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CHAPTER8
Sunlight shonedirectly into Lauren’s eyes blinding her. She struggled to see around the old softball glove she was holding above her head.
Plop. The softball landed next to her foot, cushioned by the grass instead of her glove. In her mind, she heard the eleven other people practicing on the field groan.
“Lou! You have to get your glove under that!” Her uncle spiked his Vote Carla Machado for Councilwoman cap into the dirt.
Using the worn, brown leather glove as a visor, Lauren shielded her eyes from the sun. She found her uncle on the far side of the field, his hands in the air as if his favorite team just bungled the Super Bowl. Her father’s brother had married into the great bakery feud, but he took it just as seriously as her mother’s side of the family.
“I couldn’t see, Tio!” Lauren reached for the ball at her feet.
“That’s no excuse!”
“I don’t even play outfield!” She leaned back to pick up momentum as she launched the ball as far as she could.
“You do for this practice!” he countered.
Lauren rolled her eyes. Her uncle was giving his son a chance at her infield position, but they all knew he wouldn’t cut it for the big game. Her uncle’s macho pride about his son’s athletic prowess, or lack thereof, was no match for his desire to win. Sooner or later he would admit that his son was more suited to dicking around in left field. He always did.
For years Lauren had been just as enthusiastic about the annual match-up against the Campos clan as the rest of her family. She’d even flown home from UCLA every spring to play. But with each passing year it seemed a little more ridiculous. More childish.
Her family wasn’t even that fond of sports, and yet every year they spent weeks practicing in the heat to play one game no one but the Machados and Campos’ cared about. She was getting sick of continuously doing things just because they’d always been done.
“Wake up out there!”
Lauren’s attention flashed to her uncle. After setting the ball on the tee, he swung the bat as hard as he could. With a crack, he sent the ball flying toward Lauren again.
Holding out her glove, Lauren positioned herself under the ball. All she had to do was stay where she was, but her stubbornness flared. She wasn’t in the mood to give him the satisfaction of obedience. It would be like admitting she needed someone to show her how to play the game. She didn’t.
With a step to the left, she moved out of the ball’s way and watched it land in the grass. Her uncle’s reply was a string of Spanish curses bluer than a Smurf’s rear end. Lauren paid him the respect of biting the inside of her cheek rather than overtly laughing at his overblown tantrum.
“Let’s take a break!” Lauren’s mother called from the cluster of lawn chairs positioned under one of the sprawling banyan trees in the park.
Like she did when she played in high school, Lauren put her glove on her head like a hat and jogged along with the others toward the large cooler full of drinks. Vote Carla Machado for Councilwoman t-shirts swarmed the single, shady point. Despite the November election being six months away, her mother had been working endlessly to turn everything into a merch opportunity.
“You shouldn’t stress your poor tio out like that,” Lauren’s father put his long arm around her shoulder as he whispered.
Lauren smirked, her gaze cutting to the other side of the field where her uncle had walked off on his own like a real-life drama queen. “He shouldn’t make me waste my time standing out there. I don’t know why you let him proclaim himself team captain every year. It goes straight to his bald head.”
Her father’s gentle face creased as he smiled, his head cocked to the side. “It makes him happy. Gives him purpose.” He looked around to make sure the rest of the Machado tribe was too busy rehydrating to hear him. “He needs the boost. You know how sensitive he is about little Andy’s lack of coordination.”
Reflexively, Lauren glanced at her cousin who was struggling to get his straw in the fruit punch pouch he’d grabbed from the cooler.
“Sports aren’t for everybody,” she decided with a laugh before her mother waved her over.
“Lauren, your phone has been ringing, mija.” Her mother pointed at the bag she’d left with her while they practiced. Even in a t-shirt and cap, she was polished and composed. An enviable trait.
As soon as she read the text messages waiting for her, Lauren’s shoulders dropped.
“What is it?” Her mother’s dark eyes searched her face as if expecting bad news.
“Nothing,” she lied, but disappointment emanated from her like a stench.
Her mother raised a dark, micro-bladed eyebrow. The look was a hand twisting her arm behind her back.
“It’s just Jenny. She’s not coming.”
Lauren dropped the phone back in her bag. She didn’t respond to Jenny’s question about coming over later. To do so, she’d have to re-read the garbage excuse she’d offered for getting out of dinner with her family.
