Fall ❈ Benny Rodriguez

iv. the purge

CHAPTER FOUR!
THE PURGE (20syl rmx)　SCHOOLBOY Q

　

　

THE SMOOTH WOOD of the baseball bat felt light and familiar in my hands. The dying sun glared down on my unshielded eyes, at its full intensity. It was because of this that I missed the first pitch.

　My heart thumped painfully against my chest with an irrational rage; my emotions were running higher than usual—if you know what I mean. Mouth pressed into a harsh line, I glared at Kenny, although not in anger at him. I just needed to keep my eyes off of Benny and Brandy.

　Yesterday, with Jordan, I had been all right. Heartbroken, but not so resentful, not like this moment. Of course, the reason was evident, but I could not wipe away the hard feeling. And Brandy was the easiest thing I could point my anger at—unrightfully so, but even still.

　It was a particularly hot day. But my cheeks grew hotter than the sun when Ham spoke behind me:

　"Hey, it's okay—you don't have to get it every time. Don't break the bat."

　I realized then that my hands had tightened around the bat, turning white with the pressure. If Brandy hadn't been here—watching me from the outfield where she would do absolutely nothing but merely pretend she was playing along—missing the ball would not have bothered me at all. But there she was, eyes flickering between me and Benny, and my blood boiled over.

　Kenny hesitated once the baseball returned to his hand. He looked extremely concerned for me. And with my own cold expression, he snapped back into focus.

　The next pitch came just as fast as the one before. Fortunately, the sun, sinking in the horizon, dulled, throwing a million shades of red across the sky. And, because I was amazed for a second too late, the ball smacked into Ham's glove.

　A ragged breath ripped from my throat, and I refrained from using the bat as a weapon. Especially when I spotted the skeptical look on Brandy's face. Probably she thought all of the stories from the boys were bullshit.

　I would show her.

　"Strike two," Ham called, though quietly, and threw the ball back to Kenny.

　While awaiting Kenny's final pitch, I hit the sides of my Converse with the bat, knocking loose dirt and sand. Then I hit the ground, just beside the base. And when I returned my gaze to Kenny, I was glaring a billion daggers. His eyes widened slightly.

　Nevertheless, Kenny made the pitch. This time—thank God—the bat smacked into the ball. The force was so great, sharp pains shot through my hands. Definitely I would have bruises later, but that hardly mattered.

　Before I could even run a few steps, the ball sailed high above the fence and disappeared past Mr. Myrtle's house. Either it landed on his roof or in his front yard. A triumphant grin spread across my face.

　Due to my womanly problems, though, I had no desire to completely circle the diamond. I paused, then shouted, "Pretend I ran the bases!" Then I turned for the dugout.

　The boys shrugged and followed along. They did not question me—probably they knew what was going on with me and did not want to cross that line. I pulled a water bottle from the mini-fridge, just before someone clapped me on the back.

　Kenny's hand tightened on my shoulder—a friendly gesture—and he reached past me to grab a Pepsi. "You good?"

　A breath I hadn't known I was holding released, and I plopped down onto the bench. "I'd really love some chocolate."