Read Online Out of My League by Dirk Hayhurst - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dirk Hayhurst
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your station before you shoot your mouth off.” I slung my pack off my shoulder and reached for the door handle. “Besides, I’m not ducking out on a chance to improve. I struck you out nine times tonight on winter fastballs and horseshit changeups. Facing you isn’t going to make me any better. Hell, it might make me worse.” We stared at each other in silence for a moment. “Now, I gotta go see about a girl. Don’t let the tee strike you out while I’m gone,” I said, nodding to a bucket of balls and a batting tee sitting in the corner. Then I opened the door and walked out. Bonnie’s concert was starting soon, and I was already running behind.
Chapter Nine
The extra arguing—and stopping to get flowers—made me late for the start of Bonnie’s Share Day concert. I had to sneak in to the event, sitting just before the first act finished. Ironically, after all that effort to arrive on time, the music turned out to be terrible. The rhythm was rarely kept and the melody was almost nonexistent. The drummer banged off-tempo while some of the other performers couldn’t play their instruments at all. Vocalists frequently lost harmony; in fact, some of them forgot the lyrics to songs altogether. And yet, all things considered, it was easily the most moving, most beautiful musical performance I had ever seen.
The audience was composed of parents dressed as if their children were performing live at Carnegie Hall, not some local church stage. Some held cameras, some flowers, some the hands of other children to keep them from wandering off to create commotions of their own.
“Abigail,” called Bonnie, standing center stage, “it’s your turn to share.”
All the performers were spectators in the audience when they weren’t themselves performing. Abigail, a teenage firecracker with frizzy dark hair, did not spectate well. She talked through most of the performances, shouting out what she saw or felt. As rude as it was, it did not bother anyone in the audience; in fact, in its own way it was charming. Abigail was autistic, as were almost all of the performers in attendance.
Bonnie was a music therapist. I could try explaining it but I wouldn’t do it justice. Some say she’s a music teacher, some say she’s a special needs assistant, and some say she’s a miracle worker. As the show went along, parent after parent of these special children broke down in tears of awe as their sons and daughters went onstage to try singing, playing instruments, and dancing. When most of these kids came to Bonnie, they could barely speak or articulate feelings of any kind.
Abigail was escorted by her mother to the steps of the stage where Bonnie met them. Bonnie took Abigail’s hand and brought her onstage asking, “Are you excited?” though the answer was quite obvious. Abigail flapped and flailed her hands like she was pleasantly on fire with emotion; then she nodded over and over and stomped her feet.
“Tell everyone what you are going to be performing tonight, Abigail.”
Abigail strangled the mic, pressing it up to her face until you could hear her breathing through the assembly hall speakers. “High School Musical,” she said. The audience laughed at this. Abigail might be autistic, but she was still a teenage girl.
Bonnie played the score of Abigail’s song on the piano and accompanied on vocals, but Abigail, as was the case with the rest of the children, was the star of the show. Abigail wore a radiant dress, which swished like a streamer as she twirled in the excitement of being a star. Sometimes she twirled so hard she flashed the audience with the tights she wore underneath, an event that left Abigail’s mother with her hands on her head. When the music finished, Abigail clapped for herself then bowed so sharply the headband that corralled her wild mop of hair flew off, allowing the brown, frizzy mane to engulf her face. Within seconds Abigail was met with a standing ovation.
While Abigail and the rest of
Chapter Nine
The extra arguing—and stopping to get flowers—made me late for the start of Bonnie’s Share Day concert. I had to sneak in to the event, sitting just before the first act finished. Ironically, after all that effort to arrive on time, the music turned out to be terrible. The rhythm was rarely kept and the melody was almost nonexistent. The drummer banged off-tempo while some of the other performers couldn’t play their instruments at all. Vocalists frequently lost harmony; in fact, some of them forgot the lyrics to songs altogether. And yet, all things considered, it was easily the most moving, most beautiful musical performance I had ever seen.
The audience was composed of parents dressed as if their children were performing live at Carnegie Hall, not some local church stage. Some held cameras, some flowers, some the hands of other children to keep them from wandering off to create commotions of their own.
“Abigail,” called Bonnie, standing center stage, “it’s your turn to share.”
All the performers were spectators in the audience when they weren’t themselves performing. Abigail, a teenage firecracker with frizzy dark hair, did not spectate well. She talked through most of the performances, shouting out what she saw or felt. As rude as it was, it did not bother anyone in the audience; in fact, in its own way it was charming. Abigail was autistic, as were almost all of the performers in attendance.
Bonnie was a music therapist. I could try explaining it but I wouldn’t do it justice. Some say she’s a music teacher, some say she’s a special needs assistant, and some say she’s a miracle worker. As the show went along, parent after parent of these special children broke down in tears of awe as their sons and daughters went onstage to try singing, playing instruments, and dancing. When most of these kids came to Bonnie, they could barely speak or articulate feelings of any kind.
Abigail was escorted by her mother to the steps of the stage where Bonnie met them. Bonnie took Abigail’s hand and brought her onstage asking, “Are you excited?” though the answer was quite obvious. Abigail flapped and flailed her hands like she was pleasantly on fire with emotion; then she nodded over and over and stomped her feet.
“Tell everyone what you are going to be performing tonight, Abigail.”
Abigail strangled the mic, pressing it up to her face until you could hear her breathing through the assembly hall speakers. “High School Musical,” she said. The audience laughed at this. Abigail might be autistic, but she was still a teenage girl.
Bonnie played the score of Abigail’s song on the piano and accompanied on vocals, but Abigail, as was the case with the rest of the children, was the star of the show. Abigail wore a radiant dress, which swished like a streamer as she twirled in the excitement of being a star. Sometimes she twirled so hard she flashed the audience with the tights she wore underneath, an event that left Abigail’s mother with her hands on her head. When the music finished, Abigail clapped for herself then bowed so sharply the headband that corralled her wild mop of hair flew off, allowing the brown, frizzy mane to engulf her face. Within seconds Abigail was met with a standing ovation.
While Abigail and the rest of
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