The Girl Who Threw Butterflies by Mick Cochrane Read Free Book Online

getting a quick jump at a third. Morales moved among the groups, a bat in his hand, which he sometimes used as a pointer, performinglittle demonstrations, making small corrections and adjustments in technique, keeping up a constant stream of encouraging patter. There were quick switches, balls flying, very little standing around, no time to chat. Molly did sneak a peek at her shin and found a nasty-looking knot about the size of a golf ball. She kept Lloyd Coleman on her radar. She raised her personal alert level to red. She didn't intend to get caught by another sneak attack.
    Later Coach V threw batting practice. He had a short no-windup delivery: one quick step, and the ball came in straight and true, middle of the plate, half speed. He worked at a constant rate, regular as a metronome. Step and throw, step and throw, step and throw. Molly had never seen any-thing like it. He was a pitching machine with a mustache.
    When it was Molly's turn, she stepped in and performed respectably. She had a short, compact swing from softball and usually made contact. She didn't try to kill it. She whiffed on the first pitch but connected on all the rest—sent two ground balls to the right side, a decent line drive over third base, and, on her final swing, a line drive up the middle. V gave her a little nod, a sign, Molly wanted to think, of approval.
    Near the end of practice, Morales called Molly over to the right-field line, where he was working with pitchers and catchers. She jogged over, and he handed her a ball. “You loose?” he asked.
    Molly nodded. The ball felt good in her hand. She stepped onto the pitcher's rubber positioned in the grass and looked in at the masked boy who was squatting behind amakeshift home plate. She couldn't tell who it was, not Lonnie, but whoever it was, he was set up solidly and giving her a good target.
    “Let's see what you got,” Morales said.
    It was an audition, no doubt about it. What did she have? Molly had no idea, really. She took a deep breath and thought about throwing in her own backyard, all those games of catch with her dad, all those imaginary games. It was no different, really. The ball was the same.
    She wound up and delivered a strike, which landed with a satisfying pop in the catcher's glove. The catcher, whoever it was, held it there for a moment. Was he surprised? Molly threw a few more pitches, not rockets by any means, but all of them in or near the strike zone with decent velocity. She felt good, smooth; she could do this.
    “Okay,” Morales said. “Show it to me.” Molly looked at him. “You know,” he said. “The floater. The mothball.”
    Molly couldn't help but smile. Celia's Swedish crackers and her big mouth. She gripped the ball with her fingertips, just the way her dad had taught her years ago, just as she always had. She wound up and let it go. Molly loved watching one of her knuckleballs in flight, but what she felt was not self-admiration at all, just simple curiosity.
What is this one going to do?
This ball started to come in high but then made a sudden swoop, a birdlike dive. It skittered past the catcher, who remained fixed in his squat, looking a little stunned. He got up and chased it then, and Molly glanced at Morales. He'd turned toward the infield diamond, where Coach V was still throwing BP.
    “V!” he hollered. “Over here. Come have a look at this.”
    While Molly's catcher chased down the ball and returned it to her, Coach V ambled over and positioned himself next to Morales, both of them with their arms folded identically across their chests, waiting for her.
    Molly felt beyond nervous now. “In the zone” is how she'd heard professional athletes describe that feeling of being right, in synch, and that's how she felt. She gripped the ball, reared back, and let another knuckler go, this one coming in waist high and at the very end making a hop, a little aerial hiccup, just enough to throw the catcher off—the ball glanced off the side of