dedicad to elisa bc this story is loosely inspired by her feminism challenge and this chapter is oozing feministic ideals. also, she's super rad

        The highlight of my day every day is when I finally come home from school and both of my parents are still at work, my mom at the pharmacy, my dad at the law firm. And bonus: this time of year, Lauren’s at swim practice and won’t be home until five, leaving the house all to myself to do whatever I want. No loud younger sisters, no annoying parents.

        And most importantly, no judgmental classmates who make you want to crawl in a hole and stay there until you graduate . . .

        It’s just me and whatever I feel like doing.

        Right now, I feel like hunting down Owen and beating the crap out of him now that we’re off school property for forcibly agreeing to sign me up for Ayla’s deal without consulting me first. Ayla’s deal that I have no intention of committing myself to.

        If I had an athletic bone in my body, I’d genuinely consider it.

        But unfortunately, the only thing I seem to have going for me is my somewhat strong lungs that can carry me for a couple miles, max, before I have to give up and call it a day in terms of physical activity. Ironically enough, I have the perfect opening to turn that minor issue around and correct it.

        But since that opening involves Ayla freaking Collins, there’s no way I’m taking it.

        Especially when her boyfriend is Wyatt Gibson, notorious for being the biggest douche to anyone outside of his tight knit circle of social superstars, the very one that he keeps himself centered in. Girls seem to be sufficiently infatuated with him based off of numerous years of sideline observation, but that’s just because they think he’s hot. Just wait until he’s a forty-something blue collar worker with a beer gut and nothing to show for himself but his dusty shelves of high school trophies that everyone else has long forgotten.

        At least, that image is enough to satisfy low-radar losers like me.

        It’s people like Wyatt that make high school such a nightmare for anyone remotely different from the status quo. Okay, maybe not a nightmare, but he sure knows how to keep it from being a cakewalk, at the very least.

        But come on, agreeing to spend all that extra time with Wyatt’s girlfriend is basically asking for a death sentence. The guy is possessive enough over something as stupid as a lunch table, which he has claimed as his since the first day of freshman year. He’s bound to keep close tabs on something as major as his girlfriend.

        Then again, Ayla Collins doesn’t really seem like the type to submit to possessive boyfriends. Not that I’ve ever been to any of her games, but if what I’ve heard is true, then she might possibly be an even better baseball/softball player than Wyatt.

        And for someone of either gender, that is no small feat.

        Whatever. I don’t know why I’m even stressing over this. If my gut instinct is right, Ayla’s forgotten all about her resolve to teach me how to play baseball in exchange for me teaching her how to cook by now. She probably won’t even remember that conversation come tomorrow.

        In an effort to forget all about the events at school today, I shove a pair of headphones over my ears and recline back in my desk chair, staring disdainfully down at my trigonometry homework.

        Hoping to scrounge up the motivation to get started, I pull a chip out of a bag of Doritos sitting on my desk and take a bite, tapping my pencil while I try to concentrate before thinking screw it and pulling out my iPod to play a new song.

        A ballad by The Beach Boys starts playing and I find myself singing along loudly while finally cracking down to make progress on my trig homework. The song reminds me of summers as a kid, back when we used to live in Virginia, when we would drive down to Virginia Beach with the windows rolled down and Dad’s favorite playlist blaring to spend the summer in a little ramshackle gray beach house; just Mom, Dad, Lauren, and I.

        That was back before Dad went hard after his brother’s death, though. We don’t spend our summers in Virginia Beach anymore.

        I work meticulously through the first problem, though I can’t understand how finding the cosine of x is ever going to help an aspiring chef in life, no matter what crap lines my math teacher feeds into my head to try to make me think otherwise. I mean, okay, I get it; some kids don’t know what they want to do with their lives yet, so they need to be exposed to a little bit of everything to find their way.

        But what about the rest of us? The ones who do have their lives figured out? We should be able to get a head start and start working toward bettering our abilities at our specific field, not wasting valuable time working through math problems that we’ll never see again.

        While I’m unconsciously belting out the lyrics playing through my headphones and reminiscing on the Ghost of Summers Past, it hardly registers the initial moment that an alien blur of color enters my peripheral vision until a shadow is casted over my math equations.

        On impulse, I stop singing, rip my headphones out of my ears, and whirl around, equal parts dread and relief coursing through my bloodstream at the sight of an amused Ayla Collins.

        “Nice singing,” she says with a smirk. “By the way, it’s kinda chilly outside. You might wanna put a shirt on."

        Looking down and realizing that I am, in fact, lacking the long sleeve shirt I was sporting earlier today, courtesy of my usual after school freedom, I scramble off my chair and swipe a discarded shirt lying on the floor, fumbling to pull it over my head.

        “What are you--why are you in here?” I demand, finding myself getting flustered as warmth spreads through my cheeks. “You can’t just walk in people’s houses!”

        Looking unaffected, she shrugs. “I rang the doorbell four times and you were too busy putting on a concert for your math homework so I let myself in. You ready for your first baseball lesson?”

        She is actually serious about this . . .

        “Ayla, I never agreed to do this,” I say. “That was Owen, not me. And I’m telling you that the deal is off.”

        She studies me carefully, and I look down and roll the chord to my headphones around my finger, unfurl them, and repeat, just to avoid her irritating big blue eyes.

        “Is this because you don’t think it’ll work?” she presses. “Because I’m telling you right now, I can shape you up into a baseball player in these next couple months before tryouts come if you agree to do what I say and work with me. Is it gonna be easy? No. But is it possible? Heck yeah. But if you’re gonna think like a quitter, you can forget about making the team.”

        Something in her words resonates within me, and I can’t help thinking of my dad telling me the exact same thing. You’ll never know until you try, son. No wonder you’ve never done a sport; you tell yourself you can’t do it right from the get-go. Quitters never win.

        “Why do you even want to learn how to cook so badly?” I shoot back, turning the tables on her and putting her on the spot. “You’re already taking a cooking class; why do you need me?”

        She straightens, her eyes flickering away from my face. “My dad’s gonna be here for Easter, and I just wanna be able to do the home-cooking for him for once, okay?” Although I don’t think she meant it, there’s a slight harshness in her voice, and I can tell it’s a sore subject.

        As far as I know, Ayla’s dad has been working in the military her whole life, and it doesn’t take being her close friend to know that she’s really sensitive to people who speak negatively about the military, or America in general, really. Her family is one of those patriotic types, the all-American kind that invites neighbors over for summer barbeques and always has American flags waving proudly in their yard.

        My dad says that it’s conservatives like them that are the reason our whole country is going to pot. But still, their pride is admirable.

        “And besides,” she continues, looking considerably more collected, “I already know that you and Vanessa aren’t gonna let me do crap after today’s incident. I don’t learn by watching; I learn by doing. That’s why I’m so good at a lot of sports.”

        A sarcastic slip about how arrogant that sounded is right on the tip of my tongue, but I catch it just in time, deciding that we’re not close enough to jest around like that.

        Almost as if she can read my mind, she quickly adds, “I don’t mean that in a braggy way, even though that’s how it sounded. I’m just trying to make a point. I’m a hands-on kind of person; watching how something works doesn’t help me learn.”

        She stares at me with large puppy dog eyes, and I find myself already faltering as my eyes soak in the contours of her face, dark brown hair pulled up in a ponytail with little wisps of baby hairs framing her face, which is all sharp features that make her look like she belongs on a runway or a red carpet, not a boring high school in the middle of Georgia.

        It’s funny; I remember her being on the chubbier side when I first moved here. Ironically enough, I think I might like her better that way, back when she would always smile and acknowledge my presence. Now, I’m lucky if we even make eye contact in the hallway for more than one fleeting second.

        She slips past me and takes a seat on my unmade bed as if she’s been coming here her whole life, and this one action wakes me up and shoves me back into the present.

        “That’s really fascinating, Ayla," I force myself to say, keeping my voice purposefully neutral. "Now can you please get out? I have homework to do and I don’t have time for this."

        No way am I getting into this with her, I think to myself.

        She frowns. “Graham, wait. I don’t know if someone might have said something to you after the gym incident today, or maybe you’re mad because Wyatt laughed at you and I didn’t say anything when I should’ve. But I’m honestly not here to make you feel bad. I just wanna help you with this one thing, and in return you can help me learn how to cook. Please?”

        It’s the ‘please’ that gets me. Such a small, meaningless word, but when uttered from her mouth, with her head cocked slightly to the side, it’s almost like I’m dealing with a small child begging their parent for ice cream.

        I take a gulp of air and sigh, letting all the air rush out of my lungs. “Okay, fine. But if you’re thinking I’m just gonna be able to pick this up, it’s not gonna happen. I suck at sports that involve any kind of hand-eye coordination.”

        She perks up and grins at me. “Don’t worry, I got this. You’ll be a pro by the time I’m done with you.”

        “Did you see me today?”

        She chuckles softly. “Everyone has to start somewhere. I was that bad, once upon a time. Granted, I was seven, but still. The only difference between you and me is that I have way more experience than you. If we make up a strict training schedule every day and stick to it, I can totally get you in shape in time for March tryouts.”

        I look at her dubiously. “That gives you two months. I highly doubt I’d be good enough to even make the JV team in that amount of time.”

        She turns and angles her body so she’s facing me and there’s a dangerous look in her eye as she studies me, a lethal fire burning within the swirling pattern of her cobalt irises. Her mouth straightens out into a firm line, and she reminds me of a volcano, building up a tremendous amount of pressure and blazing lava before erupting.

        “Louis Zamperini,” she randomly blurts, taking me off guard by latching onto my hand and pulling me up with her, escorting—no, marching—me to my living room. “You ever heard of him?”

        I scratch my head, snatching my hand away from hers. No way in hell am I getting remotely intimate with Wyatt Gibson’s girlfriend, even if my idea of ‘intimacy’ is something as lame as hand-holding. “Name sounds familiar.”

        She turns toward a large black bag that I only now notice sitting on the floor, crouching down and rifling through it before pulling something out and tossing it to me.

        I barely react in time to catch it. Looking down, I’m quick to realize it’s a baseball glove.

        “Try that on,” she says, pulling out a glove of her own, along with a neon lime-colored ball. “Get used to it. It’s my dad’s, but for the next couple months, it’s gonna be yours.”

        Gingerly, I slide my hand inside and give it a couple squeezes, drinking up the sight of Mr. Collins’ worn brown glove, blemished with various scratches and dirt marks, evidently from years’ worth of use. It feels unnatural on my hand, but I don’t voice this aloud. I don’t know Ayla much, but I know enough about her to know that her letting me use her dad’s baseball glove is no small thing.

        She must really have faith in me if she trusts me with her dad’s glove. .  .

        “Anyway,” she continues, tucking her own glove under her armpit and tossing the ball in the air and catching it, midair. “Louis Zamperini. Born in 1917, he was rebellious growing up, and when he reached high school, his older brother decided enough was enough, so he convinced him to join the school track team so Louis could do something positive with his life. At first, he sucked. Like, he pretty much got last place in every single race, and he didn’t really even enjoy running anyway. Basically, he was ready to quit. But then his brother started training him every day, and eventually he started getting better and winning all his races. And the more he trained, the more he began to love it and the better he got until he was invited to run for the United States in the 1936 Berlin Olympics. So don’t you dare tell me you can’t do this, because you haven’t even tried yet. And if you’re willing to let me coach you, I promise I’ll get you to that level where you’re good enough to make the team.”

        For a brief moment, every single gear typically running and operating in my body comes to a standstill.

        Two things: one—holy crap, she really is serious about helping me, and two—since when is Ayla Collins such a history buff?

        I mean, I know she’s always been an advanced level student, but I figured that she did it for the same reason anyone at my school did it: for colleges to see. Never did it occur to me that maybe there really was something other than the latest gossip or sports floating around in her pretty little head.

        Wait, did I really just think the words ‘pretty little head’ when thinking about Ayla?

        Mess. I’m a mess.

        “You know, this is typically your cue to say something,” Ayla pipes up. “Yes Ayla, I would love to give it a shot! Let’s go! Something like that would be nice.”

        I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Jesus, I must really be awkward to try to hold conversations with.

        Finally I settle on treading toward the door leading out to the back patio, pausing long enough for her to get the idea. “I honestly don’t know why I’m agreeing to this,” I mumble, more to myself than to her.

        She smiles happily to herself, and I find myself getting frustrated over how innocent she looks when she’s away from all her friends at school. She’s still got the confidence of an A-list celebrity, but there’s a newfound genuineness to her that I wouldn’t otherwise be able to detect within the hallways of our school.

        But then again, nobody is ever truly themselves in those hallways, are they?

        Once we get outside, the chilling cold greets my bones, and I find myself wishing I had put on a hoodie instead of the wrinkled long sleeve shirt I grabbed off the floor in my room when Ayla barged in unannounced. I glance over at the girl in question, only now realizing she’s sporting a pair of sweatpants and a jacket, and I find myself jealous of her for wearing warmer clothes than me. But I have some dignity, so there’s not a chance I’m going back inside to grab something warmer.

        “Okay. We’re starting with the basics,” she begins, backing up several feet so a small gap lies between us. “For now, we’re using a softball because it’s bigger and, in my opinion, though I’m kinda biased, slightly easier to throw than a baseball, but we’ll work our way there eventually. Let’s just toss it back and forth a few times so I can see where you stand with your throwing and catching.”

        I withdraw my previous statement; I have no dignity.

        She looks at me cautiously before tossing the ball at me with a moderate amount of force, and it’s painfully evident that she’s going easy on me the way she’d go easy on a little kid. I try to push any feeling of embarrassment away, but come on, I’m so pathetic at sports, I need a girl to teach me.

        If any of the guys at school saw me right now, they’d no doubt be in stitches.

        I throw the ball back to her, trying to mime the way I’ve seen other people throw. The ball goes a little left, and she easily extends an arm to the side and catches it before jogging over to where I’m standing.

        “Oh my God, I suck,” I groan. “This was such a dumb idea.”

        “No no no,” she quickly disputes. “You can do it; you just have to work on your technique. I know this feels totally ridiculous and elementary, but I’m gonna break it down into three simple steps while you’re getting the hang of it. Here, turn sideways, like this.” Gently, she tugs on my shoulder so it’s facing where she was previously standing in front of me.

        “Three steps,” she repeats. “Point,” she grabs the arm that has the glove and pulls it out in front of me, “step,” she gives me a small push forward, “and throw,” she finishes, taking my free hand and making the throwing motion for me. “That’s all there is to it.”

        My cheeks burn at her sudden proximity, and I find myself unable to properly formulate a response with her grabbing onto me and going through the motions while standing so close. Stop you have a boyfriend what are you doing this isn’t normal my mind screams at her.

        She looks unfazed and backs up into her previous position, several feet away. “You think you got it?”

        “I dunno, maybe,” I mutter dully.

        “Here.” She tosses the ball underhand. “Try it again.”

        I catch the ball, but it slips out of my glove before I realize and I bend over to pick it up, biting the inside of my cheek to suppress my mortification. No wonder my dad is always on my case. He was the sports star when he was my age and I can’t even catch a simple toss thrown by a girl.

        Once I’ve scooped up the ball, I angle my body the way she previously had me and mentally run through the steps she told me: point, step, throw. I can do that.

        As soon as I release the ball, I realize that the point and step parts of the process aren’t the problem for me; I can actually do those quite well. It’s the actual throwing. The ball arcs high over Ayla’s head, and she has to leap to catch it.

        “I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” I finally say, getting fed up with subjecting myself to the embarrassment of failing so miserably at such a seemingly simple task in front of her. “I have no experience, I throw like a girl, and all I’m doing is wasting your time.”

        She cocks an eyebrow and just by the look on her face, I can instantly tell that I said something wrong.

        “Excuse me? You throw like a girl? I’m a girl and if you’re telling me that your throwing ability is the same as mine, you’re seriously delusional,” she deadpans. “I already told you: you aren’t experienced. You think you’re just gonna magically be good at it? Newsflash, this is the real world. And by the way, never use the term ‘throw like a girl’ again unless you want me to punch you. That’s sexist and ignorant.”

        “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t think—” I start to defend pathetically.

        “No, you didn’t think,” she agrees. “Neither do any of the other douchebag guys at our school. I am sick and tired of guys thinking that they’re better than me because I’m a girl. So friggin’ tired of it.”

        As my insides deflate as the harsh truth behind her words settles within me, I can’t help but wonder how many guys have given her a hard time for her to blow up on me like she just did. Granted, I was asking for it, but today is only the first time we’ve really even spoken to each other since, like, middle school.

        I wonder if Wyatt ever tries to make her feel inferior. And if I’m being honest, based off of the kind of guy he is, it wouldn’t surprise me. How they ended up together is beyond me.

        “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said that,” I say, looking at her with as genuine of an expression as I can muster. “You’re right. You can throw way better than me. It’s just kinda embarrassing, you know?”

        She rolls her eyes. “Get over yourself, Rivers. If you want this to work, you have to stop the idea from sprouting that because you’re the boy, that automatically means you should be better at this than me. Just like I’m a pathetic cook, you can’t play baseball. Big deal. That’s why I’m here to help you, and you’re here to help me. Remember?”

        “Yeah,” I breathe, finding myself taken off guard by Ayla for the umpteenth time today. Girl’s got bite, that’s for sure. And surprisingly, I find myself liking that about her. She doesn’t let herself get pushed around, and I respect that. And even stranger yet: she has no problem putting me in my place.

        Considering the amount of girls I associate with on a regular basis at our school can be reduced to the amount of fingers I have on one hand, it’s strange and oddly liberating to talk to a girl who isn’t just sitting on the sidelines the whole time, but actually in on all the action.

        “Okay, glad that’s settled,” she says, transforming back into her previous, perky self. “Now, let’s get back to your throwing technique. You throw like a beginner, so we need to fix that.”

        And somehow, throwing with her after that isn't so bad.

Author's Note:

This is 100% unedited so if you catch mistakes, let me know. It's nearly 3 AM and I am exhausted but I felt a random surge of inspiration for this story so I took advantage of it. Also, you guys should totally check out Louis Zamperini bc he is such an interesting person and I recommend reading his book "Unbroken." (yeah I'm a history nerd like Ayla w/e) LOVE YOU ALL AND PLS LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT BC THIS WAS MY FIRST TIME EVER WRITING FROM A BOY POV AND I HAVE NO FLIPPIN CLUE WHAT I'M DOING, SO ANY SUGGESTIONS TO HELP ME IMRPOVE ARE GREATLY APPRECIATED. Thank you. Also, in case you were wondering, I'm going to be alternating POVs for each chapter, so don't think I'll go all random POV change on you. I promise there's a method behind the madness.

Okay I truly am braindead and I migt regret posting this tomrrow morning when I look back and realize that I should've edited it first but yolo life ain't worth living if you ain't takin' risks u feel

okay sorry i'm trash bye