Page 7 of Mended Hearts

“It’s cool. I’ve heard it before. I just expected high schoolers to be a little more mature.” I say the last part louder than necessary.

“Were the kids at your former school civilized?” He raises his eyebrows with a look of confusion.

“Oh no. I was homeschooled before we moved here,” I reply, remembering he doesn’t know anything about my past.

“You poor, sheltered girl.” He laughs, patting my shoulder. “And now you’re being released into the wild.” He teases before saying, “Guess I’ll just have to watch over you.”

I want to retort that I haven’t been sheltered. I went to school until middle school. I’m always around people. I can take care of myself. But the idea of him watching over me sounds too appealing to refute.

“Schedule?” he asks, pointing to the paper in my hand.

“Yeah.” I bite my lip, unable to stop grinning at him.

“Let me see,” he says, reaching for my schedule. Dustin quickly glances over it, and I wonder if we have any classestogether. “Looks like you have Mrs. Whiteman for English first up. She’s right down this hall.” He gestures. “Now let’s go get you situated.” He holds his arm out for me.

“Let’s,” I reply, looping my arm into his. I can’t help but have high hopes this year is going to be one of the best.

I WALK THROUGH the front door and drop my key on the entryway table. “Mom,” I holler, making my way back to my room.

She replies, “In the kitchen.”

I toss my backpack on my bed, kick my shoes off, and shimmy out of my jeans. I grab my oversized shorts out of my drawer and slide them up, then put my sneakers on. Yanking the scrunchie off my wrist, I begin to loosely braid my hair as I walk to the kitchen.

“How was your first day?” my mom asks with a smile as I lean against the counter. Her eyes glance up momentarily before darting back down at whatever her hands are mixing together in the bowl. Meatloaf, maybe? She blows at the piece of bang that keeps falling in her line of sight and I take in her Suzy Homemaker demeanor as she fixes dinner in a dress and heels. Obviously, with an apron covering her attire. She looks up again, pausing her meat mashing. “Echo?” Her eyebrows knit with worry as she waits for my reply.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I shake my head and smile. I put my hand on my hip, thinking back on my day. “It was really good.” I begin a slow nod, hoping the excitement from my day isn’t evident.

“That’s great.” She lets out an audible sigh as if she’s been holding her breath, expecting the worst. “Can you grab about tenof those crackers and crush them into my bowl?” She nods to the other side of the counter where the unopened package lies.

I wipe the residual cracker crumbs off on my shorts and give my mom a quick peck on the cheek. “I’m going to go outside and practice.” I throw a cracker in my mouth and head for the back door.

It’s hot. While I’m used to heat, the humidity is what’s going to take time adjusting to. Thankfully, my dad perched my makeshift pitching mound under the big willow oak. A couple rectangular hay bales stacked on top of each other, showcasing a bull’s-eye, lean against the privacy fence. I wince at the splotches of white powder that stick out like a sore thumb on the fence before spraying it off with the hose. It’s just one of the ways my dad tests how good I’m getting when he’s not here to catch for me. The thing that sucks about his process is the powder doesn’t really show on the actual target. Therefore, only showing the times I miss, not the accuracy of my pitches. But knowing that the wall gets cleaned fresh each time, and I practice throwing my filled bucket of ten softballs at least five times, he has a good idea of how well I’m pitching. While I enjoy the alone time, or him not breathing down my neck if I don’t throw with precision and speed every single time… I’d love to have someone catch for me so I’m not having to track down all the balls just to do it all over again times five.

Four buckets down and I hear the back door close. I keep my focus, holding my hands together outstretched in front of me, and slide my foot as soon as my arm winds then releases, snapping as the ball hits close to the center mark. I continue with the rest of the balls as my dad just watches and assesses. He follows me as I walk to the target and start gathering the balls. He tosses me a couple and then eyes the fencing.

“Looks like you only had a few strays this round.” His brow rises, and he nods in approval. I wish I could get this rise out of him more often.

I sit the filled bucket down and sit on it. “I met Coach Fields today. Guess you can say I’m determined to make starting pitcher,” I admit. With my hand, I shield the sun from my eyes and tilt my head up in his direction. He looks off as if he’s in deep thought, but I can still see a sense of pride in his eyes.

“Just stay focused and stay away from all distractions.” His voice is curt. Heaven forbid he give me a‘thatta girl.’I inwardly roll my eyes and let out a low sigh. “Come on, dinner’s ready.” He turns to the house, and I watch momentarily, missing the days when I was younger. My stomach growls and I stand, grab my bucket and glove, and head for the house.

Chapter Four

DUSTIN

September 2000

It’s been a month since Echo came into my life, and for the most part, we’ve been inseparable. Whatever this pull is between us, it feels natural. I’ve enjoyed getting to know her yet feel as if I’ve known her my whole life. I’m having to put real effort into not rushing this thing between us. I don’t want to chance scaring her off or getting on her dad’s bad side.

The bell rings, and I dart out of class in hopes of catching Echo before she takes off for practice. I wouldn’t say she’s kissing the coach’s ass by going above and beyond anyone else on the team, but she definitely wants to be noticed. The girls’ team only plays spring ball, but her coach has a knack for offering an alternative practice in the fall for those who don’t play other sports. Echo is taking full advantage of it. I have a slight feeling the pressure she receives at home brings out the overachiever in her. I can’t even imagine being a preacher’s offspring. It’s hard enough being the offspring of normal people.

“Whatcha got going on today after practice?” I sidle up to her, resisting the urge to pull her into my arms.

She slams her locker door and huffs. “A youth rally.”

“You sound angry about it.” I would laugh, but I can tell by her tight facial features and the way she shoves her book into her backpack that Echo is annoyed. I don’t want to add to it.

She flings her backpack over her shoulder and stands silent, looking off to the side like she’s deep in thought.

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