7 Days at the Hot Corner Read online

  I feel a tiny rush of appreciation for Josh’s speaking out against antigay stuff until he speaks again.

  “The fact is,” Josh adds, his voice cool and certain, “homosexuality is a sin against God and nature. We should feel pity for gays and try to help them get better whenever we can. I feel sorry for that kid in the article, whoever he is.”

  Everybody is quiet. I want to say something, but what words would I use? If I speak up, what will everyone think of me? I know I don’t agree with him. If my dad were here, he’d make Josh look and sound like an idiot. But I’m not my dad.

  Before I have a chance to say anything, Matt speaks up again. He says to Josh, “Whatever you say. But don’t let me catch any of you guys playing fag …” He interrupts himself and grudgingly corrects, “Playing gay crap with each other around here. Whatever anybody does in private is their own business, but keep it private or you’ll have to deal with me.”

  He sounds mad—not too surprising, since he’s always sounded at least a little bit mad the few times he’s ever said anything. The thought of Matt discovering that Travis is the “secret gay” from the “Coming Out” article is scary to me—even though Matt says that if the gay kid keeps it to himself he’ll be all right, I don’t trust that for a minute. Somebody like Matt could hurt Travis pretty badly if he wanted to.

  My comfort level isn’t exactly increased by the feeling I have that once again, just like in World History yesterday, Matt seems to be addressing himself more to me than to the others. It’s almost as if he keeps trying to look at the other guys, especially Josh, but he can’t stop from looking right at me. What? Does he think I’m the guy in the article? I try not to blink or break eye contact with him, but I can’t hold on; I look away. Am I just being paranoid?

  My ears are still burning, my head is reeling; as I lace up my spikes and run out onto the field, I wonder if I’m going nuts.

  I play one of the worst games of my life, striking out four times on mediocre breaking balls. In baseball this is called getting the “golden sombrero,” and it’s a bad thing, a real bad thing for a guy who fantasizes about someday being good enough to actually make the pros. Unlike pro football and pro basketball, where high school guys usually go to play their sports in college first, most good baseball players start their careers right after high school—that’s why baseball players are called “the boys of summer.”

  Right now, though, I’m playing more like “the boy in the toilet”! In our first three games of the tournament my batting average is .233 (3 for 13), more than a hundred points below my regular season average and about one measly base hit above the Mendosa line, a numerical zone below which baseball players disappear like dinosaurs in a tar pit. I’m not able to hit anything that doesn’t come straight over the plate, fast. Pitchers are not stupid. They just keep throwing me off-speed junk, curves and sliders and changeups. When I do get a fastball, I’m so completely screwed up that I might as well be swinging one of those little twelve-inch toy bats they sell as kiddie souvenirs.

  I know that the stuff going on in my life outside of baseball is having an effect on my play. At least, that’s the excuse I’m making for myself, but it’s gotta be partly true. For instance, Travis and my dad sat up in the bleachers yesterday and again today, watching me play. They looked ridiculous—a real Hallmark-Kodak moment. I kind of hated them for it—nice, huh, being mad at Dad and Trav for being there to support me?

  I’m not as good a person as my dad is. Lots of kids I know talk like they hate their parents, but to be honest, my dad is pretty cool. He and my mom have always shared custody of me, although I spend more time with him, Monday through Thursday. This is partly because he lives in town, where school and all my friends are, and partly, to be honest, ’cause he’s less strict than Mom.

  But seeing Travis sitting there with Dad in the stands today reminded me of what Matt was saying about the secret gay kid. The thing about Matt that’s always bugged me is that, though he’s usually quiet, when he does say something, it never feels quite right to me, never feels like he’s saying what he really means; I can’t explain it better than that, but I don’t trust Matt.

  In the locker room I grab all my gear as quick as I can. I want to get home and warn Travis about what Matt was saying before the game today.

  I pull into the driveway and go into the house. I go up to my room, where Travis is sitting at my desk studying.

  “Travis,” I say.

  “Yeah?” he says, sounding a little pissy but turning toward me.

  I ask, “Aren’t you worried about kids putting the whole ‘unknown gay’ thing together with you being kicked out of your parents’?” I know I sound like a jerk, but I don’t have the patience for politeness.

  “I don’t really care,” Travis says. “You’re the one who’s worried about that.”

  “Well, yeah, maybe I don’t care and for selfish reasons.” Then I say, “Sorry,” a little bit sarcastically—hey, it’s not just me who’s been avoiding him.

  “Come off it,” Travis snaps, staring straight into my eyes. “You haven’t talked to me for how many days now? Is this your idea of being a friend?”

  I look right back and say, “Hey, pal, that’s a two-way street. You said some pretty mean stuff to me, you know. I’m sorry I’ve been kind of a jerk, I feel bad, but I’ve—”

  But Travis cuts me off. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s a little problem you have, isn’t it? I … I … I.” Then he turns his back.

  Now I’m totally steamed again. “Me? What about you? Don’t you think you’re being selfish? This gay thing affects all of us—your friends, your family; I even went and talked to your mom about it.”

  Travis turns back to me; his expression looks horrible, like I just kicked him in the ’nads. “You did what?”

  Suddenly I feel really uncomfortable, ashamed or guilty or both. “That wasn’t okay to do? I mean … I wasn’t trying to … I just—”

  Travis interrupts, tears in his eyes. “What did she say?”

  I look away from him. I feel sad, and really bad for him. “She said to say hi,” I answer, like an idiot. I glance up real quick to check what Travis looks like; his eyes are even wetter … I feel terrible.

  I say, “She said to tell you she loves you.”

  Actually, Rita never said this—but I say it to Travis anyway because it’s what she should have said. I may be mad at him, but I can’t help but feel awful that he’s so miserable.

  Travis looks away and tries to nonchalantly wipe his eyes. He says, “Oh, yeah?”

  I say, “Yeah, for sure.”

  Travis takes a couple of slow, deep breaths and then stares back down at his book and says, “I gotta do this trig.”

  I say, “Okay,” glad to have an excuse to get out of here. “I’m sorry about talking to your mom.”

  Travis doesn’t say anything, just pretends that he’s studying again.

  I quietly leave the room, realizing that I never even told him about Matt Tompkins—but that will have to wait; I’m not going back in there right now.

  I go downstairs and walk into the kitchen. Dad has gotten home, and when he sees me he asks, “You doing okay?”

  I say, “Not really,” and then, speaking softly, I add, “I wish Travis would move out.”

  “Why?” Dad asks.

  I tell Dad why Travis has been living with us for the past couple of weeks. Dad listens and nods and says, “Yeah, both Travis and his dad talked to me about this already.”

  “Well?” I ask.

  “Well what?” Dad asks.

  “Don’t you think it’s kind of weird, all this stuff?”

  “I don’t know, Scotty,” Dad says. “Not really. It’s just life.”

  “Dad!”

  “Scott,” he says quietly, “Travis is your friend and I don’t care what his sexual preference is—that’s his business, not yours or mine or anyone else’s. Besides, it’s not really about ‘preference’ anyway—nobody chooses who they
’re attracted to, so ‘preference’ isn’t the right word—it’s just about who Travis is.”

  I say, “Roy and Rita obviously don’t feel that way about it.”

  Dad says softly, “I know.” Then he looks away from me and says even softer, “And that’s a shame.”

  I swear this whole gay thing doesn’t amount to a pimple on the butt of the universe to my dad.

  We’re quiet for a few seconds, then finally I admit, “I’m tired of this gay stuff, I guess. Every time I turn around, I’m scared that somebody will think I’m queer too. I’m sick of it.”

  “You’re sick of it!” Dad exclaims, unable to keep the annoyance out of his tone. “How can you be sick of it? Travis is the one who’s paying the dues on that deal. His parents won’t let him in their home. He hasn’t asked you for anything, and as near as I can tell, you’ve been really accommodating in giving him exactly that … nothing.”

  “I can’t help it,” I say, feeling madder each second. “I’m not as nice as you are! I don’t even know what I could do to help. I’m really messed up; I don’t get any of this!” All of a sudden I feel like I might start punching walls and breaking things.

  Dad seems to see this and he backs off. “It’s been a tough thing for both of you, Scott. I know that, but there’s nothing to get.” His voice is softer and real understanding. “Travis is gay, but he’s still your friend.”

  I say, “I know that, but …” I can’t even find the words for what I feel.

  Dad asks, “What else is going on?”

  I tell him about the fight at school, how scared I was that it was Travis getting beaten up; I tell him about what Matt said about “the gay guy”; and I explain a little about the arguments Travis and I are having and how bad that feels. I almost tell him about the batting cage and blood and all that, but I hold back—if the news there is bad, there’ll be time later for us to discuss it.

  I say, “I’m not like you, Dad. I just can’t be calm about this.”

  He smiles and says, “You’re a good person, son, a great person. And this is all part of growing up, as clichéd and simplistic as that sounds—it really is.” Then he adds, his voice gentle, “But a lot of this stuff really has nothing to do with Travis being gay—you know that, right?”

  I say, “I don’t know anything right now, except that I feel really screwed up.”

  Dad and I have always been close, always been honest with each other—and I know that he’d never do what Travis’s parents are doing, never, no matter what I did!

  Dad puts his hand up to his chin and strokes his beard gently. I see the wrinkles around his eyes; I notice how old his hands look and the white hairs in his beard and at his temples. Dad’s always seemed big and strong to me; he still does, even though I’m now taller than him.

  He takes a slow, deep breath, and then says, “Trav doesn’t have anyplace else to go right now.” His tone is soft and reasonable. “He needs us to be his friends, Scott.”

  I say, “Yeah, I know that. I don’t even really want him to leave, but I don’t know how to handle this. It’s like he’s a different person now. I know he isn’t, but that’s how it feels.”

  I look away from Dad and try to focus on something else. On the radio the Mariners are playing, but they’re no help, trailing 11 to 2 in the seventh. It feels like everything sucks right now.

  Dad says, “Maybe you should spend the next couple of days out at your mom’s, give both you and Trav a little breathing room.”

  I can tell that Dad isn’t saying this like a threat, or because he is mad at me. He just wants me to know that if I want to go to my mom’s house to stay tonight, on a day that I usually spend with him, it won’t hurt his feelings. Dad has to have noticed the tension here too, both Travis and me tiptoeing around each other, avoiding eating dinner together, doing everything we can to keep our distance.

  I think about Dad’s suggestion to go to Mom’s place, realizing that I haven’t even spoken to her since all this stuff started. “Yeah,” I say, “that’d be good.”

  Dad says, “I want a hug.”

  It’s ridiculous, you know, a guy still liking a hug from his dad at my age—but ridiculous or not, it feels good.

  I feel better, not all the way better, but better. I finish a Raspberry Twister, then go upstairs and take a quick shower. I come back downstairs, ready to head to Mom’s place.

  The M’s have lost, but somehow I don’t care. After saying good-bye to Dad, I take off.

  There’s a Safeway right around the corner from my house, and I decide to run in and grab a snack for the drive out to Mom’s. It’s not that far, but I kind of need a junk food rush.

  I drive a yellow 1989 Toyota 4x4 pickup truck. I know that 1989 sounds really old, but I love my rig. It’s a short-bed SR5 with big oversize tires for off-road driving (which I never actually do). I keep it in pretty nice shape: great chrome wheels, a decent sound system, sheepskin seat covers, and a heavy-duty storage box bolted onto the pickup bed, just behind the cab. Yeah, I love my truck; I even tried to get my dad and mom, separately or together, to go in on personalized license plates for me. I checked with the department of licensing and both “Hotcorner” and “Baseball23” (my uniform number) were still available, but my parents said no. I guess that really would have been sort of show-offy.

  But because my truck is bright yellow, I think a lot of kids know it’s mine, and as I pull up and park, I see a couple of ninth-grade girls I recognize from school watch me get out and walk into the store.

  I’m standing at the chips rack, trying to decide between Cheetos and Doritos, when the two girls approach me. I don’t even notice them until they’re right next to me. They’re only frosh and real young-looking.

  The taller of the two, a blond girl, asks, “Aren’t you on Thompson’s team?”

  I say, “Yeah, the baseball team.”

  The other girl says, “Like there’re any others....”

  I smile and say, “Don’t let the tennis, golf, or track-and-field guys hear you say that.”

  They both laugh, and the blonde says, “We read about you in the paper this morning.”

  I say, “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah,” they both answer at once.

  The shorter girl says, “You guys are awesome; you play third base, huh?”

  I smile again. “Yeah, I do. Have you guys been coming out to our games?” Kind of a stupid question, but I can’t really think of anything else to say.

  “Yeah,” they both say again, nodding their heads at the same time.

  They look so incredibly young to me, more like sixth graders than high school girls. But they’re cute, and someday they’ll be the kind of girls who would refuse to even glance at me at a dance or something. Right now, though, they look all starry-eyed and happy.

  I make my junk food decision and reach for the Doritos, a medium-size bag, when the blonde suddenly asks, “Can we have your autograph?”

  I look at them closely to be sure they’re not kidding. Nobody has ever asked me for an autograph before, and it seems ridiculous, but they look sincere.

  I say, “Come on, why would you want my autograph? I mean, we go to the same school, right?”

  The shorter girl speaks right up. “You’re gonna be famous someday.”

  I laugh and say, “Not too likely.”

  The blonde says, “You’re already famous! Your name is in the paper today.”

  I say, “Yeah, it’s in the box scores every day too, but—”

  “No,” the blonde interrupts, “it was in the article about Thompson. You’re Scott Latimer, and it said you’re one of the best players on the team.”

  I feel myself blush. “We’ve got a lot of good players—I’m just one of the guys.”

  The short girl says, “You’re a senior.”

  I say, “Yeah.”

  “Next year you’ll be a big league player—you’ll get like five million dollars a year or something.”

  I keep myself from laughi
ng and say, “The stars get that. Not regular players—”

  The short girl interrupts me. “No,” she says. “The stars, like A-Rod of the Yankees, get twenty-five million dollars a year—but some pitchers, even guys with ERA’s over five, still make millions.”

  I laugh, surprised that she’s so smart about baseball. I say, “That’s true, but anyway, there’s no guarantee that I’ll even make the pros.”

  “You will,” the blond girl says. She asks again, “Will you give us your autograph, please?”

  Seeing that they’re serious and feeling my face turn redder than the Doritos package in my hand I say, “Sure, I guess.”

  They both smile and clap their hands. The shorter girl pulls out a Sharpie and two pieces of paper from the back pocket of her jeans, like she had this autograph thing all planned out ahead of time.

  She asks, “Will you make them to Angela and Davita?”

  I say, “Sure,” taking one more glance at them to be certain this isn’t some kind of practical joke. I look around to make sure some joker isn’t watching and laughing at the end of the aisle. But the coast looks clear, and the girls seem to be completely into it. I have to ask how to spell “Davita” and then I sign my first-ever autographs.

  “Thanks,” they both say at the same time.

  I say, “Sure.”

  The shorter girl, Angela, says, “Good luck with the rest of the tournament—I know you guys are gonna win it.”

  Her friend says, “Yeah.”

  I say, “I hope so, thanks.”

  “Thank you!” the blond girl says, and stares into my eyes. I glance back, and suddenly she says, “You’re cute.”

  The short girl kind of screams, “Davita, you promised!”

  Davita quickly says to her friend, “I’m sorry.” Then, turning to me, she says, “But you are.”

  I blush even worse and look down at my Doritos. I say, “Thanks.... It’s nice meeting you both. See you out at the games.”

  Angela grabs Davita and begins to pull her away, saying, “Yeah, we’ll see you there. Forgive Davita, she’s brain damaged, one too many foul balls off her skull.”