Whatever Life Throws at You by Julie Cross Page A

faster or ditch one event.”
    “Or do a decent job with both this year and focus on placing at state next year,” Dad says.
    After a few painful steps to get off the porch, I plop down on the grass. “No way. I’m not half-assing it.”
    Dad shakes his head like I’m crazy, but I know my natural competitive edge pleases him.
    “When’s the chocolate pudding gonna be ready?” Grams shouts from the porch swing. “And lobster, aren’t we having lobster?”
    I lay back in the grass and let out a breath. “I’m coming, Grams. Count to twenty.”
    “I’ll get her lunch,” Dad says. “Stretch, Ann. And Jason, keep working on turning your hips more.”
    The second Dad is out of sight, Brody leans over me. “He’s right, you know? Your hamstring is tight.”
    I hold his gaze. “I really don’t think it’s appropriate for you to check out my legs. What with that big giant age gap and all.”
    I expect some snarky reply from him, but he just shakes his head and turns back to the pitcher’s stand. “Whatever. It’s not like it matters to me.”
    Right. Because you have phone calls that include you using the plural women . And brunettes and redheads with panties attractive enough to leave lying around for anyone to see. My legs are of no real interest to Brody.
    “So,” I say. “Tell me about the slammer? What’s it like in there?”
    He fires the ball at the stand with an exaggerated amount of force. “I really don’t think it’s appropriate for you to ask that question.”
    After pulling myself off the grass, I’m expecting him to add on to his snappy retort but he just leaves me hanging for an entire minute, ignoring me completely. Since it’s my house, I head up the steps without a word, giving him equal silent treatment.
    But once I’m out of Brody’s sight, my frustration overflows. I stomp into the house, breezing past Dad. “You weren’t like that when you played baseball, were you?” I nod out the front window toward Brody.
    Dad laughs but keeps his back to me as he piles cold cuts onto bread for Grams’ lunch—definitely not lobster. “No, honey. I was nothing like Jason Brody.”
    My mouth falls open, and I want to ask him, Is it because you had me? Is it because of Mom? Did that make you less self-centered? But I can’t bring myself to ask those questions aloud. I’m afraid of the answer.
    After an extra-long shower, I take my time blow-drying my hair and getting dressed again, hoping Jason Brody will be long gone by then. No such luck. He and Dad are sitting in the kitchen eating sandwiches. Yep, my dad and the alleged ex-convict—hot, alleged ex-convict—hanging like old pals. Great.
    The only thing left for me to do is make my own lunch. Coach Kessler’s diet includes lots of big, healthy-sounding words, so I’ve made some minor adjustments to make it work in my favor. I trade the whole grain bread for a giant kaiser roll and pile it with cheese, turkey, roast beef, lettuce, tomato, mayo, spicy brown mustard, and banana peppers. I reach for the Doritos, but self-control wins and I decide on an apple and yogurt to accompany my mess of a sandwich.
    “Yeah, I don’t know,” Brody says, continuing whatever conversation they’d been discussing before I walked into the kitchen. “School and me…we just aren’t compatible.”
    School? Why are they talking about school?
    “I’m not talking about school,” Dad says. “Just the GED. You can even get a tutor to help you prepare. All you have to do is take the test.”
    “You mean pass the test,” Brody corrects. “All I have to do is pass the test.”
    Dad leans back in his chair, appearing surprised by this response. “Look, I think you have a great baseball career ahead of you, all I’m saying is that having a plan B is not a bad idea.”
    I head toward my room with my lunch, but Dad stops me. “Sit, Annie.”
    With a loud sigh, I take the chair beside Dad and across from Brody. “Don’t you think I’m old enough to