Alive Again

Reese squinted up at the high afternoon sun, her eyes shielded beneath her cap. The day was hot—appropriate shorts and tank top weather—and humid. This had never stopped her before. It hadn’t stopped any of them. There was never a time where baseball had been called on the count of heat. The sun beating down on her, it felt familiar, like her old broken in glove. It had been John’s at one point, until he outgrew it. It was taking on a dusty gray tone and was very flexible; Reese wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. She didn’t take well to gifts, but this was an exception—John had needed someone to play catch with.

That was exactly what the two friends were doing, to pass the time before their other teammates would show up for the game. It wasn’t a typical game of catch—no, John would either throw it far left or far right, and Reese would lob it high or low. The two alternated and switched up—keeping each other on their toes. John threw the scuffed and fraying ball high and to Reese’s right. It was only by jumping and extending her arm as far as possible that her glove managed to close in on the ball. The impact came with an inaudible thud and her hand flexed instinctively to capture it there.

Newton’s law: what goes up must come down. Reese was no exception to this. She fell, and much to the chagrin of those present, landed heavily on her shoulder and with the gathered momentum, rolled to a stop. She didn’t release the ball and stood up, unharmed but a bit dirty. John just barely refrained from asking her if she was alright. Reese hated being treated like she was delicate (which was true) or like she was different from the rest of the team. She had to constantly prove how tough she was and that she fit in. Each time the team line-up changed, Reese had new guys to prove her worth to. John babying her only made it worse.

“Nice catch, Wally.”

John fought hard not to roll his eyes. Christopher had been after Reese for as long as John could remember, and he knew it made Reese uncomfortable. For some reason, Reese’s blatant disinterest didn’t seem to throw Chris off, it just made him more determined. John also knew that Reese hated to be called Wally, but it stuck and the majority of the team ended up using that name.

“Thanks, Chris... Are the teams divided yet?” Reese asked, glancing behind him where a large group of guys were goofing off.

“Yeah. John, you’re on my team—I’m captain. Reese, you’re on Mitch’s team.”

John quirked an eyebrow, if Reese was on Mitch’s team, it was only because she was his first pick. There was no way that Chris wouldn’t pick Reese to be on his team—unless he had given up on the pursuit, which John doubted. It was obvious in the way that Chris looked at Reese that he was thinking impure thoughts.

“Who’s up to bat first?” John asked, instead of smashing a bat into his captain’s face.

“Mitch got first bat.” Chris shrugged, and Reese stifled a groan. Mitchell had been the school team captain for two years now and had a very specific line-up that seemed to transfer over into “just for fun” games. This line-up always started with Reese at bat. If she had one weakness, it was batting. She could hit the ball but it never got too far—in fact, it usually got caught. She was working on her power and had been improving, but compared to her teammates she was a pussy cat.

Reese made her way to her team’s dugout and greeted her past teammates and friends of friends who were up for a pick-up game. Mitchell beckoned Reese over and held out two aluminum bats for her to test out. The weight was familiar in Reese’s hands as she took a few practice swings, and the incessant chatter and tips coming from Mitch were easy to tune out—this was a routine to her, and a pleasant one at that.

“No helmet?” Reese asked.

“Nah, we’re going to use the lighter plastic balls,” Mitch answered. Greg, a two year player on the school team, was quick to jump on the presented opportunity. His Hispanic accent made his jokes always seem funnier than they really were, and he took full advantage of that.

“You mean like the pair in your pants?”

A few other players snickered, but Reese was conditioned for this.

“Hey Greg, how would you know what’s in Mitchell’s pants?”

There was a chorus of “ooh,” from the guys in the dugout, bringing a small smirk to Reese’s face. The other team glanced over from where they were getting positioned on the field; John, being nearby, gave a smile, which Reese returned immediately. It was a rare moment, and John tried to commit it to memory.

“Hey, make goo-goo eyes at your boyfriend after we kick his ass,” Mitchell demanded, his competitive nature coming out. Reese flushed at the incorrect accusation and caught John staring at her with a smirk, encouraging her to let the mistake go. Mitch gripped Reese by the shoulders, squeezing them tightly before shoving her toward home. Behind her, Reese could hear the encouraging cheers from her teammates.

Chris grinned at her, tossing the ball up and down while Reese got into her batting position. She squinted at him in deep concentration. He wound up, and pulled his arm back—quickly he snapped back and threw the ball toward Reese. The speed of his actions made it blurry, but none the less, Reese swung and heard the ball and bat connecting with an echoing crack. She dropped the bat and sprinted toward first. Reese’s strength was definitely her speed, which is why Mitch always wanted her to be on base, leading the pack so to speak.

It was two innings in when Reese noticed her. Reese was positioned on third by Mitch, not her usual position but in baseball she didn’t mind being out of her comfort zone. John was standing up to bat, looking intense and focused on Mitch. Reese wasn’t the only person to notice Clary and her friends in the stand. She easily made herself known.

“Go John, woo!” She and her friends had obviously recently arrived. They were sitting on the rickety wooden stands with their legs crossed. Clary was in the middle of her four friends and led them in clapping and cheering. John lost his focus for a moment, distracted by the cheer section that hadn’t been there before.

In all Reese's years of playing the game, Clary had never shown up to watch her play. Now here she was at an unofficial game, cheering on Reese’s opposing team. John seemed uncomfortable, and he looked flushed and distracted because of it. He was embarrassed by the cheering. He couldn’t put into words why it was so embarrassing, but he felt that it had something to do with Reese. Not that John was ever going to admit to that.

In the end, Reese’s team ended up winning over John’s team. It was all in fun though, the team was breaking up into groups and calling out the pizza place they intended to meet up at. Reese leaned casually on the chain link fence. John was talking to some of the guys with his gear in his hand. Reese had only brought her glove and wore it on her right hand. She was staring at the place where Clary had been, at the end of the game she and her friends had scattered, but Reese knew that this wasn’t the last she would see of her sister.

“Do you want to go get pizza, or do you just want to go home?” John offered. Honestly, Reese didn’t have the money to be going out for pizza, and she was tired and felt gross and wanted to go home and shower, and to take advantage of the empty house to get some sleep. But she didn’t want to disappoint her mother, who had expressed a longing for Reese to go out and have some fun.

“I don’t have any money,” Reese responded honestly, giving a shrug. John opened his mouth to respond, but Greg, who had been passing by, beat him to it.

“What’s this O’Callaghan? You’re such a cheap date that you won’t even buy your girl a slice of pizza? That’s low man, real low. I can’t believe you’re just going to let Wally starve like that!” Greg jokingly smacked John’s arm and continued on his way.

“Yeah, you heard him Reese. I can’t let my girl starve. It’s on me.” John reached over and ruffled Reese’s hair, in that way she hated, when he referred to her as his girl. Reese struck out at John, but he had learned and jumped back, while simultaneously capturing her wrist. He tugged Reese to him, pressing her back to his chest, allowing his free hand to travel along Reese’s sides.

She screamed in laughter, gasping and writhing without much success. Her body’s natural reaction was to move closer to John and further from his hand, only causing her to become trapped in his grasp.

“No, John, please no more, stop it!” she shrieked, successfully attracting the attention of her teammates—the ones that hadn’t left yet. Reese wasn’t this girl; she didn’t get caught in an embrace and cause a scene. She wouldn’t have let any guy hold her in such a way—let alone to tickle her.

“Gang up on Wally!” And soon there were several hands each touching sensitive skin, which reacted in causing Reese to scream with laughter.

“Guys, seriously stop or I’m going to pee!” she threatened, near hysterics. Immediately the guys backed off, not sure if Reese was serious or not. She was almost always serious, and so they wouldn’t take the risk—however John still clutched her to him tightly, something that everyone noticed.

The group broke up and went to their separate cars. Reese did her best to keep her face away from John, not wanting him to see how easily she flushed. Something had stirred inside of her, more butterflies and a sudden deficiency in her lung capacity. She stared determinedly out the window and tried to ignore the tension in the car. John seemed to be doing the same thing from the driver’s seat, for the ride was silent with the exception of Third Eye Blind drifting through the speakers. Reese took deep calming breaths, focusing on the music and losing herself in the soft sound.

The team had already convened, taking over the far back corner of the restaurant. They had added another table to the circular booth and were goofing off. Chris spotted Reese and waved, like she couldn’t see or hear the group already. He made a show of scooting down in the booth and patting the spot beside him. Reese shook her head at him and took John’s hand, raising it to show that she was sticking to her friend.

“Yo, guys move the fuck down to make room for Reese and John!” he yelled, and Mitch stood from the booth and mumbled inaudibly. John lifted his arm to rest it around Reese’s shoulders and guided her toward the booth. Usually he would let the girl get in the booth first, but he really didn’t want Chris to be next to Reese. He sat first and tugged her down by her hand, pressing her to his side and putting his arm around her again.

Reese’s breathing hitched, and she began to panic internally. There was so much conversation going on around her that it was easy for her to sit there silently. She couldn’t pick out any specific words—her focus was entirely put upon her situation. Her thigh was pressed against John’s, her hand touching the denim of his pants and his heat rolling over Reese like an aggressive wave. He seemed entirely too calm, with his arm around her. She went rigid as he subconsciously began to play with her hair.

She swallowed hard when his finger began to gently trail up and down her neck. Breathe in, hold it, one two three, breath out, repeat. Reese did not want to hyperventilate, or to make a scene. Her body was subconsciously curling toward John, her hand sliding from her lap to rest on his leg—he tightened his grip on her and continued to have an animated conversation with Greg across the table.

Reese looked anywhere but at the people sitting with her. She watched the door—keeping tabs on who entered and who exited. She was the first to see Clary and her friends enter. Clary stood on the tips of her toes and looked around, catching her older sister’s eye. She smirked and waved, then surveyed the table Reese was sitting at. She tried not to look put out when she saw that there was absolutely no way she and her friends could join the table, and that Reese had John trapped in the booth.

John followed Reese’s gaze to Clary. She waved at him and received a nod of acknowledgement in return. She and her friends settled at a four person table by the window, dragging over an extra chair.

“So what do you want to get?” John asked Reese. Her stomach lurched—she felt too sick to eat and it had a lot to do with her current position. John made her too nervous to eat.

“I’m not really hungry...” she tried.

“Don’t even try that girly shit with us, Wally,” Greg interrupted, throwing a balled up napkin at her face. The black curly afro he had bounced with his movements and his dark brown eyes twinkled mischievously. His smile seemed too white against his dark tone, making him look sinister.

“It’s not girly shit,” she defended meekly.

“Wally, just let your boy treat you, okay? And you know, I want to know when the hell this thing happened! I never thought we’d have to have a talk about dating our teammates.”

Reese felt her face reddening and fixed her gaze on the table. By now the entire team was looking to her and John. The way she saw it, John was the one being overly affectionate and he could deal with the inquisition. She felt him shrug at the accusatory stares. That must have been the right answer in the guy language, because the topic was dropped.

Reese told John that she would just have whatever he ordered, she wasn’t a particularly picky eater. He was engrossed in a conversation with Mitch. Greg caught Reese’s eye and wiggled his eyebrows at her suggestively.

“Hey Wally, did you hear about the party tonight?” Greg asked, leaning over the table to speak to Reese.

“My sister may have mentioned a party.”

“Are you going?” Chris interrupted.

“Do you want to go, Reese?” John asked, Reese being so close to him had been unaware that he was following her conversation. She craned her neck to look up at her friend, who was looking down on her. She felt herself flushing uncontrollably due to the close proximity of their faces. She fought the urge to brush back the hair that fell into his eyes, and looked down at her lap.

“Um, are you going to go?”

“Yeah, but if you don’t want to go I can bring you home,” John offered, ever the good friend.

Reese lifted her hand to tangle it in her hair, only to get it caught on John’s hand. The space between his fingers was momentarily filled with hers, soft and delicate, providing a spark before she immediately removed her hand and placed it into her lap. She swallowed and willed her cheeks to cool quickly, before anyone noticed.

“Are you going to be drinking tonight?”

“Maybe.” John wasn’t sure what Reese’s take was on underage drinking or alcohol in general. She didn’t seem to be the party kind of girl and definitely not a beer pong champion. John wouldn’t lie—Reese didn’t strike him as the nightlife sort of girl. He respected that, and so her response left him speechless.

“I’ll go and be your designated driver, then.”

And that is how John and Reese ended up parked in Jared’s driveway on a Friday night. Jared’s house was three down from where the party was being held, and John had already asked permission to use the driveway.

“O’Callaghan, how did you score such good parking?” Greg called from his father’s Mustang, driving by slowly.

“I’ve got connections!” John called back. Greg gave him the finger and accelerated further down the street in search of a parking spot. Reese timidly shut the door and looked up at the house where they were parked. She wasn’t very close to Jared and therefore had never been to his house before—it seemed nice. There was a light on upstairs, and she assumed that it was Jared getting ready for the party.

She ambled over to John’s side and looked up at her friend—he was smiling and seemed to be genuinely excited for the upcoming event. He ran his hand through her hair, ruffling it for the second time that day and let his arm rest heavily on her shoulder. He began to lead them through the masses, groups of three to five friends were making their way toward the entrance. Reese stepped close to John’s side and wrapped her arm around his waist; subconsciously she hooked two of her fingers in the belt loop of his jeans.

“Planning on sticking together tonight?” John asked rhetorically. Reese slipped her free hand into John’s pocket and fished out his keys.

“If you want your car at the end of the night,” She teased. John said nothing in response, but tightened his hold on Reese as they made their way toward the front door. With so many people entering, the door was left open like an ongoing invitation. Reese’s eyes swept from left to right rapidly, trying to absorb everything at once. John took the lead and brought her to the kitchen where he expertly began to mix and pour himself a drink.

“What do you want to drink?” He asked Reese. She was admiring the array of plastic cups, aluminum chasers, and glass bottles taking up every surface of the counter and kitchen table. The kitchen would normally be quite spacey if a group of five or so wanted to hang out—but currently there were about ten guys and five girls all moving around with one goal in mind: drink.

“Brown pop, I don’t really care.”

“You’re going to be one of the big boys tonight, Reese’s Pieces.” John turned around, pressing his lower back to the counter and held out a room temperature Root Beer to his friend. Her smile was worth the sheer cheesiness of it all.

Reese kept pressed tightly to John’s side, blissfully unaware of the glances over the rims of glasses. Just yesterday she had been arguing with Kennedy Brock in the hall about a shirt; now she was at a party with John O’Callaghan and she was quite incapable of keeping her hands off of him. More speculations were being spun about the eldest Wallace.

“Did those grass stains on her knees mean she gave him head in a field?” Girls whispered conspiratorially behind their fruity drinks.

“Look at how John is touching her—they have to be fucking.”

“Everyone knows that Reese is a lesbian. She’s obviously just trying to prove a point, or like, cover her tracks.”

These were the snippets of conversation Clary could hear as she maneuvered the party like a pro. Not a hair was out of place, any eyeliner or mascara running from sweat, or even a spilled drink on her super cute outfit. She was smiling like she had a secret, and in a way she did. She could ignore these girls as they slandered her, called her a slut and whatnot—but it actually pissed her off to hear them talking about Reese like that. Not because she cared much for her sister or her reputation, but because the more they talked about Reese, the less they talked about her.

She made a beeline for the dining room table, just in time for the familiar drum track to begin playing. By the time the guitar kicked in, Clary was standing atop the table swiveling her hips in a way that could only be described as seductive. She was literally at the center of the room, with everyone’s attention trained on her. Some people pointed and laughed, commenting on Clary’s drunken actions and the sheer balls the girl had.

Across the room, Reese had perked up at the sound of a familiar song—all night she had been subjected to songs she had never heard before. She didn’t notice the change in the atmosphere of the party; she was too busy focusing on the music. It wasn’t until John began to curse with surprising eloquence that Reese knew something was up. She looked up at her jolly friend and saw the tension in his jaw. She followed his gaze and swallowed back her embarrassment.

For the first time that night, Reese left John’s side and began to move through the crowd of onlookers like she had been doing it her entire life. She pushed herself into the small gap around the table where Clary was standing.

“Clary, come on, get down.”

Clary looked down at her older sister with a smirk, shaking her head from side to side and grinning. Reese clenched her jaw in outrage—Clary was having fun with this. It became quite apparent that Reese was going to have to physically remove her sister from the situation before something horrible happened. Reese climbed up on the closest chair and held her hand out to her sister. Clary took her hand, but didn’t step down. She tugged so that Reese was on one knee on the table.

“Clary, you’re being ridiculous, let’s go. You’re drunk,” Reese tried to reason, tugging her sister toward the chair to get down. Clary leaned closer to her elder sister, letting her get a whiff of her breath. There was no hint of alcohol or even smoke on her tongue. Reese was reeling with the realization that her sister wasn’t intoxicated.

“Don’t be such a prude, Reese. Do you remember when we were kids and dad came home from work and would put this song on? We would dance around the house—me, you, mom and dad—and we were so fucking happy. We had so much fun; can’t we just have that for one more night? We can go back to ignoring each other tomorrow, but tonight can we just pretend like we have something, anything?”

Reese did remember. Their father would come home around five; his shoulders slumped under the weight of something they were too young to understand. Reese could remember his five o’clock shadow and his half-smile and how he’d try and fake enthusiasm when he saw his daughter’s come running to greet him. He would hug the both of them and ask how their day with mom was, and mom would watch from the kitchen doorway with a smile.

Eventually he would look up at her and his smile would be a little brighter. Reese remembered seeing her father kiss their mother and how Clary would say it was gross. Somehow, Reese hadn’t minded watching the affectionate exchange—she encouraged it. Sometimes when her parents would be in a fight, her dad would try to go to work without giving her mom a kiss and she would yell at him to kiss her goodbye. Reese wondered if he had kissed their mother goodbye before he walked out on them.

After he had given his greetings, Dakota Anthony Wallace would go upstairs and shed his work clothes. Reese had inherited a need for music to background everything in life from her father. His first instinct when he walked into his room, or any room for that matter, was to put on some music. Each day after work he would press play on the stereo in his bedroom (which mom sold after he walked out on them) and Hysteria by Def Leppard would start to play.

It was a tape cassette. His collection of tape cassettes had been donated, given away, or thrown out by their mother. Reese really would have liked to salvage it, but hadn’t realized her mother had been cleansing the house of Dakota Anthony Wallace until it was too late. All that she had saved were some faded photographs and the flannel shirt that had managed to escape her grasp.

The dominant sound in the house was the running water—but Reese could always hear the hint of music in the air. She could always hear music over any other sound surrounding her. By the time Dakota was finished showering, shaving and dressed in his baggy pyjama pants and an old tour shirt (usually Joy Division, Queen or Def Leppard) track four would just be ending.

And then track five would start and he would crank the volume. Clary and Reese would meet him halfway up the stairs. Music always gave their father a renewed sense of energy. He’d take their hands and twirl them down the stairs and lead the way to the kitchen where their mom would be working on dinner.

They’d dance and play air guitar, together in the kitchen as a family. Reese and Clary would hold hands and jump around, whipping their hair like they were rock stars and they’d giggle while their parents laughed. It was a happier time, one of the best memories Reese had of her family as a whole.

With that memory fresh in mind, and her sister’s hand in hers, Reese stood on that table and let the music take control of her senses. Her hair whipped from side to side, blinding her and her hip was bumped by Clary’s until they found a familiar rhythm. It was easy to let go of her inhibitions and let her younger sister coerce her body to move in certain ways.

Camera phones recorded the unlikely event of Reese Wallace dancing seductively on a table to Pour Some Sugar On Me with her drunken sister. John stood at the back and watch in awe, his mouth agape, at the sight of a girl he thought he knew become a totally different person before his very eyes. This free spirited Reese reminded John of the girl he met in freshmen year—funny and spontaneous but still guarded.

The girl on the table top was unguarded and vulnerable to the Monday morning gossip.

By midnight the video was all over YouTube, and Kennedy Brock was far from impressed.