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“Shh!” Lupe hisses urgently to Jess, who hangs on her arm as they try to find a quiet way to crunch down the gravel walk. The summer night – technically morning now – is warm and slightly breezy, tree branch shadows stirring mysteriously over the lamplight. Exhilaration is bursting in Jess’ chest at visiting a bar for people like them together with her hermano, feeling cocky in her best shirt and cap, an adoring fan in her lap and red lipstick kiss on her cheek. If the swirl of shots at the bar now muddles her vision a little, well, it’s just the price they pay for being pro ballplayers.
Jess has to admit that Bev isn’t going out of her way to bust them for curfew. Over the first few evenings, she and Lupe learned the tacit, unspoken agreement that they can either return before ten, or creep silently and responsibly in later without leaving a trace. By this fifth night in Rockford, however, they’re neither punctual nor silent.
She retorts, “You shh,” and elbows Lupe in the ribs, rocking them both off-kilter as they reach the porch steps. Her laughter echoes around them like Lupe’s practice pitches rebounding off the garage wall, both of them somehow keeping each other upright with firm holds on belt loops or collar.
Sober Jess remembered, earlier in the evening, to ask Greta to leave the door unlocked for them, but tipsy Jess is so noisy they might as well be clomping around on the porch roof to sneak in through the stubborn window frame, which they’ve found to their chagrin either sticks or screeches. Lupe, who prudently accepted fewer drinks from their admirers, manages to steer them inside without incident, but as they step through the front door, a glowing light from the kitchen makes her stomach grumble.
It’s been a good seven hours since dinner, and it’s not very hard to talk Lupe into a quick snack, tiptoeing across the linoleum to see what they can have.
She eases open the fridge door and whispers, “There’s fresh butter.” Thanks to Shirley for being so meticulous with their ration cards.
Lupe slips into the pantry, carefully moving and shifting bins and cans to locate the bag of kernel corn. “Popcorn?” she suggests.
“Oh yes, please.” It takes energy to maintain such swagger, and she suddenly can’t do without the delicious melt of butter and glint of salt on her tongue, half-popped kernels to roll and crack in her teeth.
So far there’s no stirring from upstairs, and how loud can popcorn be? They remember there’s only one old cast-iron pan they’re allowed to make it in, for the sake of the grease, and unfortunately it’s at the very back corner of the top cupboard shelf behind other stacked pots and pans.
“Hang on, I’m gonna get the stepladder,” Lupe says.
Jess bumps her aside. “Nah, I got this, García, I’m taller than you, that’s why the dreamboats let me flip ‘em.”
“You are not.” Lupe reaches up around her scrawny frame, their limbs nearly tangling. Both are sensitive about their height, so no one goes for the ladder, and with clumsy reflexes and their depth perception not at its finest, the entire contents of the shelf fall clanging to the kitchen floor.
It’s so loud Jess can feel every one of her nerves jangling along with the barrage of stainless steel, pot lids rolling on the linoleum. From upstairs come running footsteps and yelps of panic at the crash. She only has a moment to regain her wits before a firmer, steadier voice is quieting the others, and the lights in the foyer gleam fully on, making them squint sheepishly as their dressing-gowned chaperone arrives on the scene.
“We were just making a midnight snack,” squeaks Lupe, but Bev retorts, “I know very well you two weren’t here at midnight, let alone 10pm.”
Jess is good with sinking ships, and quickly strategizes a rescue to the situation: a cigarette for Bev on the porch to calm the nerves, maybe some hot chocolate for the team, see if Greta will put her height to good use finding the right pan and replacing the rest –
She tries to start picking up, but suddenly the kitchen is wavering and spinning a little and she has to catch her balance with a “Whoa.”
“Back upstairs, please,” Bev calls to Maybelle, Carson and Jo who are peering down at them from the staircase, still recovering from the alarm. “Miss McCready, Miss García, follow me.”
As they walk down the dim hallway, the mood feels so suddenly, theatrically serious that they have to carefully avoid one another’s gaze to keep a straight face. They’re ushered, for the first time, into Bev’s office. It’s austerely neat and organized, of course, but she’s gratified to see a Peaches pennant on the wall and a little Cuban souvenir flag from Esti in the penholder.
They watch, both a little wavery, as Bev pulls a wooden paddle out of her desk drawer. The implement is about the width of her palm and just long enough to cross both cheeks at once. It’s smaller and lighter than a school paddle, which Jess remembers, wincing, from their senior prank when she and the other farm kids snuck a cow in overnight. She wouldn’t let her friends lead it upstairs, out of consideration for the cow, but it caused plenty of havoc in the office wing and much-despised Home Ec. room even so.
“Tomorrow morning,” Bev says, sounding like she hopes very much to go back to sleep immediately, “when it’s a civilized hour to be making noise and I can rely on you to stay on your feet, you will come back here and bend over for a dozen each.”
Jess isn’t sure whether their chaperone is messing with them. “Huh,” is all she can think of to say. Lupe, for her part, hiccups.
…………………………….
The birds are singing way too early, there’s bright sun fully in her face, and Jess’s head is faintly throbbing. Greta’s bed is already empty, and her vision swoops a little when she sits up quickly at a knock on the bedroom door.
Lupe slouches in, looking equally weathered and half-awake. Her eyes, though, are gleaming when she says, “That was fun, McCready.”
“Mm-hm,” Jess agrees, wistfully touching the place on her cheek where she’d had the sense to wipe off the lipstick kiss before it could stain the pillowcase. “Practice today is gonna be long, though.”
Thankfully, the fortifying smells drifting up from the kitchen, where pans clatter much more softly than last night – or have her ears been stuffed with cotton? – say Maybelle is frying bacon and eggs, so she quickly throws on some clothes to join the pitcher downstairs.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” smirks Greta, but she gives her roommate a pat on the shoulder that says Glad you’re safe.
Esti’s eyes are glinting with mirth as Lupe drops down in the chair beside her and shades her eyes with one hand, grumbling, “Don’t start with me, escuincla.” Their little shadow lowers her long lashes and grins into her milk glass, Jess reading clearly on her face Serves you right for leaving me behind.
Carson is running through plans for practice about three times too fast, and Jess’s dizzy head can’t keep up as she goes to fill plates for them both. There are hashbrowns, too, and the hot sauce Lupe likes. “Good time last night, huh?” Maybelle winks, and Jess gives her a one-armed shoulder hug in appreciation for not having to eat a stale peanut butter sandwich.
“I could show you a good time, too,” she teases, testing a hypothesis, and Maybelle laughs merrily as they tuck into their food.
Attention seems drawn off the two of them now, and Lupe, endearingly tousled, leans a little closer and asks, “Last night, with Bev, did that really…?”
“Mmph, probably have to pay another fine,” Jess shrugs, focusing on her coffee and the way it makes her feel just a little more like a person.
Most of the team has clattered out of the kitchen, buzzing with unaccountable energy, when the measured tread behind them alerts Jess to their chaperone’s presence before a firm hand is placed on her shoulder. Evidently, Bev slept well despite their disruption, and looks just as neat and well-pressed as ever in her brown uniform.
“If you’ve both finished, come with me.”
They slink after her, and Jess feels her stomach swooping again, for a different reason than the hangover. The summer day’s heat makes her skin prickle, humidity already wreaking havoc with Lupe’s curls and making blonde wisps stick to her own neck. In the office, the paddle is waiting for them on the desk, and Bev closes the door.
Somehow having a couple of inches on Bev doesn’t make the veteran’s stance any less intimidating as she murmurs, “I’m not sure how much you both remember of our conversation, but I assure you I was quite serious. Let’s have this done and get you off to practice. Miss García, I hope you can pitch straighter today than you were walking last night.”
Jess can’t help it; the heightened nerves make her crack up, snorting at the absurdity of the League expecting them to be in any way straight. Bev watches sternly as shaking shoulders make her hat fall off, and on retrieving it, Jess decides she’ll volunteer to go first as her poor teammate is looking more than a little alarmed.
“Sorry, Bev. Okay. Where do you want me?”
Bev makes Jess take down her trousers, leaving her in thin white shorts. “Bend over and touch your toes, legs straight.” Despite her flexibility, her calves burn at holding the position, and blood rushes to her head; the very tip of her dangling braid skims the floor. She can’t help letting out a miserable little groan even before the paddle taps against her taut bottom.
The first swat rings out just before she feels the spreading burn and gasps, rocking forward onto her fingertips. Bracing herself, her tired brain quickly revises the thought that Bev is just posturing.
All of the promised twelve are dealt out, to the shortstop first and then the pitcher, and both of them end up yelping by the end of their turn. It’s over with fast, but that doesn’t stop Bev from managing to cover every tender inch. She has no patience for their nonsense, either, tacking on an extra smack for Jess and two for Lupe when instinct makes them dodge or half-rise from position.
“It stings,” Lupe whines as she’s ordered back down for another after hoping they were already done.
“If we have to have this discussion again,” Bev remarks, “you’ll find out just how much more it can sting with your boxers down.”
Jess, sneaking in a quick rub to her aching bottom while the chaperone is distracted, winces in sympathy as Lupe’s final swat lands. It elicits a whimper and makes the striker’s knees buckle a little, before she straightens up and they glance at each other in eye-watering disbelief.
“You may replace your trousers now,” Bev says, and they scramble ungracefully to do so while she shakes her head in wry amusement.
“Ladies, I know you are going to go out and have fun. I don’t begrudge it to you. I only ask that you let me have a little peace and quiet after my days at the Somme and a hint of deniability for the League.”
The language is a bit flowery for Jess’ hangover headache to take in, so it’s not until they’re running to grab their gear and catch up with the departing team that she echoes, “The Somme?”
“We’re going to have to fix that window frame, huh?” Lupe observes.
“So it glides like butter,” Jess confirms.
“Oh, Miss García, Miss McCready,” a voice echoes up to them. Damn, what have they done now?
“Yeah, Sarge?” Lupe calls from the staircase landing. Their flinty-eyed chaperone rounds the hallway corner to gaze up at them with the knowing look that says she’s two steps ahead, but also has their backs.
“Please give my regards to Vi.”