“You should,” she says. “It’s cool to see you do your thing.”
I slip off the mitt, and Ellie takes her hand off my shoulder. I shouldn’t have moved. “What about you?” I ask, wiggling the tension and the fluttery feeling out of my fingers. “What’s your thing? Apart from painting.”
She tilts her head, searching the ceiling for a response. “I dunno.”
“What do you mean you dunno?”
“I mean, there’s painting for pleasure, and there’s painting for school.” She holds out her hands with her palms facing up, weighing pleasure and school against one another. “It feels like two separate things, ya know?”
I nod, but I don’t know, really. Work feels like work. School feels like school. Getting high and watchingRuPaul’s Drag Racefeels like getting high and watchingRuPaul’s Drag Race. I’ve never known a world with overlaps, one where I’m so passionate about one thing that I do it for more than one reason. “So what’s the difference?”
“For school it’s like…timed drawing and painting exercises and practicing different styles, right?” Ellie snatches the baseball from my mitt, holding it to the overhead garage light. It casts long, oval shadows, the perfect scene for a still life. “And I don’t get to justpainteither. There’s so much art history and figure drawing and classes like Current Issues in Art. But when I’m just painting, then it’s just for me. No deadline or distractions. I can just make something because I want to.”
“But then what?” I press. “What if painting becomes your job? Say you’re the next Monet…”
She cuts me off. “I won’t be the next Monet. After grad school, I’ll be a health-care worker with a paintbrush.”
“And you’re cool with that?”
“Cool with it? I love it.” She tosses the ball underhand to me, but I have to lunge to catch it. “No one’s getting rich as an art therapist, which is why grad school debt is such a no go, but it’dbe nice to actually help people. Then I can paint just to paint. On my own terms, you know?”
I study the crinkle of a smile reaching the corners of her eyes, feeling every bit the asshole for what I’m about to ask next. “And what if your mom won’t pay for grad school? Then what?”
As suspected, her smile falls. “Then I’ve honed a skill that I’ll use for a lifetime of homemade presents for my parents. So that’s something, I guess.”
I snort a laugh. “I bet your dad would love that though.” I tilt my head toward the curated collection of autographed player pictures. Even from across the garage, I recognize Fergie Jenkins’ mustache and a young Sammy Sosa, pre–corked bat incident. “You could paint his favorite player, or like, Wrigley Field.”
“Or Yankee Stadium,” Ellie suggests, and a tiny bit of disappointment curdles in my stomach. Right. Even standing right in front of me, her heart is in New York.
I toss the ball back to her as gently as I can. Without a mitt, she fumbles for it, then chases it across the Astroturf. “Are you gonna show me how to throw this or what?” Ellie finally asks, cradling the ball in both hands like a baby bird. I’ve never seen someone so unnatural with a baseball.
“I can try.” My gaze dips down to her feet. “But I’d ditch the clown shoes first.”
Once Ellie’s down to her socks, I find her a mitt and position myself behind her, fighting every instinct to close the we’re-definitely-just-friends amount of distance between us. I move her arm into pitching position, but the moment I let go, her arm drops a half inch, so I guide her elbow back into place with agentle nudge of my fingertips. I like having a reason to touch her, even if it’s just like this. “So the secret is to keep your feet and shoulders squared off toward your target.” I plant my feet one at a time to demonstrate, drawing invisible lines between my shoulders and my toes. “See?”
Ellie nods and mimics me, peeking back over her shoulder to be sure she’s the perfect reflection of every shift of my weight and bend of my elbow. Set, aim, follow through. I mime throwing an invisible ball right alongside her.
“Like you’re throwing a dart,” I say, squaring her shoulders for her. She pulls back and proceeds to throw the ball straight past the pitchback, nearly knocking a framed Ron Santo picture off the wall.
“Should I take up softball?” she asks, full sarcasm.
“You’re not as bad as you think,” I say with a shrug. “You could probably join a community league.”
She squints at me. “You’re lying.”
“Of course I am.”
With a full-throated laugh that goes straight to my ego, Ellie chases down the ball again and gets back in position, wiggling her butt a little for effect. This time, the ball hits the netting, but when the pitchback does its signature and only move, she shrieks and ducks out of the way. I reach out my mitt to catch it.Thunk.
Ellie’s eyes stretch with horror. “You sure you weren’t a catcher?”
“What can I say? I’m a woman of many skills.”
After two more throws, Ellie starts holding up her own mitt. Five more and she catches it for the first time, startling herself alittle when she does. Ten or so down the line, she throws one within the tape, and it shoots back right into the pocket of her glove.
“There you go!” I shout, sounding just like my old warm-up coach, but feeling twice as proud. “You did it!”
Ellie stares at me, slack-jawed and blinking in disbelief. “That was good, right?” she asks, barely holding back excitement.
