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“I’m not going to change my mind,” I tell him. “Even if I did hate my classes here—which, considering the fact RCC’s journalism department hadonefaculty member, was pretty unlikely—you’re here. That alone would have been worth sticking a year out for.”
Caleb half smiles, but it quickly fades. He plays with his fork, dragging a stray piece of lettuce across the otherwise empty plate. “I saw Tom Stradwell in town before we left.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, when I was out getting coffee.”
“Oh.” I’m puzzled by the sudden shift in conversation.
“He said he offered you a full-time job at theGazetteafter you graduate.”
“Oh,” I say again, this time realizing what he’s getting at. “Yeah, he did.”
“Are you going to take it?”
“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “There’s a lot of…factors to consider.”
Specifically, the boy sitting across from me.
Caleb nods. “Yeah, I guess so.”
He doesn’t ask if he’s one of them. He knows he is, but I tell him anyway.
“Like you.”
He bobs his head. Swallows a couple of times. “Right.”
We stare at each other, unsaid things hovering between us.
Along with things we’ve said and will have to say again.
“I’ve got practice,” Caleb finally says.
Of course.
“It’s not even baseball season,” I grumble. “I thought sportshadseasons. Clear starts and ends.”
I’m joking, but I’m also not. I admire Caleb’s dedication and I know he works hard. I also thought the days of him rushing off to some baseball commitment would cease between summer camp and the actual start of the season. I should have known better by now, obviously.
Caleb gave me a copy of his class schedule, but not his baseball schedule. I’m sure there was a reason for that.
“Not if you want to win,” Caleb replies. His voice is teasing, but I also know he’s serious. This is an important season for him, and his teammates and coaches obviously take things just as seriously. “We’ve got a scrimmage on Saturday.”
“I know,” I respond. “I’ll be there.”
I wonder if Caleb is aware that this is the first time I’ll be seeing him pitch in a game. Ever.
We both stand, deposit our empty plates and dirty silverware in bins, and head back outside.
“You’ve got another journalism class later?”
“Nope. Pottery,” I reply.
Caleb stares at me. “Pottery?”
I shrug. “I needed an arts requirement, and I can’t play any instruments.”
“You can sing.”
