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  To Pam.

  For never being perfect, right along with me.

  For fighting a little differently every day.

  One

  The sharp ping of the bat echoes through the air and I immediately crouch down in a ready position. Next to home plate, Libby Kemp, the best softball player in our grade—probably in the entire state—throws her bat to the side and sprints toward first base.

  I relax the teensiest bit when I see that the ball isn’t heading in my direction, but I still stay alert. That’s my job playing third base. Actually, that’s my job as a part of this team. I have to keep my eye on the ball, whether I’m at bat or in the field. Especially when we’re down two runs at the top of the last inning.

  Get her, get her! I mutter under my breath. The hit was a ground ball to first base, and my best friend, Claudia, easily fields the ball and tags the base.

  The stands immediately erupt into hoots and hollers. I hear Claudia’s mom doing one of those whistles where she puts both her pointer fingers in her mouth and basically shatters the eardrums of everyone around her. I catch sight of Claudia’s little brother, Jamie, doing his adorable victory dance—the one that looks more like something a chicken would do than anything that would come from a human being. And I imagine my mom up there, cheering and screaming along with everyone else.

  There’s no time for me to celebrate, though. No time for me to rest, either. Because after she makes that out, Claudia barely takes time to think before twisting around and whipping the ball across the softball diamond to third base.

  That’s where I’m standing, my mouth set, my glove held firmly in front of my chest. The ball barrels toward me, along with the second-base runner, forced by the player behind her to advance to third. It’s all a matter of what’s going to reach the base first.

  In a movie, the camera would pan between the runner and the ball, then back again. It would zero in on the expression on my face and show everything else in slow motion—the dust floating through the air, the ice cream– truck guy dropping a Popsicle as he watches the ball zoom across the diamond … even the individual seams of the softball rotating in space.

  In reality, I act on instinct.

  Claudia throws and before I know it …

  Thwack!

  The ball lands neatly in my glove. Barely a millisecond later, I reach out and tag the runner.

  “Yer out!” the third base referee bellows. (The third base referee being Libby’s dad, who sounds way too disappointed to be making a call for our team. Also, since he has a cold, his bellow sounds more like a frog with a megaphone.)

  “Yes!” I pump my fist in the air and try to stifle the massive smile threatening to spread across my face. It’s my first double play all year, but I don’t want to be one of those braggy girls who go around saying how awesome they are at everything. Libby Kemp is like that. Everyone knows that she trained with the All-Star Travel Softball Team last year, because it’s the only thing she’s talked about since. Seriously. I complimented her on her haircut one day and she told me she’d thought about getting that specific haircut during the spring and summer she’d trained with the All-Star team.

  “I wasn’t old enough officially, but they still let me go to practices.” Then Libby swished that new haircut over her shoulder. “It was such a relief to practice with older kids.”

  I join the rest of the team jogging toward the dugout and give Claudia a high five. “Nice work!”

  She shakes her arm out, her face a mix of pain and exhilaration. “Thank God you caught that. I threw the ball so hard my shoulder almost fell off.”

  “I … don’t think that’s possible.”

  Claudia shoves me. “You know what I mean! But seriously, I think all that extra practice we’ve been doing with your mom is paying off.” She points between me and her, then back again. “We’ve got a connection, Veronica.”

  I giggle. “You sound all woo-woo. Have you been getting psychic readings from your aunt again?”

  “No. Well, once…” Claudia trails off. “She babysat me and Jamie the other night and I was so annoyed about Mom and Dad thinking I needed a babysitter in sixth grade that Aunt Nina gave me a reading. Usually she says I’m too young to ‘access the grand powers of the universe’ or whatever.” She holds her hands up in air quotes.

  “And she said…?”

  “That the future is looking bright and the people I love won’t let me down.” Claudia grabs my gloved hand and holds it in the air like I’m a champion boxer. “And see? You came through for me! For us!”

  “I did.” My heart is still pounding, but Claudia’s fortune—or her “message from the universe”—makes my stomach drop a bit. It makes my eyes flick toward the stands for the billionth time in the past hour, even as my feet automatically lead me toward the dugout, where the rest of my team is waiting. I’m third in the batting order this last inning, and I know it’s time to shift my focus. We have to score more than two runs to win the game.

  But I can’t stop myself from looking for her, even though I know, deep down, that she’s not coming.

  Again.

  She promised she’d make it, though.

  “Who are you looking for?” Claudia nudges me in the side as we settle down on the bench inside the dugout.

  “Mom.” The word pops out before I can help it. Usually, I’d make something up, like that I thought I saw a dog running by or a cute boy in the stands. (I’m not super into boys yet, but lately the mere mention of cuteness gets Claudia’s attention.)

  Claudia would probably have believed me, too. My voice would have been steady and convincing and I would have held eye contact for as long as necessary.

  I’m good at sneaky stuff like that. I haven’t always been, but you develop a skill when you’ve been practicing for months: The laughs, the smiles, and the excuses all get better and way more natural.

  “Is she okay?” Claudia gets that squinty “Oh, you poor baby, what’s wrong?” look, the one that Aunt Jessie gave me the time Mom totally ruined her Christmas party.

  “Fine. Fine,” I hurry to say. I feel like a rock climber who’s accidentally lost her grip while doing something totally stupid. Something totally preventable. I need a safety harness for my mouth.

  “Mom’s totally fine. I mean, she practiced with us last night, right?” I think about the three of us after dinner in our backyard, Mom at one end of the yard with a bat while Claudia and I took turns fielding ground balls and fly balls and line drives. Mom was smiley last night. Mom was friendly last night. Mom was … herself last night. I bet it helped that even though it’s only February, it’s been in the sixties all week—perfect softball weather in Georgia!

  I sneak a look at the bleachers again, then at the path leading to the parking lot. Maybe she had an emergency meeting at her law firm. Maybe that’s what’s going on—instead of Mom going out to a bar before coming home. Like the last t
ime she didn’t show up.

  She promised, though.

  She promised she wouldn’t drink after work again.

  “Yeah.” Claudia shrugs, the “poor baby” look disappearing from her face. “Okay, cool. Just checking. You looked upset.”

  “Me? Nah.” I wave my hands in the air so wildly I probably look like an orchestra conductor and put on my best “Who me? Nothing’s wrong here” face. (Another thing I’m good at now.) “Mom’s good. Just busy at work.”

  It’s the truth. Just not the entire truth. (And maybe I’ll manage to convince both Claudia and myself.)

  “Claudia! You’re up first!” Coach Robertson waves from his spot in front of the dugout and Claudia jumps to her feet, then grabs her favorite bat.

  “Go get ’em.” I give Claudia a thumbs-up and try to brush the dirt off my pants (which is basically an impossible task).

  I should get ready, too—take a few practice swings and get my mind back in the game.

  I can’t help myself, though. I look back at the stands again, like there’s a super-strength magnet pulling my eyes over there.

  Of course Mom’s not there. It’s not like my fairy godmother appeared and granted my wish in the past few seconds. Fairy godmothers can’t change the past, anyway. They can’t change the decisions people make.

  Who people are.

  Dad’s still the only one there, sitting behind Claudia’s parents and younger brother on the right side of the stands. I wave, but his face is buried in his phone. Even from my spot in this shadowy dugout, I can tell that Dad’s upset. His forehead is furrowed, and he keeps shifting back and forth, like he has ants in his pants.

  Or he’s worried about something.

  Or someone.

  Dad finally looks up and waves, and I paste a smile on my face, even though my stomach feels full of bees and the smile keeps wibbling and wobbling at the edges.

  Dad wears a matching fake smile. Anyone looking at us would see a loving father and daughter, connecting across the softball diamond.

  “Good job, Veronica!” he mouths.

  “Thanks!” I mouth back.

  So at least he saw my double play. His phone wasn’t more important than that. That’s something, at least.

  But it’s not everything.

  Because even though I’m glad my dad is here, and even though the ridiculous-looking neon orange hat he loves so much makes me groan and love him more at the same time, that bit of normalcy isn’t enough.

  Maybe I’m selfish to want both my parents here. I know that not everyone on my team has two parents. I know that parents have lives. Parents have to work. Parents have to do all that important grown-up stuff.

  Parents don’t have to drink, though.

  Like mine.

  Like Mom.

  Mom, who promised to be at my game tonight.

  Mom, who I only imagined cheering for me earlier.

  Mom, who broke her promise to me once again.

  Two

  When I was in fourth grade, Mom told me that it takes twenty-one days to make a habit. To break a habit, too. I had just run into the kitchen after school, sobbing that all the other girls in my class had formed something called the “Sparkle Club” and wouldn’t let me join.

  Tears mixed with snot on my face as I held my hands out to Mom.

  “I can’t wear nail polish!” I moaned. “So I’m not allowed to be a member!”

  “Wait, what?” Mom put down the orange she was peeling and wiped her hands on her pants. I remember how the room smelled all citrusy. How Mom’s eyes were so soft, focused right on me. “Why can’t you wear nail polish? And what does that have to do with sparkles?”

  “I bite my nails!” I waved my hands in her face again. “See?”

  Mom looked. Not that she needed to. I had bitten my nails for ages by then. Mom and Dad had tried all the tactics, too. They made me wear mittens during the day. They painted on that special polish that tasted all bitter and disgusting whenever it passed my lips. Mom even showed me some article about one girl who’d bitten her nails for so long that a massive nail ball formed in her stomach and got her sick.

  (Now that was disgusting.)

  I still couldn’t stop, though. That’s the thing about habits—you might decide to be super-duper vigilant, but then you start watching TV or paying attention to your teacher in class and all of a sudden your hands are in your mouth and five minutes later your nails have totally disappeared.

  Abracadabra! Nails be gone!

  Sparkle Club be gone, too.

  I sobbed out the whole story to Mom. How Abby McMahon with her flippy hair and Camille Henderson with her flouncy walk had chosen a bunch of other girls from our grade to be in their club. How they all bought matching sparkly ballet flats and sparkly cat ear headbands. How they had to wear sparkly nail polish every day.

  It was a requirement, Rule #3 in The Sparkle Club Handbook.

  “Camille always wears gold glitter polish and Abby’s nails are multicolored, each one a different color of the rainbow!” I imagined all the Sparkle Club girls having a sleepover together, eating pizza and making ice cream sundaes and painting each other’s nails.

  “Their nails are all long and perfect. But mine are stubby and gross. When Camille saw them, she laughed.” I sniffled. “Abby said that polish would look dumb on me.”

  “Okay, okay.” Mom rubbed her hand in small circles on my back. My breath caught in my throat, then slowed as I nestled into her hug. I was nine then, and even though some people probably would have said I was too old for hugs, I still snuggled into Mom whenever I was upset. At night, too, when we read chapters of Harry Potter to each other. I think part of me is afraid that hugs are like fairies—that once you stop believing in them, they’ll be gone forever.

  Mom finally pulled back and looked into my eyes. “You can wear nail polish whatever your nails look like, you know. No matter what a few mean girls say.”

  “I know.” I just-in-time stopped myself from bringing my fingers to my mouth. “But wearing nail polish would just call attention to these … these … ugly nubs. It would make them look worse than they already do. Everyone would make fun of me even more.”

  Mom didn’t assure me that everyone wouldn’t make fun of me.

  She didn’t give me a lecture about mean girls and how awful they are. (Well, not a long lecture, at least.)

  She didn’t even try to convince me that my hands didn’t look that awful.

  Because Mom knew the truth: that in middle school, even a few kids making fun of you is the equivalent of the whole world falling apart. She also saw that my nails did look awful, all jagged and barely there. She could sense that, deep down, maybe I needed to figure out the solution for myself.

  So instead, Mom told me about habits.

  That our brain gets used to responding to situations in certain ways. That once habits are established, your response can become automatic. Which means that when I get nervous or bored, my brain tells me to bite my fingernails. So all of a sudden—BOOM!—my fingernails are in my mouth without me even realizing it.

  Mom also told me that if I put in effort to change my behavior, to resist my brain’s message and replace it with a new habit, then my brain could change the pathway it automatically goes down.

  But it can take time, at least twenty-one days for most people.

  So I tried.

  I waited.

  I tapped my pencil and twirled my hair and sat on my hands instead.

  I bit my nails a whole bunch, but eventually the urge to gnaw on them wasn’t as strong.

  Eventually, I grew them out.

  And as of this very day, I haven’t bitten my fingernails in eight hundred and three days. That’s a really long time. I’ve kept my nails grown out for more than two whole years.

  I’ve grown in a lot of other ways, too.

  I’ve grown more than three whole inches, almost as tall as Mom.

  I’ve grown my hair halfway down my back.

/>   I’ve worn all kinds of nail polish. I’ve done neon colors and sparkly polishes and even those cute little decals that look like paw prints.

  I joined and quit the Sparkle Club. It turns out that Camille and Abby are super mean and I really don’t want to be friends with them. (That’s called personal growth.)

  Not biting my nails was hard at first, but I managed to stop myself. Because I wanted to wear that nail polish more than I wanted to keep that old dumb habit.

  I kept my fingers out of my mouth. I kept my nails strong. I was strong.

  Could Mom be strong, too?

  Three

  I stomp into the house like I’m a little kid pretending to be a dinosaur. STOMP STOMP STOMP! I picture myself with massive legs and big dinosaur feet. I imagine the ground rumbling and the figurines lining the mantelpiece trembling.

  I’m trembling, too.

  When the other team made the last out of the game (after Amelia Underwood hit a triple to knock three runs in and Cara Dunbar got a home run), we all rushed onto the field to celebrate our victory.

  “Six to three, baby!” Claudia made a “V for victory” sign with her arms as I gave Coach Robertson a high five.

  “Good work, girls!” he exclaimed. “Victory dinner at Papa Luigi’s? They have a special on Friday nights!”

  My stomach rumbled thinking about Papa Luigi’s famous pepperoni pizza, but I knew I had to ask Dad first before I agreed to anything. He’d mentioned something about “family game night” earlier in the week, which, as groan-tastic as that had sounded, seemed even worse now that I was mad at Mom.

  If I bailed without telling Dad, though, I’d be the one he got mad at. (And mad parents have grounding powers. Kids … not so much.)

  When I turned toward the stands, I expected to see Dad on his feet, cheering along with the rest of the crowd. I expected to see him halfway through the ridiculous victory dance he and Mom do when our team wins, the one where they bump their hips against each other, do a little twirl, and wave their hands in the air.