting ready for something really important, you're a turtle," she fired at me as she crossed the room to my closet.