𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝑺𝒊𝒙𝒕𝒚-𝑻𝒘𝒐 | b. rodriguez

the sandlot

After our first lunch in our new home, mother sent Scotty straight outside. His stuff was only half unpacked; a few clothes laid on the floor, his bed was made, and a few of his toys littered the carpet.

I returned to my room after clearing the table, to unpack. Bill had put my bed together in the middle of the room over a rug I'd placed down after sweeping. I moved the bed over a bit, between two of the windows on the far wall.

Then I unpacked all of my clothes, hanging my dresses in the closet and putting my saddle shoes and Sunday flats on the bottom. I left my chucks out by the door because I was hoping to get away with wearing them out later on.

After putting the rest of my clothes and jeans in my dresser, just about everything was where it ought to be.

Except for the smallest of the first two boxes. I smiled, picking it up off the floor, and placed it on my bed. Lifting the flaps, I revealed my father's old glove, just a little bit too big for my hand.. well, a lot too big, but it was one of my favorite things to remember him by.

Do I still miss my father? Of course. Back then, I didn't understand how my mother could go on without my Daddy. After all, he and I had a connection that made him seem like the most amazing person in the world. But with Bill, I guess, I realized he sorta made her happy, which was good.. important. So sure, I didn't like him, still don't. But what's a girl to do?

Nothing, I guess. So now my mother, Scotty, and I live with Bill in a new house. New house. New neighborhood. New friends. New family.

✱ ✱ ✱ ✱

That night I overheard my mom's conversation with Scotty.

"Scotty, have you made any friend's yet?" I heard my mother ask from my room. The door was open just a crack, and my room was the closest to the kitchen.

"No. not yet."

"Why not, honey?"

"'Cause I'm still new."

Poor Scotty. He was never lucky when it came to making new friends. Neither was I, but at least that summer I wasn't the one who got the guys and myself into the biggest pickle we'd ever encountered.

"I want you to get out into the fresh air and make some friends," she said. "Run around, scrape your knees, get dirty, climb trees, hop fences, get into trouble, for crying out loud. Not too much, but some. You have my permission. How many mothers do you know who say something like that to their sons?"

"Well, none mothers I guess." I could hear him smile as he said that.

I wish she would tell me that. Only about girls. I wish mothers told their daughters that there's more to life than sitting still and looking pretty, cooking and cleaning a stupid house.

My mother never told me that, however, no matter how much I wished it.

Nevertheless, I crept into my room, shut my door and slipped into bed with a surprisingly decent sleep.

✱ ✱ ✱ ✱

Saturday morning I woke up, ate breakfast and got dressed. I slipped on my chuck taylors. They were a bit muddy, and scuffed, but that's just the way I liked them.

I took my fathers old Dodgers cap out of the last small box, put it on over my ponytail, and put the box and it's memories on the shelf.

I figured Scotty and I could do a little exploring. If he was up for it at least.

I opened my door and stepped into the hall. I grew a bit nervous as I remembered my mother would see me wearing "boy clothes." She never really liked it, but she's gotten used to it.

"Sheila," she said as she saw me. "Where are you going?"

"I was gonna ask Scotty if he wanted to look around the neighborhood."

"Oh. That's fine," her gaze softened at the mention of Scotty. "He's outside with Bill."

I always got the vibe my mother cared for Scotty more than me. I knew it probably wasn't true.. but still, she treated him like a perfect kid just because he was the "baby" of the family.

That, and she probably wanted me to be a perfect daughter, considering I was the only girl she had. Makeup, perfect curls, dresses, nail polish..

That just wasn't me. She didn't seem to get that– or appreciate it.

Which, sort of wasn't fair because after all, Scotty wasn't a perfect son. He didn't fit in either. He couldn't play sports, didn't get into trouble. But my mother didn't care.

As I stepped out of the back door into the yard I sensed the tension between Scotty and Bill right away.

Scotty was holding a plastic baseball mitt he'd gotten as a gift a year or so ago.

Bill kept whipping balls at his face.

What a jerk.

Honestly, the nerve of that guy..

I wondered why in the world Scotty was even trying to play ball with Bill – I mean, I know they'd never gotten on well, but surely baseball was not the right way for Scotty to bond – with anyone.

Or so I thought. Boy, was I wrong.

"Hey, Scotty? Wanna look around the neighborhood?"

He looked at me, relieved. So did Bill.

"Sure," he said, looking to Bill for his approval.

"Go ahead," he said. "By all means."

I decided to grab dad's old glove when I realized Scotty was bringing his. I let him lead the way. Down the street we went, until we came across the Sandlot.

There were a total of eight boys, all positioned around the field. A short, pudgy boy with red hair and a face splattered in freckles was the catcher. The pitcher was a short boy, with dark skin and closely shaved brown hair hidden beneath a white ball cap.

Up to bat was a lean, dark haired boy. He held the bat up in perfect form, his knees the perfect width apart.

The pitcher threw the ball.

The batter swung.

CRACK!