Chapter 8
After the trial, baseball felt strange.
The mound was still mine.
The glove still fit.
But every cheer made me flinch a little.
Attention had become dangerous in my mind.
Coach noticed.
Of course he did.
After one practice, he sat beside me on the bench.
“You’re holding back.”
“I’m tired.”
“Maybe.”
I stared at the field.
“What if being good makes people hate me?”
Coach did not answer too quickly.
I appreciated that.
Finally, he said, “Some people hate light because it shows what they lack. That is not the light’s fault.”
I rolled my eyes.
“That sounds like something from a motivational poster.”
“Probably.”
We laughed.
Then he added, “You don’t owe anyone a smaller version of yourself.”
I returned to the mound the next week.
Not perfect.
Better than perfect.
Free.
Mom started therapy.
So did I.
At first, I hated it.
Talking felt like giving Carl more time.
But my therapist, Dr. Reed, said, “You’re not talking to keep him alive. You’re talking to remove him from places he doesn’t belong.”
So I talked.
About the trash can.
About Brandon.
About Mom freezing.
About punching Carl.
About liking the punch.
Dr. Reed did not look shocked.
“Self-defense can feel powerful,” she said. “The work is making sure power doesn’t become your only way to feel safe.”
That was hard.
Harder than pitching.
Mom and I rebuilt slowly.
She came to games.
She cheered loud.
Too loud.
Embarrassingly loud.
May you like
I complained.
Secretly loved it.
