Page 2 of Pitcher

I nodded. “I couldn’t control it, and I started to cry.” I shrug like it wasn’t nearly as bad as it was. “He started making jokes—”

“That little shit made fun of your condition? A child with cerebral palsy?”

Oh hell. I knew he would be mad.

“It’s okay, Grandpa,” I soothe, hurrying to clasp his hand in mine. “I took care of it. He won’t make fun of me again.”

He grumbles but lets me pull him to the truck. When he unlocks my door and helps me up like a gentleman, I smile.

“Thank you, fine sir.”

That makes him laugh.

When he’s in and has the barely working a/c on blast, I cut him a sneaky grin. “So what are we going to do since we have the rest of the day off?”

He snorts. “We—” He motions back and forth. “—are going to finish my deliveries since I was interrupted.”

I cringe. “I’m sorry.” I really am. “I wasn’t thinking when I hit Preston. I just don’t like feeling weak.”

The man that has been the only father figure in my life grasps my chin between his strong fingers. “Don’t be sorry for standing up for yourself. You hear me?”

I try to nod, but I don’t get very far with his firm grip on my chin.

“You’re not weak, Anniston McCallister. Not. At. All.”

And this is why I try to behave. For him. For my grandma. These two people are the only ones who care about me.

“Okay,” I whisper, straightening up and plastering a smug smile on my face. “Now, whose day do we need to make with this dairy fresh milk that I had to get up at 5:00 a.m. to acquire?”

Yeah, it was bad. Cows stink. So do goats and other animals that live on a farm. Old McDonald should have gone with fish. They are much less maintenance.

“The Von Bremens. They need an extra delivery this week since their boys are home from school.”

Really? The elusive Von Bremen boys you say?

“Well, what are you waiting for, Pops? Let’s get this delivery done. We haveJeopardyto watch.”

“Are you sure you want to wait out in the truck?”

I look around the upscale home, notice the baseball bat leaning against the front door of the massive brick home, and decide to leave the elusive Von Bremen house a mystery.

“I’m sure,” I tell him, but then add quickly, “I might get out and stretch my legs, though. If that’s okay?”

“Okay,” he says after a minute, eyeing the backyard as if something evil lurks behind it. “But stay close to the truck.”

An easy smile and a promise that he’ll return soon sends him up the driveway with woven baskets hanging from his arms. I unbuckle my seat belt when he’s out of eyesight and ease out of the truck. The cobblestone driveway is uneven underneath my sandals, and the humid breeze plasters my clothes against my skin as soon as I shut the passenger door.

Madison, Georgia is known for its sweet, family-like atmosphere. At a mere two thousand people, no one is a stranger—except for the Von Bremens. All we know is they keep to themselves and run a large insurance agency in the city. Rumor has it that Oscar Von Bremen, the head of the insurance empire, has twin boys that he ships off to boarding school in the city every year.

I’ve lived in this town my entire life, and I’ve yet to actually see them. A girl I know said she saw them once at a gas station and they were, and I quote, “smoking hot.” Smoking hot boys in this town are like rare unicorns; mostly because we grow up with the same faces since daycare.

Small towns can be a problem when you’re trying to reinvent yourself, or when trying to escape the nickname “Mac.” It’s not a cute nickname born out of love, trust me. Kids at school call me Mac because they think I want to be a boy.

I can’t help I’m better at sports than most of the boys. I also can’t help the fact they can’t throw up a block or dodge my fist… like Preston.

I am who I am.

And if I’m really being honest, I don’t give two shits if the kids at my school like me.

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