In Between the Lines

Chapter 16: Bird in a Cage (Part 2)

A group of at least five girls were standing outside of the cage, watching us like angry vultures. And though I couldn't see because I was turned away from them, I knew the rest of his teammates were watching, too—the weight of their blistering stares on my back was all too palpable.

Instead of letting myself feel uncomfortable under their watchful gazes, I imagined it was bitterness that rattled their bones as they looked at us. That it wasn't judgment, but contempt that drove them all to the point of such curiosity. Maybe it made me a bad person for feeling this way, but I reveled in that sensation—the shining delight I felt as I glanced over and watched his teammates' expressions harden with the way Dez's strong hands carefully slipped that red helmet onto my head. Onto the girl they'd made bets on. And lost to.

Still, I had to admit that my revelry wasn't so much fueled by those sour glances as it was by the look on Dez's face as I'd walked into that cage. Dez, who now stood grinning brightly at me standing at the plate with his helmet on my head, as if he'd forgotten that every single move we made was being assessed by all the eyes in that room. Forgotten—or just didn't care.

He showed me what I needed to do at the plate, slowly going through the motions of how to properly swing a bat. And then he handed his surprisingly light wooden bat to me before he jogged to the pitching machine and ordered me to get into my stance.

He'd set the pitching machine to the lowest setting, a whopping 30 miles-per-hour, which, compared to the 90 mile speeds the boys were used to, wasn't really that fast at all. Still, as Dez sent that first pitch flying, the small white ball came all too quickly, and I yelped, jumping back and out of the small batter's box on instinct.

It was hard to ignore the cackling howls that erupted from his teammates, as well as the laughter that came from girls that stood on the other side of the cages. But when I looked at Dez, his shoulders were shaking up and down silently—and I realized he was laughing, too.

I tightened my grip on his bat. "You do realize I'm the one holding the bat, don't you?"

He jogged towards me, shaking his head as remnants of his laughter ebbed. "You know you have to stay in the box to hit the ball, right?"

"You mean to get hit by the ball?" I placed a hand on my hip.

He pressed his lips together, probably to suppress another laugh. "I won't let anything happen to you, I promise." And then he turned away from me and said, "Frankie, can you give me a hand?"

Dez nodded towards someone outside of the cages, and it was only a moment later that a boy with a head of wild, curly black hair appeared. "What's up, man?" The boy nodded towards Dez as he entered the cage, his tongue hinting to an accent that I couldn't quite place. He was wearing a similar get-up—joggers and a baseball tee, but instead of the gray and red combo Dez wore, his ensemble consisted primarily of green, complimenting the glowing bronze tone of his skin.

"Frankie, this is Lyra." Dez turned towards me. "Peacock, this is Frankie. He's my catcher."

The catcher smiled, extending a hand. "Nice to meet you, Lyra." Frankie narrowed an eye at Dez. "Or . . . should I say Pea—"

"You should say Lyra." Dez crossed his arms, his mouth tight, the rigidity in his voice not to be mistaken for anything other than pure command.

The catcher grinned, looking between us as he nodded. "Sure, sure. Lyra, it is."

Dez rolled his eyes, uncrossing his arms as he walked towards the plate. Despite his show of exasperation, his shoulders weren't tense around Frankie, not the way they were when he talked about some of his other teammates. It seemed the two had a closer bond than with the rest, and I might've even gone so far as to call them friends.