End of Summer

by Deirdre Abrahamsson

I

The moon hung low in the August sky, heavy and full, tinged orange-red, promising another warm day tomorrow.

Angela sat on her back porch, watching the moon and waiting for her best friend Donna to come over. They had been best friends since fourth grade, when Angela clocked Donna over the head with her lunchbox for spreading rumors that Angela liked Danny Lombardi. Angela felt so horrible for hurting Donna, for giving her a nasty knot on her forehead and making her cry, and for getting sent home by the principal, that she did everything she could to make it up to her. She really didn't care what Danny thought anyway--or what anyone else thought, for that matter. She just didn't want to hurt people, to make them cry. After persistent persuasion and gifts of candy necklaces and Wacky Wafers, Donna gave in, and they soon became inseparable. They even had matching t-shirts made with iron-on patches that said Best Friends Forever and their names on the back in blue letters.

Donna was late again. It was almost 9 o'clock, and the Mets were already in the 5th inning. When the Mets had home games, they got together at Angela's house and listened to the Mets on the radio. Bob Murphy would call the play-by-play, and they reenacted the games in the narrow backyard. With their mitts on and ponytails tucked beneath their blue and orange Mets caps, the girls would toss a baseball back and forth, catching fly balls, making all possible double plays: 3-2-1, 2-4-6, and 6-4-3. They tagged out Giants, Braves, and Reds as they tried to steal home. Angela liked to bat for Darryl Strawberry and Kevin McReynolds. Donna's favorites were Mookie Wilson and Lenny Dykstra.

Bob Murphy's deep voice filled the backyard. Lightning bugs glowed in return.

Line drive, up the middle, base hit for Wilson. Runners on first and third. Two on, one out with McReynolds up. Braves lead it 5-3 in the bottom of the fifth.

Angela was tapping the dirt off her shoes in her imaginary batter's box. With a tip of her hat, she swung the bat up onto her shoulder and got ready for the pitch.

"Hey, Angela!"

Finally! Donna! The screen door slammed shut behind her. The light from the kitchen illuminated her figure. "I have something to tell you."

As she descended the back stairs, Angela noticed that she didn't have her mitt. Donna was beaming, her blonde hair hung long past her shoulders. A strange feeling came over Angela, almost like she was afraid.

II

The game was over, and Donna was long gone. Angela was still in the backyard, still playing out the ninth inning.

The Braves had been up 6-4. Runner on first. One out. McReynolds at bat. First pitch, high and outside, ball one. Second pitch, down the middle, called strike. Third pitch--McReynolds swung and connected, sending it back to the pitcher for a 2-3-2 double play. The Braves won it 6-4.

"C'mon Kevin", Angela said. She stepped up to the plate. Knocked the dust off of her cleats, bent her knees, stuck her butt out, held her bat up high.

A 95-mile-per-hour fastball came hurtling towards her. With a rush of adrenaline she swung--crack. She felt the power, the speed of the ball, thrusting her backwards. She watched the flight of the ball as it sailed higher and higher. She knew upon impact that it was going out of the park. Yes. That is the way it should have ended.

III

"Angela! Get in here. It's time for bed," her mother called.

She took off her cap and walked up the steps. She let the screen door slam behind her.

Her mom was sitting at the kitchen table, going through Sunday's Daily News, clipping coupons. She looked up at Angela over her glasses. "Where did Donna go? She's not sleeping over tonight?"

"No, not tonight." Angela tossed her cap on the table and leaned her bat against the cupboard. "She had to go."

"Is she coming with us to the beach in the morning?"

"Yeah, I guess so." Angela gulped down a glass of water and then grabbed an apple from the blue bowl on the counter. "I'm going to bed."

"Make sure you get to sleep soon. We are leaving early in the morning. Hey, come back here and get your cap," her mother called. "Sorry about the Mets."

IV

Angela was already on her way upstairs to her room and didn't feel like going back down to the kitchen to get her stuff. She knew her mom would put it away anyhow.

She flicked the light on and turned on the radio to Z100. Cyndi Lauper's Girls Just Want to Have Fun came blaring out. She threw her stuffed Tweety Bird at the radio and grumbled, "Damn, damn, damn, damn."

Flopping down on the bed, she thought of what Donna had told her.

Donna, eyes glittering, said she couldn't stay to listen to the game because Joe Lawlor had invited her over to watch The Love Boat.

"C'mon Angela," she said. "It is just this one time. Don't be mad. Besides, I really like him."

Joe "Four-eyes" Lawlor? She really likes him? Ugh.

That's why the Mets lost. The ritual was broken. McReynolds needed them. Needed their support. This game was crucial.

Angela had been too stunned to argue.

"Listen, I'll be over at 9 in the morning, ok? To go to Rockaway. We'll practice there. Bring your glove, ok?"

Bring your glove? That was it? They were supposed to be best friends!

Angela looked over at her glove sitting on the desk. She had it since the fifth grade, and she was planning on getting a new one next summer, before she started high school. When she would have to start playing softball.

She walked across the room and put the glove on. She picked up a ball off the floor and started tossing it up and down.

Opening the closet door, Angela angled the full-length mirror so she could see herself when she stood in the middle of the room. She stared at herself in the mirror, with the ball in her hand. The wind-up. She froze mid-pitch, analyzing her form. Her leg was down, the momentum of her shoulders tilting her forward.

She stopped. Walking over to the mirror she looked at her reflection, slowly, up and down. She had never really noticed before. Her long brown hair, pulled back into a loose ponytail, looked greasy. Her brown eyes seemed muddy. Plain, not like Donna's sparkling green ones. The freckles across her nose looked babyish.

Angela dropped her mitt on the floor, switched off the light and radio, and crawled into bed. Was she pretty? It never mattered before. She didn't want to be pretty. That didn't matter in baseball. Turning on her side, she looked out the window and caught sight of the moon. It was distant now, solid-white and cold. It hung like a baseball, frozen in the dark sky. She shivered, and for the first time in a long time, felt alone.

The Author

Deirdre Abrahamsson is a New Yorker living in Gothenburg, Sweden. She received a BA in English and an MS in Education from the University of Pennsylvania. By day she writes operational plans and reports for the 2006 European Athletics Championships and by night, poems and short stories. She is currently working on a novel about love, sobriety, and New York City.