Page 1 of Make Me Bee-lieve

CALVIN

Inever played a single sport in high school. Never even went to a game because I was too busy studying, playing video games, or setting up model trains in my parents’ basement. So, believe me when I say that the company’s annual team-building picnic and baseball game is the last place I want to be right now.

My colleague, Jason, strides up to the mound as I squint against the sunlight, my mousy brown hair falling over my glasses and making it even more impossible to see. With my lanky stature and slender frame, I make for a poor athlete. The complete opposite of Jason, whose bright smile is so white I can see it all the way out here in the field like he’s some damn model in a toothpaste commercial. Not that I don’t have good teeth, but … yeah. Jason’s in another league, sitting somewhere up there on Mt. Olympus, sipping from a goblet of wine, being fanned by satyrs. He was built for sports, and he knows it. Always trying to convince us to go golfing with him on the weekends or join him in his newest obsession: bouldering.

Yeah, no. I’m not about to go climb some fake rock in my free time just to satisfy my need for socialization. But Jason goes all the time and has the arms to prove it. Me? This body was made by sitting in front of a computer screen for ten hours a day, baby. I didn’t choose the sedentary life, the sedentary life chose me when it decided to give my brother, Elvis, all the athletic genes in the family.

I crouch down in the grass as I wait from my spot in the outfield. It was my choice to be out here, of course, because where else would I be? Certainly not actively playing … what are those positions, again? The ones where they’re standing on the bases? Don’t know. Don’t care. Just want to eat more hot dogs.

Jason swings the bat and the crack of the ball catches my attention just as a cloud moves out of the sun’s path just in time for me to see the ball whizzing in my direction. I swallow the lump in my throat and hold up my mitt. I got this, I tell myself. If I catch this ball, then I can at least say I participated, and then I can go home not feeling like a total loser.

But the cloud moves again, and a sunbeam hits me right in the eyes, blinding me. The ball zips straight into my crotch with alarming intensity, and all I can think about is how I’m never going to live this down for the rest of my life.

Not to mention the infertility, though that one is less of a concern at the moment.

A guttural groan claws its way up my throat as my co-workers let out a collective gasp from the bleachers. I sink down into the damp grass, immediately staining my jeans green from the grass before curling up into the fetal position. Fuuuuuuuck me.

My eyes water. Never in my life have I known a pain this excruciating before. Not since that one time back in junior high when Marvin Harris shoved me into a locker with twenty-seven pairs of dirty gym socks, courtesy of the track team.

No one comes over to check on me, but Jason yells something about first aid. Please, no. This is so humiliating, and I don’t need someone making it worse by fussing over me.

“Yo, Calvin! You good?” a gruff voice calls out. My boss, Ephron. We work at All-tronics, a company that makes sensors. The kind that tells a trackless ride at a theme park that it shouldn’t bump into a wall or another object. Ephron’s the only person who’s ever actually stopped in the hallway to speak with me, and even then, it’s not exactly what I’d call chit-chat. Not when everything he talks to me about is work related, such as, “Calvin, I need you to help prepare the ticket backlog for the refinement meeting.” And, “Calvin, prepare the agenda for tomorrow’s review with the customer.”

If it weren’t for tinkering on my side project, the Shrinkatron, I’d be way past burn out already. But because I’m allowed to work on something that satisfies my need to experiment, I’ve been mostly comfortable with my current company. Until today, that is.

“Fine. Just great,” I squeak out as I clench my teeth to keep them from chattering. My vision goes hazy, and I clench my eyes tightly while the pain ebbs away. I’m not sure which hurts worse, my balls or my pride. Now, I’m no stranger to getting hit in the crotch, of course. High school was as much about evading bullies as it was about getting straight A’s.

But this is the first time I can say I’ve been nailed in the dick with a baseball.

It’s worse than someone’s fist. A lot worse. The game continues around me as I peel myself up off the grass and dirt and let out a deep exhale. Jason, now on third base, lifts his hand to wave at me, and even grins like he didn’t just doom my future swimmers.

“Lookin’ good, buddy!” he shouts as he trots to home base. “Walk it off!”

I brush off my white t-shirt—now covered in dirt and grass smears—and watch Jason flash those pearly whites at Tanya, our receptionist, as she runs past. Her golden ponytail bounces behind her as she clutches a couple of sodas, and she only notices me when she’s a few feet away.

“Oh, wow, Calvin! What happened?” she asks, but doesn’t stop to chat. In fact, she doesn’t even wait for me to answer before running up to Jason and handing him a soda. He slings an arm around her shoulder as they walk off together. Ephron raises an eyebrow, looks me up and down, then shrugs before meandering off to join the others at the tables.

I really hate these stupid picnics.

“You should keep ice on it,” my mother croaks as she sets her carpet bag down next to the sofa. Scotch Bonnet, my white powder puff of a cat, doesn’t bother to move from her spot on the cushion. I wish I could curl up and take a nap, too, but there’s no point now. Not this late in the evening, and not now that my mother’s here to visit. Once she’s situated on the sofa, she plops a bag of frozen peas into my hand. I immediately set it down on the floor.

My mother could be considered an eccentric woman, with her dangly earrings that always look like she stole them from someone’s crystal chandelier no matter the occasion. It could be a gala event, or it could be a Saturday at the flea market. She’s wearing the earrings, the brightly colored crocheted dresses, and her lavender wigs. Not that I’d change anything about her, of course. But sometimes it would be nice if she’d just let me lick my wounds in private for a solid hour without feeling the need to mommy-hen me to death. It was difficult enough admitting to her that the reason I was walking funny was because of the baseball incident, and I only told her because she didn’t believe my excuse about trying out a new exercise I saw online.

“You don’t have a pelvic floor to worry about, sweetie pie. Now tell Mama the truth,” she said as she patted me on the top of my head the same way she used to when I was a boy. There was no point in telling her to knock it off. For better or worse, she’s been like this for the past thirty-three years, and she’s not about to change now.

My mother shuffles into my kitchen, which is really just two beige counter tops, the world’s smallest stove, and a fridge behind the living room sofa. The perils and pitfalls of living in a studio apartment in Sugardove City. Even with a high-paying tech job like mine, I can scarcely afford to live with my rent constantly going up every year.

That, and I might be spending most of my income on my own private projects. Whoops. Yeah, yeah. I know I shouldn’t, but my lifestyle is sadly an expensive one. And there’s no cost too great in the pursuit of knowledge. Or at least… that’s what I tell myself to justify going into credit card debt month after month.

I’ve thought about moving to cut down on the rent, but where would I even go? I’m already in the cheapest neighborhood, with the lowest rent in the city, and moving to Pine Crest would be too far of a commute to the office. Nope. I’m stuck here for now, at least until a better-paying position comes along. I wince and flop down onto the sofa next to Bonnet while Mom busies herself with the electric teakettle.

“I don’t need to ice it, Mom,” I say for the fourth time since she got here. She’s only been here for five minutes. My mother is a kind, gentle woman, but she loves showing up the most random and inconvenient times. Usually, it’s to complain about the squirrels in her backyard, who she swears are secretly part of a cult and working for her neighbors to spy on her. You get used to it. “Can we not do this?”

“Do what?” she yells over the clanging of pots and pans. I wince as I twist around, trying to see what manner of chaos she’s getting into now. “Talk? You never call me! How am I supposed to know what’s going on in my son’s life if he never calls me?”

I sigh, rub my temples, and take off my classes so I can clean them. “I’ve been busy with this deadline, like I told you last week. And the week before.”

She drops one of my favorite mugs, the one with my company’s logo on it, in the sink. There’s a loud bang followed by water splattering everywhere. I leap to my feet, but she’s already shaking her head and tutting to herself. “Shoo, shoo. It’s fine, it’s fine. Didn’t even hurt it,” she insists, waving me off like I’m a stray dog and not, you know, the person who lives here. “Go sit. Relax. Let me make you some tea. And put those peas on your crotch, baby.”

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