Thrown a Curve Read Online Free Page B

sleep or eat. I couldn’t decide if I should blow the tryouts or actually try to pitch my best. Would Sacamore know if I wasn’t trying? He did see me throw at the carnival.
    I didn’t want to play, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of the coaches and students. Being on a team again wouldn’t be too bad—it forced people to kind of be friends with you—but Rick would probably make sure no one talked to me.
    By late Wednesday night, I still hadn’t made a decision. I was wandering around the kitchen about ten o’clock, and my dad, as usual, was in the den reading. I munched on a piece of bread with peanut butter and stood outside the room, silently watching.
    Dad always looked tired. In fact, I almost never saw him sleeping. He was up in the morning before me, and stayed up late into the night. I wasn’t sure if he slept at all. He probably wasn’t even human.
    Dad was sitting at his desk with his reading glasses on the tip of his nose. He was forty-five years old, and he still had a full head of hair, but it was almost all gray, with only a few streaksof brown left. To me, he looked cold and mean—and he was. No matter what good things I did, nothing was good enough for him. Maybe this time he would be impressed with me. Baseball was the one thing he actually seemed to enjoy.
    “Hi, Dad,” I said, walking into the den.
    “You still up?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the book.
    “I can’t sleep.”
    “Uh-huh,” he mumbled.
    A few moments passed, and I could tell he wasn’t going to ask me why I couldn’t sleep. I figured I had to tell him about the tryouts, in case I ended up playing on the team or dying from humiliation.
    “I’m trying out for the baseball team tomorrow,” I said quietly. “Pitcher.”
    Still engrossed in his reading, he said, “Don’t be silly, Taylor. It’s late. Go to bed.”
    “But Dad, I’m serious. I—”
    “Taylor, it’s late. I have a lot to finish here.”
    Throwing my hands up in frustration and slumping up the stairs, I went into my room and sat down in front of the mirror. I stared at my long, stringy brown hair. Dad never listened to me. He never said anything when I got good grades. He never said anything when I cleaned around the house. He never hugged me goodnight. He didn’t care if I played baseball.
    I reached into my top desk drawer and pulled out the scissors. I began chopping off chunks of my hair—big chunks. He cared when my brothers played. More hair fell to the floor. Hottears streaked down my face. He didn’t love me. No one even cared that I was alive.
    By this time, my hair was sticking out in every direction, like a punk weirdo’s. Oh well, I had to wear a baseball cap anyway. I suddenly felt exhausted as I stared at my mowed hair in the mirror. But I felt better. For some reason, I fell asleep that night as soon as my head hit the pillow.
    Thursday morning, I got up early and stuffed some gym stuff in my book bag. I didn’t own a baseball glove, so I slipped into Brian’s old room to find one. He was a freshman in college now, and Dad kept his room the way he’d left it. Brian came home only on the holidays, mostly to add to the laundry piles. Brian didn’t play ball any more, which I thought made Dad mad. I peeked under the bed—nothing but dust bunnies.
    I headed for the closet and opened the door, smelling the musty leather. I dug through the dingy sneakers and crumpled baseball cards. At the bottom of the mess, I unburied an old glove. It was as flat as a pancake and faded with age, but I picked it up and held it like it was a priceless vase. I slipped it onto my left hand and felt the soft bumps of the worn leather inside. This will do, I thought as I slammed my right hand into the glove’s pocket.
    I hurried down to the kitchen and grabbed a cereal bar from the cabinet. At the counter, my younger brother Danny was eating a large bowl of fruity cereal while Dad sipped coffee and looked out the kitchen window.
    Danny