Naked In School

So, there I was, sitting stark naked chatting to two women I didn’t know. Two gay women, mind you. Was I uncomfortable?

No, I wasn’t, actually. I was raised pretty open-mindedly myself. I like to think I’m open-minded. Every so often, though, you find yourself being tested.

The thing is, I liked them instantly, especially Mike’s mom, Ellie.

"So, you play baseball?" she asked.

"Yeah, played at my old school. We just moved here a few months ago from Boston. I really want to make the team here. I’m encountering prejudice already, and now I’m at a disadvantage."

"We know all about prejudice," Ellie said. "Marina and I, you see, are together."

"Yeah, Mike told me," I smiled at them.

"And even in this newfangled, sexual freedom, no inhibitions, everything’s great world-it still exists. It’s better, but it still exists. People take the whole ‘whatever makes you happy’ attitude, or so they say, but it still creeps in, especially when it comes to assumptions."

"The one she gets," Marina said, "is that a lesbian can’t possibly raise a son. I mean, a son needs a man, right?"

"I always say that I can relate to my son as well as any guy," Ellie replied. "I mean, what do fathers talk about with their teenaged sons, anyway? Girls, right? I can do that!" I cracked up laughing at that.

"The one I get is the exact opposite," I told them. "Because I’m in a sport that is traditionally and overwhelmingly male, I must be a complete butch lesbian, right?"

Ellie giggled. "I take it you’re not."

"No, I’m straight," I told them. "But girls who play guy’s sports can’t be straight. Especially if they’re good at them."

"I take it you’re good," Ellie said.

"I’m very good," I grinned. "But, yeah, I must be lesbian because I’m not ‘feminine’ enough. Which is bullshit. It’s bullshit in general, because who says lesbians can’t be feminine; and it’s bullshit personally, because I can gussy up as well as any girl. I just don’t do it on the baseball field. But I can change from sweat and dirt and eyeblack to makeup and styled hair and a slinky dress so fast it’d make your head spin." I sighed. "Of course, walking around school naked isn’t going to make that easier. The other thing that I get is that straight girls can’t have muscles, and I have them. And, walking around nude, I can’t hide them. The guys get a load of my thighs and butt and that just gives them another reason to think I’m butch or something."

"Honestly, Lily," Ellie said with a smile. "I don’t think the boys who see you like that are really going to notice your muscles. At least not at first. There’s a couple other things you can’t hide."

I blinked-and then laughed. "Oh, you mean these two things that are going to get in my way when I try to throw my curveball?"

"Yes, those two things. I think those’ll get you noticed before the thigh muscles," Ellie said.

I snorted out a giggle. "Earlier today, your son called them ‘not insubstantial.’ While he was desperately trying not to look at them. And failing miserably, I might add. It was actually rather cute." We all laughed. Just at that moment, Mike came down, gear on, mitt in hand.

"What’s so funny?" he asked.

"Don’t ask. Trust me. Don’t ask," his Mom told him.

"Whatever," he stared at us. "Damn females, always talking where a guy can’t hear," he muttered, which made us laugh even harder. He turned at the doorway from the dining room and the kitchen and stared at me. "Well, Pedro, you gonna come throw, or what?"

"Oh, he just wormed his way into my heart," I told the ladies. "He called me Pedro."

"Martinez," Ellie told Marina. "Best pitcher around, plays for the Red Sox." She turned back to me. "I know my baseball," she told me.

"Well, she did grow up in Boston," Mike said.

"And I am a member in good standing of Red Sox Nation. And Pedro’s my idol." I got up out of the chair. "You can tell me if my changeup is as good as his." I said to Mike.

" Nobody’s changeup is as good as his."

"True story. Though mine’s pretty good." He led me outside. It was a nice setup.

"OK, Pedro, climb the hill and let’s see what you got. Nice and easy, at first. Just warm up." He crouched behind the plate, and I got on the mound. I threw a few easy ones.

"Hey, don’t blow yourself out, huh?" he called. "Nice and easy."

"This is nice and easy," I said. I threw a few more.

"What, are you trying to impress me?"

"Not yet," I grinned at him. I threw a few more.

"OK, fine," he said. "If that was nice and easy, fine. You should be warmed up. Fire one in here, full throttle." I wound up and threw the heater, nice and hard.

"YEAOWWW!" he hollered, and then looked down at his catching hand. "Shit! That must have been 90!"

"Yeah, that’s about right. I’m usually at about 90. I hit 93, 94 on the gun every so often."

"You throw ninety miles an hour?" He stared at me. Then he took off his mask, and looked down at the ground. He seemed upset. "I’m a jerk. I’m as prejudiced as everyone else." I looked at him, totally confused. "This is my junkballer’s mitt," he said, pointing to his catcher’s mitt. "We have a guy on our staff, Frankie Gutierrez, who doesn’t throw anything past 65. Knuckleballs, soft sinkers, you name it. But his ball really dips and weaves, and the catcher’s got to be agile. So I use this mitt for him, because it’s lightweight and flexible and it helps me keep up with his fluttering knuckleballs and dying quails. But it’s got very little padding." He looked even more upset. "And I just grabbed it, without even asking you, because I just assumed that you were a junkballer. I mean, a girl can’t throw hard, right? I didn’t even ask. I just assumed. Serves me right to get my hand blown away by a ninety mile an hour heater." He looked up at me. "I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. I’m going to get my other mitt." He was gone back in the house before I could say anything.

I suppose I should have been upset with him for making that assumption in the first place. But how could I be upset with someone who was so contrite about it? And was absolutely adorable while doing it?

He came back out, still visibly upset with himself. So, I smiled and said, "Apology accepted. And you’re not an asshole." He flashed me a little smile, and then put his mask back on.

CHAPTER FOUR MIKE

It was not going well. We had been at it for a while, and it was not going well at all.

OK, I admit it. I was wrong. Wrong, wrong, stupid, and wrong. What an asshole. This girl could throw. She had five pitches, and her changeup was a thing of absolute beauty. Nobody’s in Pedro’s league, but for a high school kid? Fuck gender, for any high school kid to throw a 70 mph changeup that looks just like her 90 mph fastball? That’s a rare thing. She had two different fastballs, a hard slider, a soft curve, and the changeup.

But she was all over the place.

After watching the ball go everywhere except where it was supposed to-and after watching her get extremely frustrated, I stood up out of my crouch, and flipped up my mask.

"Look, you can obviously throw, but you’ve got no command."

She glared at me.

"And you’re wild as shit."

She really glared at me.

"I take it that these are not normal problems for you?"

"I pitched 85 innings last year and walked twelve."

"Twelve?" That was unbelievable.

"Twelve."

"How many K’s?"

"A hundred and two."

My eyes bugged out of my head. "You had a strikeout/walk ratio of a hundred and two to twelve?"

"Told you I could pitch," she said.