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If Kasi were normal about it, the conversation would be over. The conversation would’ve happened when Allan called in the middle of the night and said “Hey, I need somewhere to stay for a little while,” and Kasi would’ve said “what happened,” right then and there, the way people are supposed to.
But Kasi has never done things the normal way. Which meant that she accepted per into her home without question, helped per move from California to Ohio at the drop of a hat, let per buy expensive groceries and make giant batches of soup for the freezer, all that stuff. Kasi was completely, totally fine with it. Even when a couple days turned into a couple weeks, she was suspiciously relaxed.
Most importantly, if Kasi were normal about it, she wouldn’t have waited until the two of them were at a blaseball game to say, completely casually, “So is it a separation or a divorce?”
“Kasi,” Allan hisses, mortified. “We are at the concession stand.”
“We are in line,” Kasi says breezily. “I’m exercising my rights.”
“What rights?”
“Older sister rights.” She pauses. “You-live-in-my-house rights.”
“So you’re asking in public?” Allan says, half despairing, and then sighs. “Hazel and I tried separation. It didn’t work.”
Kasi makes a sympathetic noise. “So are you—”
“I called you the night after I signed my paperwork for the divorce.”
“Jed?”
“Haven’t talked to him since.”
“What happened to—”
“Don’t,” Allan says, a little helplessly. Per knows what she’s going to ask.
To her credit, Kasi pauses. She actually thinks about it. Allan can see the wheels in her brain turning, trying to come up with the best order to put the words in. At last she says, “So the restaurant fell through?”
“Fell through,” Allan mumbles. “More like it fell apart.”
“What happened?”
Allan doesn’t know where to begin answering that. The two things are inextricably linked in per head. Per was married — a short marriage, only ten months, which stings even more that it fell apart like this. Didn’t even last a year. Per had a wife — had a stepson, not that per has reached out to Jed since the separation. Per lost both of them in one fell swoop.
And as if that weren’t enough, the money for per restaurant fell through at the same time. The restaurant per had done pop-ups of for years, the restaurant that per had sunk endless time and energy into, the restaurant that was supposed to change everything.
“It didn’t work out,” Allan repeats. “And I don’t want to talk about this, so—”
“You live in my house,” Kasi says, a little sharper than before. “I’m asking you about these things in public so that you can pick and choose which guts you want to spill, but I’m still going to ask you, got it?”
Allan glares. “Fine.”
“Thank you,” Kasi replies, sugary-sweet, and then they get to the front of the concession line. “What do you want? I’m paying.”
“I am a professional chef,” per says, because it feels important to say that. “I don’t eat hot dogs.”
“Probably because you don’t make ‘em like they do here,” Kasi answers cheerfully, and turns to the cashier. “Two hot dogs and nachos, please. And two bottles of water.”
“I thought you were vegetarian.”
“Both of them are for you.”
“Kasi,” Allan says, horrified despite perself. “Really?”
“Don’t tell me you’re getting all pretentious now,” Kasi says. She hands her credit card over and turns to arch an eyebrow at per. “You can enjoy hot dogs. Meanwhile I am getting the healthiest thing you can get at a ballgame, assuming you have to get something.”
“Which you don’t have to,” Allan feels compelled to say. “Super do not have to.”
Kasi shrugs. “We’re living in it, right? We haven’t been to one of these games in years.”
Allan only remembers one blaseball game, although per thinks per went to a couple when per was much younger. The two of them grew up in St. Louis, so they probably could’ve gone to more Breath Mints games, but it was the kind of thing they never got around to. Not to mention their parents always said it wasn’t safe. They only went to one game, intentionally chosen because it was in Sun 2 weather, and then the Grand Siesta took blaseball away for decades.
At the time, Allan was twelve years old, and thought that it was ridiculous to worry about safety. Now, though, per’s a little more cautious. There’s an eclipse today, moon teetering at the edge of the sun, ready to slip over the edge as soon as the game begins. Kasi brought special eclipse glasses for them both, because apparently this is her idea of fun.
It’s strange, getting their food, moving through the crowd, finding their seats. It feels like watching a movie. Like watching one of those old documentaries about the Mike Townsend story or whatever. Kasi seems much more comfortable than per does, though.
“Do you do this a lot?” Allan asks as soon as they’re settled.
Kasi shrugs. “When I have the day off work, and when I have the energy.”
“Do you come during eclipses a lot?”
She takes a while to answer. Allan decides to let her take that time, because if she asks more personal questions later then per wants to be able to have the high ground. Per eats one hot dog (with ketchup, disgusting) and is about to start on the second (with mustard, slightly less disgusting-looking) when Kasi says, “It’s not that I want to see somebody die.”
“Mmmmmhm,” Allan says skeptically.
Kasi glares. “I just… the feedback hurts my ears, and the peanuts are hard to watch because it’s just medical emergencies, and the immateria-proof ponchos that they sell don’t actually protect you from it if you’re in the stands, and the glitter hurts my eyes, and there aren’t a lot of options for games I can actually go to.”
“Are you a fan?”
“There’s an Ohio team, I have to be a fan.”
“You absolutely do not.”
“I have hobbies outside of work,” Kasi says sharply. She must be able to tell it’s over the line, because she immediately tacks on, “I can help you find one.”
Allan hasn’t had hobbies since per was in high school. Per went to San Diego when per was nineteen and went to culinary school, washed dishes every night, never stopped trying to make something brand new. There weren’t any Salasaca restaurants outside of Ecuador, and per thought that per could make one. At the very least, per could make an Ecuadorian restaurant.
And then per got older and got trapped as a saucier for a handful of years, and a sous chef for another handful. And then per got engaged and the wedding planning took up all per free time. And then per engagement lasted longer than per marriage. And then per finally, finally had the chance to open a restaurant, to bring Salasaca and Ecuadorian food to people, and then per lost touch with per stepson, and then the money for the restaurant fell through, and then the divorce was finalized, and then—
There wasn’t anything after that.
Per’s saved from having to answer by a sudden roar of the crowd. When per looks down, the teams are walking out. The Worms are taking their positions on the field, and one of the Flowers is at home plate. And when per looks up, the sun is completely gone, just a halo of bluish light above them.
“The umpires look normal,” Allan says. “Aren’t eclipses supposed to—”
“I’ve never seen it happen,” Kasi says quickly. “I don’t really want to, either.”
Allan nods. “Explain the game to me? I don’t know what’s going on.”
It keeps Kasi busy for the first three or four innings, because Allan actually doesn’t know much about blaseball. But Kasi knows the Worms inside and out. She talks about Patchwork’s pitching stats, and she’s on her feet cheering for every score. Her favorite player is Scratch Deleuze, and when she hits a triple that bats in a run, Kasi’s on her feet screaming. Allan is, too, because it’s fun. Not much has been fun lately.
But the game hits a lull eventually, and Kasi turns to per again, that same sharp look in her eye as earlier. “So,” she says, and at least it’s in Spanish this time, a tiny bit of discretion that she’s affording per. “What are you going to do?”
“Stay on your couch forever?” per tries. The joke falls flat, judging by the look on her face. Per sighs. “I can’t go back to San Diego.”
“Because of your ex?”
“Because I can’t have it fall through again. I can’t deal with that.”
“It’s—” Kasi frowns. “Ollanta, I know it’s your dream, and it’s not the same for me. But it’s just a job.”
Allan’s shaking per head before she even finishes. “It was never just a job,” per says, and has to clear per throat to get rid of some of the hoarseness. “It was seventeen years in the making. It was almost two decades of my life, and it’s gone now.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Per lifts a hand and starts ticking off fingers. “Logo design. Menus. Wall decoration. Furniture, chair and tables and a host podium. The fucking plates, Kasi, it’s all in a storage unit that I can’t go back to. I can’t look at it without feeling sick. I had started decorating. I almost had the restaurant, and it fell apart, and I can’t do that again. I just can’t.”
“I didn’t realize you were so far along,” Kasi says, voice small. “I’m so sorry.”
Allan has to look away. “It was never just a job,” per repeats bitterly. “And I can’t think about it without thinking about the divorce, and all the money I spent, and the time I’m never going to get back.”
Kasi takes per hand and twines their fingers together. “I’ll help you,” she promises. “Find what’s next.”
“Thanks,” Allan says, barely a whisper. Per hasn’t been able to think about what’s next for at least a month, for so long now. “I think I just need everything to be new.”
“East coast,” Kasi says without missing a beat. “Let’s get you in New Jersey.”
Per snorts. “Thanks,” per says again, and then the crowd gets to their feet, roaring with a cheer. Per cranes per neck. “What happened?”
“Home run.” Kasi squints at the jumbotron. “Simmons batted in Cerna and Roadhouse.”
“Good hit.”
Kasi doesn’t answer. When per glances over, she’s frowning at per, just slightly.
Per doesn’t ask any questions. Per just waits for the inning to end, and eventually Kasi lets go of per hand. Per should ask about her job, or about her adventures in online dating. But all per can think about is the divorce. The restaurant. Jed. Calling per sister in the middle of the night because per was out of ideas and out of options.
“Hey,” Kasi murmurs. “Think a little quieter. Or a little less. There’s a game going on.”
Allan glances at the field. The inning has changed, and the Worms are batting now. “Do you like it in Ohio?”
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about moving to Ohio.”
“I’m not, just… thinking.”
Kasi gives per a skeptical look. “I like Wapakoneta. You wouldn’t. But Ohio’s not just one place, you know. There are real cities.”
“I know,” Allan sighs. “I just can’t think that far ahead yet.”
“Well, when you have an idea, you should—”
The noise is the loudest thing Allan’s ever heard. That’s what per notices, more than the light or the heat. Per works in kitchens, and kitchens aren’t exactly quiet places, and this is still deafening. Per slams per hands over per ears, and the sound of the incineration still gets through. Next to them, Kasi is unbearably still.
When the light fades and the heat dims enough that Allan can look at the field again, per doesn’t even know what’s different. There’s a smoldering patch of grass that’s already growing over green like nothing happened. None of the umpires look like monsters. Per can’t even tell who did it.
The stadium intercom flips on, and a voice booms out, “Rogue Umpire incinerated Hiroto Cerna!”
Allan waits. Per knows there’s a next part to this sentence. Someone will be a replacement. There is always a replacement.
But nobody is moving. The entire stadium full of fans seems to be holding their breath. The Flowers players are gathering in a knot by the healing patch of grass, grief written across every single movement. The Worms are huddled in the dugout in distress. And nobody else is moving.
“Kasi,” Allan says, barely a breath. She doesn’t react, so per says in Kichwa, “Hey. What do we do?”
“I don’t know,” Kasi answers. Per can’t bring perself to look at her. Per eyes are fixed on the field. “I’ve never — I always thought it would be right away.”
The crowd is coming back to life a little, a gentle murmur throughout the stadium. Probably people having identical conversations, dealing with identical shock.
Allan stares at the field. Someone, eventually, is going to stand up and go down there. Somebody is going to be the courageous soul that rises to the occasion and takes up the bat and glove of Hiroto Cerna. Somebody is going to step forward and be bold and brave and move to Boston, and start over, and meet new people, and—
—and do all the things that Allan wants to do.
Per ears are ringing. Per isn’t brave, or brilliant, or even athletic beyond working on per feet all day in kitchens. Per is a chef by trade. Per isn’t the person that should be stepping up.
But per’s tired. Per needs something new. Per needs something different, and nobody else is moving.
Allan gets to per feet. Per barely has time to hear Kasi whisper “Ollanta?” and then reality twists, a muscle spasm of the universe, and per is standing on the field, half a dozen yards away from the knot of Flowers players.
“Replaced by Allan Kranch,” the intercom booms, and everyone looks at per.
Allan swallows. “Hi.”
Nobody answers at first, and then one man steps forward. “Allan?” he repeats. Per recognizes him: Simmons, the one who just hit the home run.
Allan nods jerkily. “Allan. Ollanta, actually, but everyone just calls me Allan.”
One of the batters for the Worms is cautiously approaching home plate again. The Flowers are still ashen-faced. Simmons sighs, looking exhausted. “Welcome to the team, Allan. Our captain’s in the shadows and it’s an away game, so the welcoming committee isn’t what it always is, but—”
“I don’t need a committee,” Allan says. Per feels like per’s buzzing with a strange nervous energy, a need to start moving, to do something. “We can talk later.”
Simmons nods. The rest of the Flowers have already wandered back to their respective places on the field, but he takes a minute to lean in closer to Allan. “Don’t worry about winning,” he murmurs. “We’ll deal with winning and losing next game. Your goal is to survive.”
Allan should probably be more worried about survival. Per should be worried about reality pulling a sleight-of-hand and dropping per onto the field in a Flowers jersey. Per should be worried about Jed, or Kasi, or… something. But the only thing that per can feel is deep, immeasurable relief.
Per wanders over to where the Flowers were first gathered. The grass where Hiroto Cerna was incinerated is completely indistinguishable from the rest of the grass, but per takes a couple healthy steps back just in case. It feels disrespectful to stand there so soon afterward.
The game goes by lightning-quick. It’s not like working dinner service, where it’s fast because the only point of time is knowing how long it’ll take to cook the food, where “ten minutes” only means how long it’ll be till one thing is done cooking and per can move on to the next. It’s actually slow. Nobody hits any outs towards per, and per hits a single flyout later in the game.
Per spends most of per time trying to understand the rules of per new job. What counts as a ball. What counts as a strike. When a foul ball matters. When to steal a base, and when to not even bother trying. What it looks like to field. Batting stances.
The Flowers lose. They all shake hands before going back to their respective dugouts, and every Worms player mumbles condolences to the Flowers. None of them say anything to Allan except for the last one, who shakes per hand and holds on a bit longer.
“It gets better,” the stranger says. “I was the first replacement on the Worms, and I’m all but one of them now. It’ll get better.”
Allan nods. “Thanks,” per says. “Appreciated.”
“I’m Ji-Eun.” He squeezes per hand. “We’ve got a couple more games together. We can talk about it tomorrow. For now, you should head back to your team.”
“Thank you,” Allan says again, and Ji-Eun smiles, and finally lets go.
When per gets back to the dugout, per isn’t expecting to see Kasi there. Any other person would wait until later, until the team has had the chance to get cleaned up afterwards. But Kasi isn’t any other person, and so she’s waiting, hands on hips, glaring with a ferocity that’s only betrayed by her lower lip wobbling, a tell that she’s had since they were in preschool.
“Kasi,” Allan sighs.
“Stop,” Kasi says in Spanish. The rest of the Flowers look away. Allan wonders how many times they’ve seen this exact conversation play out. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Somebody needed—”
“Somebody, Ollanta, but not you! You don’t play sports, you’re not an athlete, I had to explain to you the difference between strikes swinging and looking less than an hour ago—”
“Uh, sorry to interrupt,” says one of the batters, a young woman with bright purple hair. She’s speaking Spanish, and she doesn’t look nervous at all about interrupting. “But just so you know, some of us understand what you’re saying.”
“Gracias,” says Kasi, and promptly switches to Kichwa. “I know that you’ve been having a hard time but you need to find someone and tell them that you’re quitting.”
“You can’t quit,” Allan says exasperatedly. “This is a lifetime commitment.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Kasi’s eyes sharpen, diamond-hard. “How long are you expecting your lifetime to be? Because I don’t know if you noticed, but you’ve just signed that decision over to somebody else.”
“At least I have something to do.”
“You had something—”
“No, I didn’t,” Allan shouts. Per doesn’t mean to yell, but the words burst out of per, plaintive and angry and full of grief. “I didn’t have anything to do, Inkasisa. I’m divorced, I don’t talk to my stepson, I don’t have a job, I broke my lease, I have nothing. Except now I have this, and it’s terrifying but it’s mine, and I don’t want to just sit in your house and wonder what’s next anymore. I can’t live like that.”
“But can’t you live?” She takes a couple steps forward until they’re close enough to touch. Per is taller than her, just by a couple inches, and per looks down to meet her eyes. She lifts a hand to cup the back of per head. “Allan, I don’t want you to die like this.”
“I don’t want to die like this,” Allan answers, rough with honesty. “But I didn’t want to live like that either.”
Kasi nods and steps forward to hug per, arms winding tight around per waist. Allan grabs onto her shoulders and squeezes and tries to breathe. They haven’t hugged like this in a long time. Before the call, the two of them didn’t talk much. It feels like a shame now.
“I haven’t gotten yelled at in Spanish and Kichwa since we moved out of Mom and Dad’s place,” per mumbles at last, still in Kichwa. It feels too personal to share with the rest of the team, at least for now.
“Pull this shit again and it’ll happen again,” Kasi answers.
Allan laughs and pulls away. Per’s not surprised to see tears on Kasi’s cheeks, but she smiles back anyways.
“Done?” asks Simmons, just this side of curt. Allan nods, so Simmons turns to another player. “Nic?”
“Okay,” Nic sighs. “First of all, let’s take a second to acknowledge how shitty we all feel.”
Everyone goes quiet for a second, most of them looking down. Kasi stays, hands wrapped tight around Allan’s arm. Nic lets the moment pass and then continues, “We’ve got rooms in the Worms’ away team dorms. I doubt anyone feels like cooking, so I can place an order, and—”
“I can cook,” Allan says before per’s done properly thinking about it. Every eye turns to per, and per wants to shrivel away. If it weren’t for Kasi’s hands on per elbow, per would probably try to melt into the ground, but she’s enough to keep per anchored. “I’m a chef — I mean, I was a chef. But if you want something better than pizza—”
“Please,” the woman with the purple hair says fervently. “I’ll help. I’m not good in the kitchen, but I need something to do.”
A couple other people murmur agreement — Kasi among them, Allan notes. Per glances at Nic. “Do you have a kitchen in the dorms?”
“All yours,” Nic says. “What was your name again? Kranch?”
“About that—” Kasi glares at per. “You still have her last name?”
“I haven’t had the time to change it,” Allan protests. Per takes a deep breath and looks at Nic. “My name is Ollanta Carrasco Yarlequé. Yes, there’s a Kranch at the end, but it’s my ex’s name. And you can all just call me Allan.”
“Good to meet you, Allan,” says the woman with the purple hair. “I’m Dunn. What do you cook?”
“I’ve worked in seafood restaurants, and French restaurants, but—”
Kasi coughs pointedly. “She didn’t ask where you worked, Al.”
Allan rolls per eyes. “This is my sister, Inkasisa,” per says. “And she’s right. Our parents are from Ecuador. Mom’s Salasaca, and Dad’s Ecuadorian.”
“Thank god, real food,” Dunn mumbles. Allan laughs in surprise. “Nic, this meeting is terrible, can we all just go deal with this our own ways?”
Nic looks like he wants to protest, but he deflates. “We’ll do real meeting stuff tomorrow,” he says. “Allan, no offense meant if I lock myself in my room instead of eating.”
“I’ll probably cook for you another time,” Allan says. “It’s kind of what I do.”
“Thought you said you didn’t do anything,” Kasi mumbles in Kichwa, and avoids per glare.
Nic just nods. “Thanks,” he says, and that’s enough of a signal for most of the Flowers to filter into the locker room, leaving the conversation once and for all.
In the end it’s Dunn, a hijabi woman who introduces hirself as Salih, and a man that Allan recognizes as Jacob Haynes (because Kasi had pointed him out as one of her favorite players, and she’s vibrating with the barely-constrained energy of not asking him for an autograph) that stay behind. Dunn looks at per expectantly. “So?”
“Thank you,” Allan says awkwardly. “I don’t really… I’m sure it’s hard.”
“You’re part of the team,” Salih says. Ze’s quiet but sure of hirself in a way that Allan appreciates. “And that starts now. We’re looking forward to getting to know you, Allan.”
“And to eating everything you cook,” Dunn finishes. It feels a little bleak, but she smiles anyways, and everything in Allan’s life has been bleak for months on end so it’s easy to smile back. “Let’s get changed into civvies, and we can get started.”
“I’ll make a grocery run,” Kasi offers. “I might not get super fancy chef things, but I know what you cook, and I know what our parents cooked.”
“And your old clothes will be in a locker,” Salih adds.
“And we’ll get you settled,” Jacob finishes. He sounds exhausted, more than the rest. Kasi said he was one of the only people who had been there since the beginning, and Allan can tell. “We’ll get you there.”
“Great,” Allan says. “Thank you.” Per’s not sure which of them per’s talking to, and per can just imagine per phone blowing up. Maybe Hazel and Jed will have called. Maybe not. Probably not.
Kasi lets go of per arm. Allan nods at her and goes into the locker room. It should be the end of the world, cataclysmic, terrifying, but it doesn’t feel like any of those things. It just feels like the next thing to do.