Ali and George

What is it that happens, George wondered, when you’re fourteen or fifteen and nothing seems fun anymore? He sat in his dark bedroom, hearing the twins’ birthday party outside. A dozen of their friends from elementary school were over for swimming and cake and presents.

He didn’t like daytime, especially in the summer. The bright sun scalding the dry ground in a wet, heavy heat, and illuminating everything between the distant hills so that the midwestern valley seemed so flat and endless and empty that just being outside felt oppressive. George remembered liking summer days. He remembered going to the park at the end of the street and finding other kids to climb around the jungle gym with or searching for salamanders in the grove around the pond. Now, about the only things he really liked to do were listen to music by himself and sneak out to go on walks at night.

The neighborhood seemed unfamiliar after dark. It had mystery and felt big instead of just endless – like a jungle instead of like a mega-mall parking lot. George didn’t particularly do anything on his walks. He just enjoyed feeling like the world had possibility in it again, like it seemed to when he was the twins’ age. Sometimes he felt as if his life was already laid out in front of him, just like the valley itself – flat and predictable from here to the hills.

A kid outside shrieked and then George heard the splash of a cannonball. He glanced out the window into the backyard. They were playing a game where some of them were trying to tag others before they could jump into the pool. George had played similar games with his own friends. He remembered how fun it had been to run and dodge and jump into the water, feeling so free and excited in his body that shrieks of pure joy sometimes spit their way out. Lately, he mostly felt frustration and embarrassment about his body – how awkward were his skinny arms and legs and the rim of fat around his waist. He’d quit all the sports he used to love playing because he wasn’t very good anymore. There were boys his age who could dunk a basketball already and he couldn’t even touch the rim.

He noticed someone else standing near the pool. A girl – his age, talking to a little boy who must’ve been her brother. George caught an intake of breath, recognizing her – he’d had seen her before on one of his night walks. Downtown, by the bridge, standing by the river and gazing up at the moon. When he’d seen her, he’d turned around, and he hadn’t been sure why at first. Then he’d realized it was because he didn’t want to scare her, some guy just walking through the industrial promenade in the middle of the night, and he’d wished more than ever he were still a little kid.

George decided to go outside. He was sure he’d lack the nerve to just go talk to the girl, but he felt almost compelled to be in a situation where she might talk to him.

In the bathroom, George played with his hair for a good three minutes before feeling as though it looked decent and nonchalantly so. He almost changed his mind about going out when he noticed a new zit – a big one – on the left side of his chin, but he didn’t.

A child was walking around the downstairs soaking wet. “S’cuse me, sir,” she asked George, who cringed at the form of address, “where’s the bathroom?” He pointed her towards the correct door and went to the sliding glass door, nearly sliding in the puddles the kid’s feet had left.

George’s mother was talking with several other parents around a food and drink table – the foldable kind, draped in a disposable tablecloth. She noticed him as he scanned the poolside. “We have food if you’re hungry, sweetie,” his mother said. He cringed again. “Pasta salad, meatballs, fruit and veggies, and we’ll have cake in a bit.” George nodded to her and mouthed, ‘Okay.’ He felt old sometimes but when she talked to him like he was still a child it only made it worse.

The girl didn’t seem to be around the pool anymore, but then he saw a wiffle ball rise up over the vine-covered wooden fence between the pool and the grassy backyard. Hands in his pockets, George headed around, skirting the edge of the concrete to avoid interfering with the kids’ wild game of jump-in-the-water tag.

The girl was pitching the ball to a little boy who swung wildly with a slender yellow bat. Just as George came around the fence, he made perfect contact and smacked a line-drive straight at George. “Wow, that was a good one!” the girl said before turning to retrieve it, and seeing George holding the ball.

The first thing he noticed was that she was beautiful. She had bushy brown hair tied back and bright eyes and a big smile and a kind of bounciness about her, the way she moved and bobbed her head as she spoke. “Nice catch,” she told him. “Want to play?”

George shrugged. “Sure,” he said. The second thing he noticed about her was that she had the prettiest speaking voice he’d ever heard.

“We can take turns,” she said. “I’ll pitch you a few more, Ant, and you can be outfield... Sorry, I’m Ali – what’s your name?”

“George,” he said, pointing to his chest. God, he thought, it’s such an awkward name. Every time he introduced himself he half expected someone to laugh at him and go, ‘What kind of name is that?’

“George,” Ali repeated. “And this is my brother, Anthony.” She put a hand beside her mouth, whispering just loud enough for George to hear, “he didn’t want to be left alone when I walked him over here. He’s shy around strangers.” Back to her normal speaking volume: “You got outfield?”

“Sure.”

“Alright, Ant,” Ali told her brother, turning back to him. “Since we got a fielder now, we can run bases.” She wound up and pitched. He missed the first but slapped the second almost to the chain-link fence around the yard. George sprinted after it. Ant was running towards some undefined point in the middle of the yard when he got to the ball. George turned and fired the ball at Anthony, who shrieked with joy and leaped so it went under him. Ali picked it up as he rounded the imaginary second base for third and pegged him on the hip with it. All three had smiles on their faces.

Some of the other kids came around the wooden fence to see what was going on. Before long, they’d set up a full game. The twins both wanted to be on George’s team and he felt rather flattered by that. He grabbed some old rags in the garage they used for washing the car to bring out for bases. He captained one team and Ali captained the other. In the second inning, George had his first at-bat and she stared him down, smirking.

“I’m not gonna take it easy on you,” Ali said.

“Good,” George replied, wrapping his fingers around the plastic bat. He swung and missed at her first two pitches, which she threw much harder than when she was facing one of the kids.

“That’s two,” she told him.

“I can count,” he said.

She smiled, clearly having fun. The next pitch was low and outside and George let it pass.

“Okay, good eye, good eye,” Ali remarked. One of George’s teammates tossed the ball back to her.

George tensed his arms, nervous but excited, completely immersed in the game. Ali wound up again and threw a pitch straight down the middle. He swung and felt the bat make perfect contact, a joyous thrill exploded inside as the ball rocketed off – straight towards Ali’s face. She turned to the side and lifted her hand. The ball cracked against her skin – George couldn’t tell if it had hit her hand or beside her eye.

She moaned in pain and George, instead of running towards first, ran towards her. His teammates on the bases – including one of the twins – sprinted about, unconcerned. “Run, George!” his sister shouted. “We need to catch up!”

George squatted down beside Ali. He put a hand on her shoulder and asked, “You okay?” Ali reached out suddenly and grabbed the ball, tagging him with it, laughing.

George laughed too. “Really?!” he exclaimed.

“George!” his sister cried from home base. “Now my run doesn’t count!”

“We’ll count it,” Ali told her. “But he’s still out for getting tricked.”

George shook his head, ruefully.

“Kids!” his mom called from over the fence. “Cake and ice cream!” All the children, including shy Anthony, ran over to the table, leaving Ali and George alone in the backyard.

She grinned at him again, giggling.

“That was real cheap,” he said.

“It did kind of hurt,” she admitted. “I got my hand up but it still stung.”

“Sorry,” George said, not knowing what else to say.

“Part of the game,” she said, walking past him and picking up the bat. “I’d like a turn hitting.” She took a stance over home plate. George picked up the ball and pitched it. She whacked it over his head near the clothesline and took off running around the bases in her bare feet.

“You didn’t tell me you were gonna run!” George called over his shoulder, sprinting after the ball. He grabbed it and turned as Ali rounded third. He fired it as hard as he could and the ball hit her in the back of the head. Ali put a hand on her skull and turned around, laughing.

“You trying to kill me?” she asked.

George shrugged, glad she was okay.

They played catch until the kids were done eating and doing presents.

“So what do you do for fun around here?” Ali asked George, after informing him that her family had just moved in down the street a month prior.

He tossed the wiffle ball back to her. “Not a whole lot,” he said. “I like to go on walks at nighttime.”

“Me too!” she said, catching the ball. “Everywhere seems so magical at night.”

“I saw you once,” he told her. “Couple weeks ago, standing by the river downtown.”

“You saw me? Why didn’t you say hi?”

“I didn’t know you,” George said, shrugging again and catching a pop-up she threw.

“Well,” Ali said, “you know me now. Doing anything tonight?”

George’s heart swelled like a balloon in his chest. “No plans,” he said, as coolly as possible.

“How about a walk?” she asked.

“Let’s do it.”

“Great,” she said, smiling. “I’m excited.”

“Me too.”

They heard a splash, then a half-dozen others as the kids went back to swimming, forgetting about wiffleball. Ali and George went around the fence to grab a couple of pieces of cake themselves. George’s mother, seeing them, smiled knowingly and raised an eyebrow but had the tact to look away before Ali noticed.

They sat on a pool chair together, watching the orange sun lower over the pool shed and the diving board, which was getting heavy use.

“Good?” George asked after Ali took a bite of the chocolate cake.

“Yeah, it’s good,” she said. “Hints of chlorine from all the kids dripping over it.”

“I find that adds depth to the flavor,” George replied. Ali laughed, and George felt as though he’d never heard a lovelier sound.

“You can see the moon already,” Ali commented, pointing up at it, barely visible in the pale pink sky above. “It’s waiting for us.”

An hour later, she left with Anthony, but not before turning back to George and mouthing, “See you tonight.” He nodded, smiling, more excited than he’d ever been for the night.