Tea For Two

16

Disclaimer: This is part of an original piece of fiction. It's mine, don't steal it, you know the drill. Thanks. Enjoy.

~~~

On the last day of April, a Monday, Emily and I part ways for a few hours after practice to do homework. I almost always try to do my work at practice while I sit next to Kyle but as it turns out, I am easy to distract and Kyle is more entertaining than physics.

But when I finish my work, I head over to her place. When I enter the house, her mom is meditating on the carpet and points out the back door without opening her eyes.

"Thanks," I whisper to her, trying not to break her concentration while still being polite.

I walk out the back door and smile, seeing her. She's still wearing her practice gear- old tee shirt, running shorts, and cleats even though she doesn't have to wear them.

I know that it's strange, but I prefer her in these clothes to anything else. Yes, she's stunning in short skirts and dresses. Yes, she knows how to do her make up to make herself look even more gorgeous than normal. And that's nice, I guess.

But she's never more beautiful than when she's wearing this- covered head to toe in dirt and chalk from the diamond, her shirt sticking to her back with well-earned sweat, and her curly hair frizzy and pulled back into a rebellious ponytail. She's just beautiful.

"Hey," I say as I settle myself on the beat up porch-style swing hanging oak trees in her yard, left out in the weather by owners from before I was born.

"Hi."

She's practicing again, though exactly what she's practicing is unclear to me. She's pitching at the tool shed again, scooping the ball and pitching it once more. But her pitch is all wrong- the ball will start high and drop half-heartedly at the end, or it will almost curve in the middle, but not quite.

She is getting irritated, and I don't blame her. Usually, her pitching is stellar.

"Is your arm hurt?" I ask carefully.

"No."

I sigh and decide to just be blunt with her.

"Then why are you pitching like shit?"

Without warning, she whips around and pitches a perfect left-handed fastball just to the right of my head. I barely duck in time to feel like I've saved my skull, though I know she wouldn't have really hit me.

"Well that one was good," I say from where I'm about to slip off of the swing.

"I know," she says, taking her glove off and wiping her forehead. "That's the problem."

"How is that the problem?"

She sighs.

"Because- I can do that, but I can't throw a decent knuckler."

I stare blankly at her, knowing an explanation is coming.

"A knuckler?" she asks, making sure that I really don't know. "A knuckle ball? A butterfly ball?"

I snort, the image of a baseball attempting to hold itself aloft with colorful but shaky wings coming to my mind.

"Why is it called a butterfly ball?"

"Because that's how it moves," she holds one hand out and makes it tremble as if she's had too much coffee today. "Sorta fluttery."

"What about the 'knuckle' part?" I ask, still missing that bit.

"Before you pitch it, you hold it like this," she says, picking up the ball that had earlier been aimed at my head. She walks around the swing to stand behind me and stretches her arms out, showing me how to wrap my fingers around the ball. "See? Knuckles out."