All the Missing Pieces (UNDER REVISION)

Two

               If you haven't figured it out already, baseball is one of the most important aspects of my life. I've been playing since I was six, but I was never really into it until we moved to South Carolina when I was twelve. By eighth grade it was almost the center of my life. All of my friends played baseball, everything I did was baseball. You can't say you were a fan until you've had a six foot cut out of Pedro Martinez plastered to your wall.

               When we moved to Mansfield, Pennsylvania, my freshman year of high school, I tried out for the varsity team. Junior varsity was the best I could manage, but I was okay with that. Most freshmen don't make varsity anyways. My sophomore year I was a relief pitcher for the varsity team, which was pretty good seeing that the starter was 6'5 and twice as wide as me. An intense protein diet and conditioning workouts allowed me to gain a little weight, and now that I'm an upperclassman, making the varsity team in Philly was simple. I have the lowest earned runs average out out of anyone at CPCS. This is great for me because, seeing that I will inevitably make the team next year and assuming we don't have to move, I will have three years of a varsity sport.

               Despite my success, being the omnipotent new kid posed a threat to others. Others, mostly, being Kurt Meyers. Now don't get me wrong, I'm friends with most of the kids on the baseball team. While they're not my closest friends, I still hang out with them on the weekend and go to their parties. The enemy I made, however, finds some form of transcendent happiness in being as big of a douchebag as he can, such as now, where he is currently hurling baseballs at my chest with all his might from the pitching mound. I stand behind home plate in catching gear doing my best to not have a hole drilled into my body by the fiery pitches thrown by Kurt Meyers.
"Dude!" I shout from home plate. "What, are you a sissy, Reyes?"
"Dude." I restate. God, I hate catching. Even without Kurt trying to pelt me with baseballs, it's not my strong suit. "Kurt, I'm gonna bench you if you don't clean up your act. Harassing Reyes is a locker room only activity!" Coach Flynn calls from the dugout. Kurt turns his tall bulky body towards Coach, "Yes, Coach!" He calls, and turns back to me with a bitter frown. I look like a stick next to him. We're about the same height, but I'm just much scrawnier. Even though Kurt can no longer express his anger through literally trying to kill me, he doesn't argue with coach, and starts to pitch like a normal human being. "Much better, Meyers," Coach calls.

               Kurt hates my guts because he was supposed to get the pitching position. All though rumor has it that Coach dislikes Kurt because he was a dick to some kid last year, I like to believe that I earned the position because I'm a good pitcher. I put in the effort and got the results, though I understand Kurt's frustration. I tried being empathetic and making amends with him, but he was very dismissive and I'm hardly persistent so I gave up.

                He continues a pleasant cycle of pitching catchable pitches until he's down to one ball. He decides it's appropriate to nail high to the right of my head at full force, but I snatch it out of the air in one deft moment. He scowls at me with contempt, but doesn't seem surprised that I caught it. "Nice work, Reyes," Coach calls out. I smirk at Kurt as he turns away. "That's it for practice boys. Take it easy and rest up tonight. We've got a long week of practices before our last three games ahead." The team, which has gathered around, answers with an enthusiastic chorus of "Yes sir!"s and "Thanks Coach"es. Everyone then dismisses themselves to the bleachers to get their things. Mine are in the locker room because, after South Carolina, I fear you can never be too safe. Kurt's not the first baseball bully I've had to fear. One of the JV pitchers on my team in South Carolina literally soaked my entire bag in the toilet. Baseball gloves don't really work well when they've been sitting in a clogged toilet, and God only knows they're not inexpensive.

               When I come back from the locker room, James is leaning up against the side of the building. "Sup?" I ask. He merely shrugs. James' answer to that question is almost always a shrug. I throw my baseball bag over my shoulder and head to my car. He walks behind me with his hands in his pocket. He's never been a talkative person, but between lunch and our silent march to my car, he seems quieter than usual.

               At the beginning of the year, James insisted on walking home alone. The public bus doesn't have convenient circuit to his house, and our school decided that not enough kids used the busses to keep paying for them. James doesn't have his license, though he says that it wouldn't matter anyways because he and his dad only have one car. I tried to convince him to let me drive him all the way home for months. He lives near the shopping center I work at anyways, but he keeps claiming that he "doesn't want to inconvenience me" and he "can't pay for gas money." He insisted he would have to pay me, and I insisted that his presence was enough and that I really didn't mind. He assumed I was joking (I wasn't), and told me that he would agree to me dropping him off at the Whole Foods shopping center. Obviously, it's not like I can tell him I wasn't joking out loud, so I just drop him off at the shopping center without arguing.

               James still isn't talking, so I put on the last thing I was listening to this morning. The playlist is a compilation of David Bowie and Queen that my brother found on a CD when he was cleaning out for college, and that I gladly smuggled away from his "trash" pile. Some people are just uncultured I guess. James appears to be one of them as Bowie's "Dead Man Walking" starts playing, and his face contorts into some expression that meets halfway between smirking and repulsion. "What is this?" He asks.
"David Bowie," I respond nonchalantly, trying not to be offended.
"No way. Rebel, Rebel doesn't sound anything like this!" He says dramatically motioning with his hand. "And you call yourself a David Bowie fan!"
"I do not, and frankly I don't understand why you do."
"Because David Bowie is good, duh."
"David Bowie is dead."
"Uh yeah, and so is Picasso. Diss Bowie and you can get out of my car and walk. "I don't even like Picasso!" James says, "Out of all of the Great Modernist Painters he's probably my least favorite." I make an awkward half-laugh-half-grunt that pushes a strand of my dark hair out of my face. "I have no idea what that means." I say. He rolls his eyes, "Whatever." At the same moment in time we reach for the volume button. I'm faster than him so I reach the button first but then he presses his hand against mine and for a second I forget to breathe. His hands are surprisingly cold, and I can slightly feel the callouses on the sides of his fingers from holding so many paint brushes. My hand turns off the radio involuntarily, and he removes his hand from mine. "Peyton?" He asks. "Yeah?"
"The light's green." Fuck.

               We've been driving in silence for about three minutes before my brain is able to function again, but it's spinning like a broken record playing to the soundtrack of James O'Connor. "Do you think you'll ask Emily to prom?" I say, trying to sound cool and failing miserably. He stretches his hand out in front of him before looking at me with a surprised tilt of his head. "Uh, I don't know. Should I?"
"I mean, do you want to?" His mouth twitches as he furrows his eyebrows. "I, uh, yeah," he clears his throat, "Yes." His face becomes tinted with a light rose color as I feel my chest sink a little. I slap the imaginary rubber band on my wrist and remind myself that it's not like I'd actually have a chance anyways. "Well, what should I do?" He asks, scratching his head in question, "I'm not really extravagant."
"Just make a poster and get her flowers or something. She's not really extravagant either.
"Who are you gonna ask?" He then asks me. "I dunno. Marina maybe? If Emily says yes would you want to go as a group? Or would you rather have some alone time to, you know."
"Ew, Peyton, gross." He says, his face turning another shade of rose, "You're actually terrible."
"I take pride in my terribleness."
"Shut up!"
"So I guess that's a yes for the group idea?"
"Yes, you idiot." He inhales deeply and exhales slowly, cooling off his face in the process. "I guess I'll have to look at Pinterest tonight for some ideas."
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
"What?"
"You have the audacity to make fun of me for liking David Bowie when you're out here getting promposal ideas off of Pinterest!"
"Yes?"
"You're unbelievable." He starts to defend his motives, "Hey, pinterest is useful! It has good references for drawing."
"And David Bowie is useful because he's fucking cool."
"No he's not."
"He totally is."
"Unh-uh no way."

               When James gets out of the car, he turns and waves to me. I make a very dramatic motion in turning the music back on, but he just rolls his eyes and keeps walking. I then roll down the window and drive back to my house.