Page 11 of Curveball: The Baby and the Grump

“I guess. There’s just not a lot else to do, is there?”

“Sure there is. What — don’t you have any hobbies?”

He shrugs again. “None that I can do here. And seeing as I can’t leave my house under strict command, I’m down to napping and movies.”

I fold my arms and fix him with a stern look. “You’re not forbidden from leaving.”

“Really? Then why are you telling me not to push myself?”

“With your arms, dummy. We should go out.”

“A, why? And B, where?”

I should find his constant need to argue annoying, but somehow I find the challenge stimulating. “Fresh air will do you some good. We should go for a walk.”

“What about my arm?”

“Your arm won’t stop you going for a walk.”

“It’s four p.m.”

“And the park’s open all day, every day.”

He glares hard at me, clearly racking his brain to find some more lame excuses to try and blow me off, and when he can’t find one, he just sighs. “Fine. Whatever. We can walk.”

It’s hard not to be really smug. I try not to smile too much, anyway. “Get your coat, then.”

“I don’t need a coat — it’s June.”

“All right, don’t get your coat then. I’m not going to baby you. But the fresh air will do us both some good instead of just sitting here again.”

He sputters some more, but that does seem to be the end of his arguments because he wanders back out into the hall, slumping like this is the worst thing I could ever make him do. I just roll my eyes. He doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to, but I get the feeling that this act is the only way he can confess to the fact he actually does want to.

We put our shoes on in silence and step out into the afternoon sun. It’s warm, but not as hot as it can be at this time of year. “It’s nice weather,” I say blandly, trying to get more conversation out of him.

Jackson responds with a grunt.

All this silence is giving me too much time to think, because it’s making me think about looping my arm through his, leaning into him like we’re more than just friends. It’s alarming, the way the thoughts pop into my head unbidden. I do my best to shake them away, and as we approach the park, I say, “Do you come here often?”

“No.” He doesn’t even look at me as he offers his single syllable.

We turn along the tree-lined path, the sun filtering through the leaves and dancing over his face, emphasizing his sharp cheekbones and pouting lips. “Why’re you so grumpy?”

“My arm hurts!” he snaps back like that’s all that’s going on with him.

“Sure, but I get the feeling you’re probably like this all the time. I’ve seen what they say about you on sports TV — a great player, but with a face like you’ve been slapped.”

Jackson mutters something I can’t quite make out, and I decide it’s best not to try and push that one any further. I’m certain he’s being contrary on purpose, but I’m not going to let it deter me from talking to him.

“You love baseball, right?” I ask.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Just wondering why you got into it, that’s all.”

He shrugs. “All I was any good at. Couldn’t see the point of doing anything else.”

“You don’t make it to the Major Leagues because you only like it — it’s because you’re good at it. There’s a dedication there that most people don’t have.”

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