Page 30 of The Way We Swing Back

Chapter 14

Zach, surprisingly, hadn’t brought up the whole letting-Gavin-drink thing. Not a word. I didn’t know if that was forgiveness or Zach being nonconfrontational, but I wasn’t complaining.

We had our fifth game of what should have been my junior season tonight. Our third loss. The team’s morale was somewhere south of zero, and my pride ached thinking about the plays I should have been making and at-bats I should have been taking.

I walked into the Quinns’ house, hoping to find Gavin. He’d failed his last algebra test, which meant he hadn’t played today. Zach had caught in his place, and it had been a disaster. Fucking Gavin.

I stopped cold in the hallway when a girl I’d never met came into view. My brain stuttered. I didn’t think I’d ever seen a girl in this house besides Zach’s girlfriend, and even that was rare. This one sat at the kitchen table next to Gavin, who had his head buried in a textbook. She looked his age, maybe a year older, with curls she kept shoving out of her eyes so she could stay fixed on the page with the kind of intensity that made you nervous just watching.

Her dark skin contrasted with the color green that was everywhere: the headband in her hair, the bands on her wrists, even the hat Gavin was wearing. She looked as if she cared about being right and very little else. Her mouth was scrunched up, her pen rolling down a sheet of paper.

“No, this answer is all wrong! Do you even pay attention in class?” she said, her voice shrill but not cruel. Yeah, I liked her. Put Gavin in his place.

“I try,” Gavin mumbled, eyes darting nervously between his notebook and her.

“No, you don’t. You aren’t dumb; you’re lazy. Which is so much worse.”

Whoever this girl was, she had Gavin under control. I leaned back against the wall and tried not to smile. Part of me wanted to see how far she could push him.

Instead, I opted for the couch and turned on the game. Mr. Quinn and Zach were grabbing burgers, so I figured I’d get the Cardinals game ready for when they got home.

A minute later, Gavin poked his head into the living room, clearly hoping to escape. But before he spoke:

“Absolutely not, Gavin; we aren’t done. I do not have all night to teach you how to do quadratic equations.”

Gavin scowled. Sorry, he mouthed before turning back to the girl.

Good. Let him stew. He was getting exactly what he deserved.

An hour later, Maissie—her name, I learned—finally packed up. Gavin walked her to the door before he tried to slip past his family and me in the living room, but Mr. Quinn’s voice boomed. “Get back here, Gavin.”

He stopped and turned sheepishly then walked back to the living room and sat on the floor, attempting to make it look like he’d been watching the game the whole time.

“Why didn’t you play today?”

He pulled his hoodie up over his head. “I messed up on my last algebra test. I’m failing.”

“And that girl?”

“I went and asked Mr. Marston for help. He said Maissie could tutor me.”

“Did it help?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t meet our eyes, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “She’s... really smart.”

Mr. Quinn relented, satisfied Gavin was working to fix the issue.

Zach seemed on the same page as me, though, and got to him first. “Well, listen to her. You need to get your shit together; my knees suck, and I can’t be catching all year. Absolute bullshit, Gavin.”

“Language, Zachary,” Mrs. Quinn said sharply from her chair.

“Well, it is,” Zach said, his fingers curled, staring lasers through Gavin’s hoodie.

“Do you really think I’d rather be stuck here instead of playing? All I want is to be on the field,” he said, standing. “I’ll figure it out. Maissie will help. Can I go to my room now?”

Mr. Quinn flicked his hand. Gavin darted off, backpack bouncing against his body, and the house suddenly became emptier. The kitchen was quiet, and a reminder of the takeout burgers hung faintly in the air. I fell into the couch; the Cardinals game still played, but I wasn’t paying attention to the action.

All I could focus on was the field: the crack of the bat, the smell of fresh-cut grass, the leather of my glove snug against my hand. I imagined the pitcher winding up, the ball spinning toward me in slow motion, and my shoulder coiling and releasing the perfect throw. Every inning, every swing, every catch played out in my head.