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“Really?” I lifted my head. “I bet she was amazing.”

I couldn’t think of a time she hadn’t been.

“Better than amazing.” Ms. Sparrow leaned back into her chair. “When Marguerite took the stage, it was like the entire audience held their breath, waiting to be transformed.”

My heart squeezed, and a familiar ache unraveled itself through my chest, a cold coil of rope winding and knotting and releasing, all at the same time. God, I missed her. “I wish I could’ve seen her on the stage,” I whispered.

“She played Eliza in My Fair Lady when I saw her the second time. I haven’t seen a better Eliza since.” She cocked her head. “Is that how you got your name?”

“Yes. Grandma always said that Eliza was one of the best roles written for the stage.” I took another bite of the muffin, but it had no taste now. I couldn’t smell it anymore either. I had felt the same way for weeks after Grandma passed. Everything lost its color, flavor…even music sounded melancholy and flat.

“She was right.” Ms. Sparrow scooted forward and took both of my hands in her own. “Do you know why?”

I knew.

Grandma used to sing me to sleep with “I Could’ve Danced All Night” when I was a little girl. She hummed “Without You” while she sewed. Thanks to her, I knew Eliza Doolittle’s monologues long before I even knew what a monologue was.

I stared at the small tattoo on my wrist: the heart-shaped baseball with Grandma’s name spelled out in the stitching. “Grandma said Eliza Doolittle never needed anyone to fix her. That she had it inside of her all along. She said once she realized she didn’t have to choose between who she was and who she wanted to be that she was a force to be reckoned with.”

“She was.” Ms. Sparrow squeezed my hands. “This is an important production for you, for many of the cast and crew. They need a Doolittle in that booth, Ms. Crowley, and so do I. Are you ready to be that person?”

I prayed I was.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Reed

“Baseball really is a glorified game of throw and catch. And if you don’t have guys who throw it really well, you can’t compete for long.”

—Tucker Elliot

On Wednesday afternoon, we played the Centerville Coyotes to a sold-out crowd in Crowley Park under a blistering ninety-four-degree heat. We had to win this game and the next one to officially clinch our spot in the championship, where we’d likely play the Crowley Cardinals.

So far, it didn’t look promising.

Cameron pitched the first five innings and did really well, but he had no support behind the plate. Ben was all over the damn place. He botched what should’ve been an easy throw to second, which kept the tying run on base. He dropped a pop-fly near the third-base line in the bottom of the third, and he even got an official warning in the bottom of the fourth when he mouthed off to the ump.

Before I took the mound, Coach Roeper pulled me aside and asked me what was wrong with Ben. I shrugged, because I hadn’t seen him or spoken to him since our last practice together when he all but said we weren’t family anymore.

I could’ve told Coach about Ben’s being pissed at me for losing focus and breaking our pact, but what the hell was the point? It wouldn’t fix the errors from earlier in this game. Any good ballplayer knew you left your shit at home when it was game day.

Guess I’d have to pick up the slack myself.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I had one error after another. I didn’t cover first base fast enough with what should’ve been an easy out in the bottom of the sixth. Then, I missed a bunt that practically landed at my feet, but worst of all? I balked.

BALKED.

Who fails to step toward first when trying to throw out a base runner at this level?

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done something so careless. And because of me, that smug-ass base runner got a free pass to second base. Why the hell couldn’t I get my head into this game?

What was wrong with me?

After a damn lucky strikeout with the first at bat in the bottom of the ninth, Coach Monaco called, “Time!” Ben lifted his mask before running out to the mound as Coach did.

I hated getting taken out in the last inning.