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Two more students take their turns at bat, and then class ends.
“Let’s head in, folks!” Mr. Evans calls out after Lucy Howarth manages a single. “Only five minutes before the bell. Halloway, Josephs, grab the equipment, please.”
I scrape my hair together, twist it, and snap an elastic around the bun in a lazy attempt to keep the strands from blowing around in my face as I trudge back toward the brick building to change.
“You swung too late.”
I’m still grappling with the uncomfortable aftermath of shame, and in no mood to talk to the boy who incited the emotion. “Really? I thought it was my grip on the bat.”
“At least you’ve learned it’s called a bat, not a stick,” Caleb replies.
“I always knew that,” I grumble. “Gramps watches a lot of baseball.”
“You’re not going to magically improve by Monday, you know.”
“Obviously I know that, or else I would have already passed the stupid requirement.”
“You’re right,” Caleb agrees easily. “It is a stupid requirement.”
I eye him suspiciously, curious why he’s agreeing with me when ordinarily he’s willing to argue about anything. “A stupid requirement? I thought having everyone else forced to play the sport you worship would be your first choice for a gym requirement.”
“I thought so too. Until I had to watch you butcher a simple swing for twenty minutes.”
And…there’s the catch. “It wasnottwenty minutes.”
“Ten, at least.”
I scoff, but that’s probably accurate.
“There’s not much I could do for one swing, but regardless of how uncoordinated you are, anyone can hit the ball once,” he tells me. “Especially if they’ve got a good teacher.”
“I’ll let Mr. Evans know,” I state dryly.
Caleb sniggers. “I’moffering to help you hit a baseball, Lennon.”
“You’re what?” We’ve almost reached the gym entrance. I stop too soon, caught completely off guard.
“I’m offering to help you,” Caleb repeats, pausing as well.
“But…why?” Disbelief drips from my voice.
“Because you need help.”
I scowl. “You’re messing with me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Why would you help me?”
“Because you suck at baseball, and I’m good at baseball.” Caleb enunciates each word, as though I’m unaware of the reality of our respective skills when it comes to the sport and need it explained to me.
“That didn’t answer my question. Why would help me, and get nothing in exchange?”
“What did I get out of mucking out stalls with you?” I don’t answer; he keeps talking. “Do you want my help, Lennon? Yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll text you later.” Caleb heads inside the gym, leaving me standing confused and alone.
