Page 76 of Mom Ball

Brooke

“Hold still.” Morgan licks her thumb and wipes at the corner of Andrew’s mouth.

He shakes his head out of her grip. She grabs him and wipes the end of her shirt across his face.

“Boy, I am not paying an extra five bucks to have the bacon grease photoshopped out of your photo.”

When Morgan finally releases him, Andrew grunts and runs in the opposite direction. “Don’t you get grass stains on those pants either!” she yells. She sighs and turns to me. “None of my other kids had a problem getting their ball photos made.”

“He’s young,” I offer.

“Says the woman with a calm kid.”

I follow her eyes to Timothy sitting patiently on the bleachers. I smile at him. When it comes to kids who mind and make life easy, I hit the jackpot.

A huge van pulls up to the park, slinging gravel when it stops. The tall roof and maroon paint make it creepy enough, but the bumper sticker sets it over the top. It’s a camera with the words “I Shoot People” in bold block letters.

Jillian jumps out with a coffee the size of a Stanley cup. She slings her long black braid over her shoulder and opens the back of the van, revealing an arsenal of equipment.

“Should we go help her?” I ask Morgan.

“Nah. She’s too particular. I don’t want to pay for a light reflector thingy because my fingernail accidentally grazed it.”

I nod.

“On the flip side, that’s part of what makes her photos so good.”

I watch in awe as lanky little Jillian loads her arms with anything and everything she might need to snap a few photos on a ball field. All while balancing her coffee cup.

Impressive.

“Maybe she should help us unload our stuff,” I say.

Morgan laughs. “Told you.”

She passes us and steps effortlessly onto the field. Then she meticulously sets up multiple lights and screens and her camera on a tripod.

Morgan whistles loudly, and the kids circle around. “We’re going to take a group photo first. Then individuals. After your individual, you can go to your parents until the game.”

She grabs Andrew by the arm and leads him to the field. Everyone else follows. Morgan moves them around a few times, first with the taller kids in the back. When she discovers Jack has huge mud streaks already on his pants, she puts him there too.

Tami’s daughters are wearing false eyelashes and their hair curled like this is an elementary scholarship pageant rather than Little League picture day.

“Here, Mama.” Timothy hands me his bat bag. I take it to the side and sit on a bleacher.

“No, girl, we gotta be in this too,” Morgan says.

I frown.

“You too, Aniston. You’re our number three.”

Aniston huffs and pushes herself off the fence. “If I had a nickel for every time I’ve been called someone’s number three,” she mumbles to me.

I snicker and join them behind the kids. Jillian swaps me up so I can be seen over Reece’s tall head.

“You.” She points to Reece. “Get rid of your gum.”

He stops chewing the wad in his mouth, digs it out, and hands it to her. She scrunches her nose.

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