Logan
Traitor.
Itâs what I expect someone to mumble as they walk by, but weâre in Louisville and the odds of me running into anyone from Bullitt County High School are low.
The waitress smiles at me when she refills my water and our eyes meet. Sheâs pretty. Maybe a year or two older than me. Her hair is long, but Abbyâs is longer. Her eyes are brown, but Abbyâs are darker. Thinking of Abby causes me to consider asking this girl out. The waitress wouldnât be the first college girl Iâve dated and she wouldnât be the first girl Iâve taken out because Iâve got Abby on the brain.
I wink, the waitress blushes, my mother nudges my arm in approval.
Weâre at Applebeeâs. All three TVs over the bar show the Reds game, and thanks to the last home run, the people in the stands are going wild. Itâs crowded here, most places in Louisville are, yet my glass has never been empty. Yeah, the waitress is interested, but Iâm not sure if I am.
On my left, my father tilts his head toward the guy whoâs smiling like a Cheshire cat. If I should so choose, this guy could be my new baseball coach, and me flirting with a girl has to be a hell of a lot less awkward and more normal for him than what we have been discussingâmy diabetes.
Type 1 to be exact and itâs obvious by how this guy continually shifts that I must be the first potential player he has had with the disease. Bet heâs regretting asking me to lunch so he could convince me to play for him. This all leads back to traitor.
âLoganâs mother and I wanted to thank you for helping us get the approval from the athletic commission for Logan to continue to play baseball.â Dad always refers to him and Mom as separate. They divorced when I was six, but most of the time theyâve found a way to stay amicable.
âYes,â Mom chimes in. âYouâve been very helpful.â
Mom has no idea what Coach Reynolds was helpful with, but she likes to feel included. Dad sighs when Mom goes overboard in the gratitude departmentâthanking him for his time, for this lunch, for being here. Momâs a free-spirited talker and Dadâs the quiet, responsible one.
Out of those traits, I inherited Dadâs conversational skills and Momâs need for a rush. Iâve also got Momâs brown eyes, Dadâs black hair, and a body that doesnât produce insulin. Mom blames Dad for that, saying his negativity must have blocked one of my chakras in the womb. Dad says Mom needs her head examined. Iâm with Dad on this one.
âWhenâs your birthday?â Mom asks the coach. âItâll help me figure out what stars you were born under.â
âOnce again, thanks for your help.â Dad jumps in to save the conversation. Heâs good at keeping joint parental meetings from making an unscheduled detour into Momâs fascination with crazy. âThe state doesnât usually like it when students switch schools.â
âWasnât much of a problem. You share custody.â Coach Reynolds points the knife he had cut his hamburger with in Momâs direction. âAnd you live in our district.â
It also didnât hurt that this guy wants me on his team. This lunchâI feel for him because itâs possibly in vain. I told Dad at the end of last season I wasnât playing baseball again, but he went after the commissionâs approval anyhow in case I changed my mind.
Given my track record on things, heâs not wrong. My day-by-day attitude drives Dad insane. This time around, Iâm firm on a decision. I have a goal for this summer and training camps, drills and commitments to weekend-long tournaments arenât in the plan. Late nights, crowded bars, a guitar, and a trip to Florida at the end of the summer are in my sights.
âIt didnât hurt that Bullitt County High was encouraging during the process,â Coach Reynolds continues. âThere arenât many schools in the state that can surpass Eastwickâs academics.â
And there arenât many schools that can surpass Eastwick in sports, but my teammates from Bullitt County High and I made Eastwick cry in the state tourney this past spring. Back in May, Coach Reynolds cursed loud enough for the crowd in the stands to hear as I successfully protected home plate three times in a rowâas I cost his team the state championship.