Batter Up – First Base

“Ann, could you please go and tell Paul it’s time for dinner?”

“He’s at baseball practice, isn’t he, Mom?” I replied. My brother was the star second baseman on our high school team even though he was only in his junior year. Just a year behind him, in my sophomore year, it was impossible to avoid the stories of what a sports phenom my brother was. In fact, we were a baseball family; Dad had been pretty good at college, Mom played for a while for her corporate fast pitch team, and I had my own chops.

“No, that was yesterday. He’s over at the Cartwright’s house, mowing their lawn.”

“Won’t he come home when he’s hungry?” I listened for a moment and couldn’t hear a lawn mower across the street and didn’t want the distraction of an errand.

“No, he’s probably too focused on what he’s doing. Please just go and tell him it’s dinner time.”

And with that I put down the book I’d been reading and headed across the street. I couldn’t see Paul in the Cartwrights’ front yard so wandered around behind their house, noticing both cars were gone, but still no Paul. I glanced into the garage and saw the mower stored away, checked the lawn and saw that it was freshly cut. A mystery: the Case Of The Missing Brother.

Walking again around the house, this time on the other side, I suddenly noticed movement through a basement window. I crouched down and…mystery solved. There were Paul and Brittany Cartwright. Mom, as usual, was right: my brother was pretty focused on what he was doing. On the couch. Lying down. Heavily…ummm… “engaged”. I moved away from the window so as not to give myself away and watched, amused. I shouldn’t have been surprised; Paul was a good looking, very fit guy – at least that’s what all my female classmates and friends said. And Brittany was pretty in a girl next door way (even though she lived across the street) and was, well, very well developed, as they say, for her sixteen years. Curves in all the right spots and I know a couple of D-cups when I see them even though with my C-cups I wasn’t envious. At least not on that score. I was happy with my body and all, including my breasts, its accessories. Fewer curves than Brittany, for sure, but, I thought, a lot more athletic.

There was lots of kissing; I could see that was the case. And as I watched I could see Paul’s hands on the move, trying to get somewhere. But Brittany’s hands were just as active, pushing Paul’s hands back to more acceptable places. More acceptable to Brittany, obviously. But I could see from his persistence that Paul was still in the game, still swinging for the fences. I smiled to myself at the quiet scrimmage that was happening on the Cartwrights’ basement couch. But, despite having no envy of Brittany’s body, I felt just the slightest jealousy at the kisses themselves. My shameful confession: I’d never really been kissed.

I know, I know; sophomore and never been kissed? What gives? I’ve already established that physically I was, I thought, attractive. At 5’ 4” and 120 pounds I was in excellent physical shape and, I knew, was reasonably attractive. I’d been on dates, yes, but most of my social life had been in groups and our small crowd didn’t really go in for a lot of public necking. Mainly we were friends; male and female, it didn’t make a lot of difference to us. And my childhood had been spent in sports, often playing with Paul and his friends. I was a good enough baseball player that I was often chosen to play on one or another of their pickup teams. And I made our high school girls’ baseball and soccer teams with no real trouble. As a result, I surmised, I was seen as the tomboy sister of Paul, more a teammate than a potential date of love interest. So, yes, I was jealous.

Jealous? Did I say jealous? Maybe envious is a better fit. I wanted to be kissed, envious of Brittany for getting all the kisses my brother seemed to want to give. I hadn’t really thought much about it, to be honest; there was no particular boy in our school or in our particular social circle that I was hot for. My social milieu at that time almost seemed kind of gender neutral, although, naturally, some of our group occasionally paired off for dates but we all seemed by common consent not to take romantic relationships very far for fear of “spoiling the vibe.” We knew that if a relationship ended badly one or maybe both of the kids involved would have to find another social circle. A fate worst than death if you’re a high school sophomore.

I knew dinner was waiting and I knew Paul wasn’t going to get any further than he had, so I went around to the basement door and knocked on it until, face flushed and shirt askew, Paul answered. I played the innocent and didn’t let on. “Dinner’s ready and Mom’s waiting,” I said, and avoided any glances into the basement or suggestion I’d seen what he and Brittany had been up to.

“Ummm, ok, tell Mom I’ll be right there.” I had to work hard to avoid giving a smirk and simply turned on my heel and headed home. Paul wasn’t long behind, arriving for dinner with shirt rearranged and blush gone. As we sat down to our meal I could just barely see from the corner of my eye Paul glancing my way, wondering what I’d seen. I was careful to give nothing away but smiled to myself. Paul and I were so close in age, despite our being in two different grades, born less than a year apart, that we often occupied the same family or social niches; we had friends in common and as children had progressed through stages almost together, sharing or fighting over toys, games, or in more recent years, the TV control. As a consequence one or the other of us was always looking for something, anything, that could give advantage. And as I ate my dinner I realized I held the high ground for once. But how to use that rare high ground advantage? My mind began to form the vague outlines of a plan. Parents heading out for the evening…alone with my brother who is, duh, a guy…a guy who might still be feeling a little, well, frisky after his across-the-street adventure…and finally, a girl who really, really wanted to know what it felt like to kiss and be kissed.

It was a Friday evening so that Paul and I were relieved of our normal homework requirements. Mom and Dad reminded us that they were off for the evening to friends for drinks. I didn’t need reminding; I had remembered that during dinner as my plan began to form. Parents gone, for once Paul and I didn’t argue over the TV. Some families celebrate their religion Sunday morning in church. Our family’s religion was baseball, and our church was any televised game, so my brother and I were both ready to watch the weekly Friday night baseball game. Baseball is rife with traditions and routines, and our routine included chips, popcorn, and soda all at the ready as we settled on the couch in the den for the evening.