Page 44 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

AUDREY

“ A re you ready?” I ask once I’ve turned off my car, turning to Marty.

She’s on the passenger seat, looking out at her school with a serious mien. Like instead of participating in a school event, she’s psyching herself up to fulfill her obligation of jury duty.

The fact that there’s no response from her is also an answer. I prod, “Nervous?”

“Yes,” she admits, frowning even more, her eyebrows like thunder and her mouth shaped like downturned u. “I told you they don’t like me. What if they make fun of my clothes in front of their very real moms?”

My shoulders droop a little. It’s only been one week into the new school year, and Marty has met the rest of her classmates who weren’t at summer school.

Of course, the mean kids started treating her as if she was lazy or not smart—which are normally the reasons why kids land in summer school.

On top of that, there’s apparently one specific girl who declared to the class that Marty wearing so much black was weird.

Kiddo has had a really crappy time. It’s almost criminal that the mother and daughter tea party is so soon. I’d have loved for Marty to have more time to find her rightful place in the classroom—as the brightest bulb wrapped in black than anyone’s ever seen.

However, she twists toward me with worried and watery eyes. “Pink was a bad idea. This whole thing was a bad idea. Can we go home? Get some ice cream? Not dance around this time?”

I can’t help it, even when she’s being a melodramatic ten-year-old, she makes me smile. Reaching over, I brush a wavy curl off her forehead. “Martina Jane Machado Smith.” I use her full name but with a gentle tone. “I wish I had been like you when I was your age.”

Her jaw drops.

“I wasn’t a brave kid. I was too used to being ignored to even try standing up for myself.

My brother was the only person who had my back, but he wasn’t always around because he was older.

I only learned how to sharpen my claws when he was gone, and I was nearly at college.

But you’re stronger than I was. You have a dad who would break the moon if you wanted a piece of it.

And I may not be your real mom, but I’m here to put on the best performance of my life as if I was. ”

Marty’s chin starts to tremble.

“Oh, sweetie. I didn’t mean to?—”

Then she tackles me. I land against the door with her bony arms squeezing the life out of me. “Thank you, thank you,” she repeats in my ear over and over.

Chuckling, I hug her back. “You’re absolutely welcome. It’s an honor to be your fake mom today.”

She pulls away, offering me a quite shy smile for the context. But I never figure out the reason behind it because she immediately says, “Let’s do this.” And then she jumps out of the car with renewed energy.

I scramble to match it. After clumsily gathering my things, I step out of the car and find her right outside, waiting with the stance of a warrior.

Chin high, watchful eyes, back straight.

I copy her because I’m not about to ruin her highly anticipated day by acting like I don’t belong, even though I sure as shit have no idea how to act like a mother. My own was never the best role model.

Marty nods at me. I return the gesture. We reach for the pockets of our gorgeous, thrifted dresses, and pull out our matching sunglasses. I don’t normally need them, but we’re going for full drama here.

I offer my hand to her and repeat, “Let’s do it.”

We walk calmly across the parking lot, Marty in her powder pink kitten heels, me in killer stilettos that are going to drastically reduce the life expectancy of my ankles.

That time we went thrifting together with her dad, we found matching dresses to show off.

They’re apron shaped with ruffly sleeves, tight bodices, and the flowiest skirts that have ever flown.

The tone is just a step up from a pastel pink, something lively and delicate that no one who knows us would ever associate with Marty and I.

But we’re here to put on a show, and there were no better outfits for it than this.

Some heads turn to us as we join the stream of people walking into the school. The teacher who checks us in gives me a funny look, like she’s never seen a large chested woman in a tight dress before. Or as if I had a responsibility to hide them so that no one has to notice them.

Joke’s on her, I like to dress this way because I have no hips to speak of. I feel more feminine this way, and in turn more confident. One day Marty will also find her own way of feeling like a million bucks, and if I could, I’d make it so she never develops any insecurities in the first place.

I grab onto her smaller hand with both of mine, just trying to imbue every last bit of warmth in my chest into her.

Gah, I love this kid. It’s gonna suck so bad when we have to part ways.

The gym has been converted into a DIY country club with balloons tied into the shapes of flowers as table centerpieces.

They’re covered in the cheap, paper tablecloths but in a cute lavender color that Rose would really approve of.

There’s a big speaker playing some violin music, and actual tea is being poured into actual cups.

Most of the plastic chairs are already taken by moms and their daughters, but even then it’s easy to tell what the power dynamic is. There’s a table in the middle with three very chirpy pairs, and every so often, girls and women from other tables turn to watch them and whisper.

“Are those the mean girls?” I ask Marty, casually pointing at the table.

She sighs. “Yeah. Those are Vivian, Reina, and Kelli with their moms.”

“Perfect, let’s go sit with them.”

“What?” she hisses, grabbing my arm with both hands to stop me. “We can’t do that, I’ll be miserable.”

“Or,” I pronounce the word with much gusto, almost succeeding in rolling the r. “We make them miserable.”

She blinks up at me.

I blink down at her.

Slowly, as if we shared the same braincell, we both smile at each other. And it’s not the sweet kind, either.

We march over, our clicky-clacky shoes catching some eyes here and there, until one of the mean girls spots us. She nudges her mean girl friend, and their attention on us has the whole table zeroing in as we join.

I pull up the chair for Marty and she takes it with the grace of a princess. Following in her example, I join in next to her and only now do I remove my sunglasses. From the corner of my eye, Marty does the same.

“Um…” One of the mean girls does that annoying head tilt and the up and down scanning. It’s like someone teaches every mean girl generation to do the same. “Why are you sitting with us?”

“Why wouldn’t we? Clearly this is the table to be at,” I respond, half annoyed and half glad that my rich brat voice has decided to wake up after years of being dormant.

Deep down, I knew that this is what it would take, and I’m not proud of myself for it. But I’ll use it if it helps my kiddo.

One of the moms doesn’t catch the bait. It’s there in the way her eyebrows arch and her nose turns slightly up. “Excuse me, but this is a mother and daughter event only, and you are clearly not that child’s mother.”

Marty tenses, and I place my hand on her arm to calm her.

I delicately touch my chest with my free hand. “Goodness, that is offensive. Can’t you see the uncanny resemblance between us?” Here I motion at our outfits, carbon copies of each other in different sizes.

The bat scoffs. “Please, you can’t prove that you’re related with your dresses. You couldn’t look more different from each other.”

Straight for Marty’s jugular, I see. But years of enduring rich bullies for classmates trained me precisely for this moment—when it’s not my own feelings the ones that matter, but those of the innocent girl in my charge.

Theatrically, I look at my left hand where the rings gleam like I polished them on purpose. “I guess anyone can wear wedding rings, but should I show you the marriage documents between Marty’s father and I? Would that please you?”

Ohh, that’s my best sarcasm work to date. Concentrated saccharine drips from my words, but the sugar is laced with venom.

Wait, is this why Cade Starr has always called me sugar ?

The adult bully snaps her mouth shut so hard, I’m sure her teeth hurt. Meanwhile, the other woman next to her chimes in, “Is that so? I’m also not Reina’s biological mom.” She leans forward to cover the side of her mouth that Reina would see, and whispers, “She passed during the birth.”

Somehow I hold back from a big reaction to that plot twist. But next to me, Marty gasps. “Really?”

The Reina girl looks away, her high ponytail shifting until it covers her face. Is that embarrassment I see painting her cheeks?

“Lisa, I’ve told you many times that we don’t talk about that,” the head honcho adult says sharply.

The third adult finally speaks, and her natural voice could break glass. “Right, it’s for the good of the children. It’s not good to remind them of such things. They’re too delicate.”

I, a grown little shit, pick up one of the teapots and pour some tea into Marty’s cup, and then on mine. It actually smells pretty good, like something sweet and woodsy, and like this and the little cakes are the biggest splurge of the event.

“Hmm.” My hum returns their attention to me. “Is that why your children have been making my daughter’s life miserable, because they’re so delicate and sheltered that they don’t know right from wrong?”

It’s almost like someone pressed the mute button on the auditorium.

I channel my best impression of my badass, reckless brother as I turn to Marty in the most unaffected way. “Sugar?”

“Yes, please.” Somehow, Marty copies my uppity manners as she asks, “Strawberry shortcake or apple tart?”

“Apple tart, please,” I respond in kind.

Then someone gasps in outrage. I brace for a fist fight or hair pulling, when actually, the head honcho mom turns sharply to her daughter. “Vivian, you did what ?”

I tilt my head.

This isn’t a plot twist I saw coming.