Copyright © 1995, 2000 by Jane A. Thompson
ISBN 1-58721-282-X
To My First Cheerleader, Jean Bryant, With Deepest Appreciation
During recess, at softball practice today, Valerie Thomas said to me, "Paige Ricco, if you don't learn how to hit, I'm kicking you off the team."
“You just try it and see how many games you win," I smirked. The smirk was a fake because I started to get those wrinkles in my stomach.
Valerie is the most perfect person in our whole sixth grade. Not only is she the captain of our team, but she has tons of brains and clothes. She could model for Bloomingdales Catalog, and she has hated my guts since kindergarten.
She's right, of course. I can't hit. When it's my turn at bat, everyone moves up about a mile and yells, "Easy out, easy out!" The only thing I can do better than anyone else is pitch.
"Nobody can get kicked off," Gerry said. "It's a school rule. Anyway, just who would you get to replace Paige? She's the best pitcher in the league."
Gerry is my best friend. Everybody calls her Red Rhino because of her red hair and size. She's the biggest person in the sixth grade and our powerhouse hitter.
Valerie marched over and faced Molly. "Well," she sweetened her voice. "Molly, you and I could take turns. You're almost as good as me."
“Oh, no, no way; not me." Molly shook her head. "I clutch up."
"I think Valerie should do it," said Ava who hangs around Valerie like a leech. "Val's a good pitcher AND a good hitter. We lost three games because Paige struck out every time."
"So what?" Gerry said. "We won eight games because Paige struck out so many girls on the other team."
"That's not the reason," Ava said, moving closer to Valerie. "We win because of our hitting."
“That's stupid," Gerry said, stepping in front of me like a bodyguard. "Any dope knows you need both good hitters AND good pitchers."
"Well, we're never going to hold on to first place if spaghetti arms here keeps striking out," Valerie said.
"I'm going to get a designated hitter for you." She stared straight at me.
"We can't have designated hitters. Everybody on the team gets a turn at bat. It's a school rule," said Molly.
Valerie stuck her hands on her hips. "We'll just see about that."
By the time the bell rang, we had divided into sides. Half the team stood behind Gerry and me; the other half behind Valerie and Ava.
Only Denise and the subs stayed neutral. Denise is always in the middle; she even plays second base.
We were still arguing as we filed into our seats. I sit in the last seat in the second row. Gerry sits next to me in the first row. Only the tallest kids get the last seats. I'm the tallest, skinniest in the class. Valerie says I look like one of those stick people with the duck feet that little kids draw.
The back seats are great for playing movie star initials and passing notes.
"Okay, okay. I'm only going to say it once this morning." Mr. Archer said, then shouted. "SETTLE DOWN." He dropped the dictionary on his desk. That means we better shut up or we all stay after school and write the capitals of every state in the
U.S. Yuk.
Still, I like him. One thing he isn't and that's petty. He doesn't play favorites, and he doesn't take off points for smudges on your paper either. He says, "As long as it's accurate, and you understand."
I especially like him because he lets me dot my “i's” with circles. Last year Ms. Willers marked down all my papers because I did that. My answers were right, too, but she refused to give me A's because of those tiny circles. I had wrinkles in my stomach for a whole year.
"Now," Mr. Archer was saying. "Let's turn to page thirty four in our history books." Valerie raised her hand. "Yes, Valerie?"
"Well, Mr. Archer." It makes me sick the way her voice turns to syrup when she talks to adults. "We have a game after school Monday, but we should have a meeting first to discuss the rules."
Gerry poked me on the arm. I tried to think of something to say to pull Mr. Archer off the question, but my mind was frozen stiff.
"What rules?" Mr. Archer asked.
Before Valerie could speak, Gerry blurted out, "Mr. Archer, you said if we didn't finish history today, we'd have homework for the weekend." Everybody groaned at that.
Valerie turned around and glared at us. I gave her one of those blank, doll-eyed looks. Gerry stuck her fingers up her nose and crossed her eyes.
"All right then, let's get to it." Mr. Archer said. He turned to Valerie. "We'll talk about that later."
I felt my bones sag with relief. It was just like Mr. Archer to let us use our own judgement with the rules. He coaches both boys and girls teams, but whenever he spends recess with us he fidgets. Most of the time he's craning his neck, checking the boy's team on the other side of the schoolyard.
Mom says, "That isn't fair."
I try to explain that I don't care. "Mr. Archer says we are mature enough to coach ourselves. We're number one in the league, and the boys are almost in the cellar. He says they need him more."
“Mm-mm." Mom curls her mouth. "Getting penalized for being mature. Sounds like a cop-out to me."
I was dreaming about hiring a pro to give me secret batting lessons when Gerry shoved a note under my book. It said, M.D. Immediately, I wrote next to it Matt Damon, and below, W. R. for Winona Ryder. I checked Mr. Archer's location and handed the note back.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Gerry hesitate. Finally she handed it back to me with a new set of initials: H.F. I started to write Harrison Ford when Mr. Archer's voice shot into my ears. "Paige, why don't you explain it to us?"
All the blood pooled up in my legs. My hands got sweaty. Automatically, I said, "I don't know."
"You don't know the difference between a democracy and a dictatorship?"
Well, I did know, but I couldn't admit it after he had just asked me again because then he'd know I hadn't been listening.
"I don't know," I repeated, feeling like I had a “Stupid” sign stuck into my scalp.
Mr. Archer stared at me, then shook his head. "Okay, who can tell Paige the difference between a democracy and a dictatorship? Yes, Valerie?"
Valerie sits in the first seat in the first row. She stood up and turned around. Her curls bounced on her head like little gold springs. I notice her hair because mine is muddy brown and straight.
As usual she spoke in her syrupy, soprano voice that makes my teeth ache. "A dictatorship is when one person makes the rules. A democracy is where the majority of people vote like if some of the kids on our softball team wanted to change a rule, they could vote on it. If the majority voted yes, it would change."
I looked at Gerry. She was staring, open mouthed, at Valerie
"Well," Mr. Archer nodded slowly. "Something like that, sure. Can anybody add to that? Yes, Molly."
Molly has a low, soft voice. She never gets mad, and she's always telling riddles like, "What's all over the house? The roof," or "What's the best way to catch a squirrel? Climb a tree and act like a nut." Molly is as smart as Valerie. She's just quiet about it.
"My Dad says that in order for the rule to pass you need to have a...," Molly paused, "a quorum or something like that."
"You're right, Molly." Mr. Archer glanced at the clock just as the bell rang. "I'll have to explain all that tomorrow."
After we had shoved our books into our desks, we filed out to our lockers.
In the hallway, Valerie marched up to me. "You're lucky the Red Rhino fights all your battles," she said, in her normal bitchy voice. "Don't think I didn't catch on to the homework for the weekend crap."
I shoved my arms into my windbreaker. "Oh, sure, and don't think I didn't catch on to that stupid example of democracy you gave. And I fight my own battles. I don't need Gerry."
She slammed her locker door. "Ha! You couldn't fight a fourth grader. Your bones would crack off." She threw her head back and laughed.
I gritted my teeth. "You just try me," I said, staring down at her. My breathing had speeded up. "Go ahead, try it."
"Hey, c'mon, Valerie, let's get in line." Ava came up behind me.
Valerie pulled a comb out of her pocket, and ran it through her curls. "Guess what, Ava? Paige said she could beat me up."
Ava looked at me like she was measuring me. "Why don't you pick on somebody your own size, Paige?"
"Yeah," said Valerie. "Ava's about your size except that her bones don't poke out. I bet you still couldn't beat her up, could she, Ava?"
I looked at Ava, and the small of my back started to ache. She probably could punch me straight out of the world. She was shorter, but heavier.
It must have shown in my face because Valerie sneered, "See, you're scared."
"I'll meet you on the boy's softball field," I said, and stomped away. Stomping made me feel brave.
I also figured the boy's field was safer. It was more open. Our field had too many trees. In fact our first and third bases were maple trees, and I didn't want to get slammed into any tree.
"What's up?" Gerry whispered, when I had slipped into line beside her.
"Nothing," I said.
We walked down the hall steps and outside. My back was really on fire now, and my ears were flooded with noises.
Then Pete Salafia's voice suddenly cut through. "Hey, everybody, fight, fight. There's going to be a fight."
Valerie must be telling the world. The whole school will be there. Hurry up, I thought, let's get this over with. If we fought right now, then we wouldn't be on display for every kid in Bradstreet.
I turned, and saw Ava coming toward me. Beside her marched Valerie, and behind her a batch of other kids. A prickly feeling broke out all over me.
"Go get her, Ava," Pete yelled.
"You're fighting Ava?" Gerry's voice made a funny swoop. "What for?"
"Hey, Paige," Todd Merrill shouted. "Just poke her with your elbow, and you'll stab her to death." Everybody screamed with laughter.
Gerry said, "Use the bolo punch, Paige; you know, the one my Dad just taught me, remember?"
Oh sure, I thought, easy for Gerry to say. Her father's an ex Golden Glove Champion, and he and Gerry spar every night. He's always dancing and jabbing at the air.
Then Ava and I were facing each other; toe to toe like Gerry and her Dad.
"Wait a minute," Denise said. "Why don't we talk about it. This is so immature."
Ava and I both looked at Denise, then back at each other. And maybe we would have talked about it if Valerie hadn't snapped, "No, Paige said she could beat up Ava, so let her prove it."
"Yeah," said Todd. "Prove it."
Then someone shoved me into Ava. She staggered back and almost fell. I was so surprised I just stood there.
"That's the way, Paige, do it again."
"Hit her back, Ava."
Ava shoved me, and I landed hard on my butt in the dirt.
"Way to go, Ava."
"Get up, Paige."
I scrambled up. It didn't hurt, but I was so embarrassed I tore into Ava. We both started swinging at each other. I couldn't feel any of it. It was like I'd had a novocain shot in my whole body. Only my face was burning up. I didn't want to do this. I hated it. I could see kids jumping around.
Then there was blood spurting out of Ava's nose, bright red blood, and it was running down into her mouth.
For a split second I froze. Then I panicked. I had broken off her nose. I turned, pushed through the crowd and raced across the grounds, then up the alley that led to Main Street.
I still couldn't even feel myself running. And then it seemed like a giant hand was squeezing my throat, and I heard myself gag. I tried not to cry, but I just couldn't help it. Tears spilled out down my face. Main Street looked like it was under water.
I kept running and crying until I reached my house on Belmont. I ran up the side walkway and Suki, our cockapoo, came bounding to meet me. I scooped her up, and she licked my eyes and cheeks. Then I buried my face in her fur and sobbed and sobbed.
My ribs felt cracked in a million pieces. I dropped Suki fast and threw up all over Dad's Lady Olivier azalea. Maybe he wouldn't notice. It was the same color.
Suki trotted over to it, sniffed it and sneezed.
I went into the house and a blast of tobacco smell shot up my nostrils. My brother and his rock group again, the Vexations, taking a break. They should call themselves the Smoke Stacks. They take smoking breaks more than they jam.
Mark is thirteen and a Brady Bunch re-run brother he is not.
When he went to Bradstreet he played on the baseball team and sometimes he'd let me pitch to him so he could practice his hitting. I figured when I got older he would teach me how to hit.
Then he went to junior high, discovered cigarettes and guitar and decided to become rich and famous. Still, I keep fantasizing that he will turn into a Phil. That's Gerry's brother: a REAL, Brady Bunch big brother.
Mom had taped two notes to the frig. Mine said, "Paige, please fold clothes. Love, Mom." Mark's note said, "Mark, please keep the volume DOWN on your jam session. Thanx, Mom."
I opened the frig and looked for something to kill that barf taste in my mouth. I was trying to decide between the apple or nectarine juice when Mark came barging in. He smelled like armpit sweat.
"Move it, Jocketto," he said, elbowing me away from the frig. "I got important work to do."
"Sure, like incinerating your lungs," I said, real sarcastically.
"In-CIN-er-ATE-ing? That the word of the week? Won't M and D be proud?" Mark thinks it's cool to call Mom and Dad, M and D.
He slugged down half a quart of milk from the carton, then peered at me from over a dripping, milky white mustache. It was disgusting. "So, I heard the Bradstreet jockettes are in first place. Aren't you so-o proud?"
"Of THEM, sure. "I'M probably going to get a trophy for holding the all time striking out record." I couldn't believe I'd feel so rotten I'd go digging for sympathy from Mark.
"You gotta practice, kiddo, practice, like my band and me. We're getting so hot we'll be doing a gig any day." He gulped down another quart, then turned on his heel and pounded back downstairs.
"Hey, you left the milk out," I yelled.
"You put it away; you're closer to the frig," he yelled back.
I considered leaving the carton and the little puddle where the milk had burped up after Mark had banged it down.
He'd get it when Mom came home. But I was in a suffering mood, so I put the milk back in the frig and sponged off the counter.
Grabbing some sunflower seeds, I went to my room and got Chummy out of her cage. She's a teddy bear hamster and looks like a brown powder puff. I laid down flat on the bed and put her on my stomach. Reaching behind to the bookshelf, I got the sunflower seeds and tucked a couple up my sleeve.
Chummy is like a real person. I talk to her and she sits up on her hind legs, lifts her head and listens to me.
"They're under my sleeve," I told her. "Go ahead, go get them."
For a minute she was very still, just listening and thinking it over. They she got down on all fours and waddled over to my hand and stuck her nose up my sleeve. She stuffed her cheeks, wiggled up my arm and popped her head out at my neck. Her feet tickle like crazy.
While I was lying there, Mom came home. She works with my Dad and does the books. She loves math so much she is going to school two afternoons a week to get a degree in accounting.
I counted how many seconds it would be before she yelled at Mark. "On, two, three, four, five..."
"MARK!" I knew she was yelling down the stairs. "I know you're smoking down there Do you hear me? You're walking a thin line, mister. That's it now, no more jamming today."
I heard her open and close the frig door, then she came into my room and flopped on the bed beside me, planting a gigantic kiss on my cheek and a squeeze. Mom is a very touchy, feely person.
She sighed loudly, "Gawd, I'm glad I got you, kiddo. You skip through the days without an ounce of effort." I knew it wasn't me she was thinking about.
Just then Gerry barged in and plunked herself into my rocking chair. We never knock on each other's doors. It's like we live in two houses.
"Are you okay? You should see Ava. Wow, you did just what I told you to do."
Mom shot up off my bed. "Why shouldn't she be okay? What's the matter with Ava?"
"It's nothing, Mom, honest, it's nothing," I said, getting up and sticking Chummy in her lookout tower.
"Nothing!" shrieked Gerry. "You should have seen Paige."
Mom's eyes were big as frisbees. "What happened, for heaven's sakes?"
Behind her back, I glared at Gerry. "Mom, I'll tell you about it later, okay? Honest, nothing happened; it's no big deal."
Mom looked at me with that sleepy eyed look she always gets when her feelings are hurt. She's so used to my telling her everything.
"It's just about this stupid argument I had with Ava and I won, that's all."
Mom's eyes woke up and she smiled. "Well, good for you. Debate is a civilized way to settle differences." She left, saying she had to put the chicken on.
"I don't get it; why didn't you tell your mother?" Gerry whispered.
"Because she's got enough trouble with my jerk brother. She depends on me to stay out of trouble. You're lucky you've got Phil. You don't have to be so perfect." I lowered my voice. "Is Ava all right? Did I break her nose?"
Gerry shook her head and rocked. "No, she's okay, but they're saying she won because you took off and the fight wasn't over."
I took a blackberry lip smacker and rubbed it over my lips. "I don't care who won. It was a dumb fight."
"You shouldn't let Valerie set you up like that. I bet if you took boxing lessons she wouldn't."
"She's trying to turn everyone against me so they'll kick me off the team."
"She can't. It's a school rule; nobody gets kicked off. Why don't you let my Dad teach you boxing."
I lined up my lip smacker with the other flavors on my window sill. "No, I hate it. It's different when you're fighting for real. I want to forget it."
"Paige," Mom called from the kitchen. "How about some help in here."
I walked Gerry to the door. "I got an idea," she said. "Tomorrow's Saturday. Let's go to Grogan's field. I'll give you batting lessons all day."
"But we tried that last summer." Just the mention of getting up to bat, even to practice, made my legs rubbery. "And I still swing at the air."
"So? You're older; you'll be easier to teach." Gerry gave me a jab and leaped down the steps. "See ya tomorrow."
I went into the kitchen and chopped up some cukes for the salad. Mom and I hate the seeds, so I carve circles out of the center of each slice. When I was little I didn't know my mother had cut the seeds out. I thought cucumbers came with a hole down their middle.
I was folding the napkins into triangles when Dad came home. He always smells like a giant Magic Marker pen. He's a commercial artist, but he likes to sketch people better than anything else. He's done everybody's portrait in the neighborhood and each year he's an artist in action at the mall fair.
"Hi, hon," he said to me and lifted me onto his feet. He is so tall he has to stoop going through doorways. I take after him because Mom is short and square. "Like a fireplug," Dad says.
I walked backwards with him to the closet. He sniffed the air. "Geez, Lee, what are you burning tonight?"
"Nuts to you," my mother said, licking the pesto sauce off a gigantic spoon.
Dad walked over to her and pinched her butt and she jumped. I wonder what Mr. Archer would think if he saw my parents when they're at home. At conferences and open house they act like television parents, with sing-songy voices. It cracks me up.
"Well, well," Dad said. "What are we having it poured over tonight?"
A Martha Stewart my mother is not. She hates cooking. She says, "If I lived alone, I'd eat cheese and bread and apples and stuff you never had to cook."
"It isn't the dinner you smell burning," I said to Dad. "It's Mark smoking; probably pot.”
"And just how would you know, huh?" Mark said, walking into the kitchen. "How would a jockette like you tell the difference between pot and b.o."
"Have you been smoking pot, Mark?” Dad asked, pinching his lips together.
"It wasn't grass. It was only cigarettes."
"That excuse doesn't wash, pal," said Dad.
I hate it when they argue. Dad turns into another teenager.
"Please, let's eat. It's getting cold," said Mom. She handed us each a plate of food and we sat down at the kitchen table.
"What's the big deal, anyway," said Mark cramming half a pound of butter into his rice. "Pot’s gonna be legal in a few years."
Dad hollered, "I don't care if it's legal tomorrow! We've talked about this a thousand times. Remember MY generation are the experts on this stuff and all the misery it's caused."
"Maybe you want black lungs, but I don't," I said.
"Then you better quit smoking in the garage every day after school," Mark smirked.
I jumped up. "That's a lie, a fat lie!"
"Okay, okay," Mom said. "Let's eat in peace."
"Sure," Mark shouted. "If I want any peace around here, I'll have to move out of this crummy place." He grabbed his plate and silverware and glass of milk and marched to his room, slamming the door.
"That's just fine with me," Dad yelled after him.
Mom said nothing. She just gathered up her plate and astrology mug and walked like a zombie into the den and closed the door.
Dad looked at me and his pinched lips loosened up. He smiled a sloppy smile. "Want to go bike riding around the loop after dinner?" he asked, in a little voice.
"Sure, fantastic," I said.
"Let's ask Mom too," he said.
I wiped my greasy fingers on my napkin and slugged down a glass of milk. It was cozy there, just the two of us at the table. We played movie star initials. He stumped me with M. B. for Mel Brooks.
The next morning Gerry and I biked over to Grogan's Field, and she tried to teach me how to hit. Grogan's is at the end of our street. It's where we play all our games.
"Try it my way," Gerry said. "Hold the bat over your shoulder like this, and swing straight across. You keep chopping wood."
"But," I insisted, "it feels like I'm swinging straight."
"No, you don't. You keep lowering the bat. C'mon, I'll pitch some to you." She moved back to the pitcher's mound. Her first pitch rolled into my feet like a bowling ball. The next one sailed over my head and hit the backboard.
"Hey," I said. "How about trying for over the plate."
"I can't; my arm keeps going crooked."
"Follow through with your whole body," I said. "See, like this." I demonstrated the position.
The thing about pitching that I love, besides the springy feel of the softball, is the body position. I love to wrap my fingers around the ball and swing my arm back. I take a long step forward and stretch way, way out, and the follow through is so smooth and straight, it's like dancing in slow motion. It's awesome.
"Okay, I'll try again," Gerry said. But all her pitches either soared over my head or rolled up my ankles or clobbered me in the stomach.
"Rats," Gerry finally yelled, slamming the ball into the ground. "It's impossible."
"No, it isn't. Wait a minute," I'd started to feel really selfish. Poor Gerry was pitching her guts out for my sake, when, I couldn't hit the ball if she'd been lobbing me a blimp. "I got an idea. You just keep pitching. Don't worry about getting it over the plate. I'll go for all of them. That's what you do."
Gerry hunched up her shoulders and stared at me, wide-eyed. "I do?"
I giggled. Standing there, like that, she really did look like a red rhino. "Sure. It's because you're a natural. You can hit anything."
Gerry grinned. "Yeah. Well, they all look good to me." She picked up the ball. "Okay, get set."
She pitched about a hundred balls in a hundred different ways. And I whacked at the air a hundred times, retrieved the ball and tossed it back a hundred times.
Suddenly Gerry leaped up and down, pinwheeling her arms. "I got it!"
"What?" I cried.
Gerry raced up to me and grabbed the bat. "You've been standing there like a statue. You gotta loosen up. Step up and meet the ball. I'll show you; pitch me one."
I walked to the pitcher's mound with a sinking feeling. Step up and meet the ball, huh? Sure, and get a face full of softball.
"Okay, now. I'm gonna bunt it. Just watch my feet." Gerry said.
That part was easy, considering Gerry passion for orange fluorescent sneakers.
"Ready? Don't watch my bat. Watch my feet." Gerry instructed.
I watched her feet and when the ball got close to the plate, Gerry took a little half step toward it with her front foot and swung the bat at the same time. The ball took a couple bounces, then rolled to my feet.
"Did you see that?" Gerry asked, real excited, as if just seeing it was enough to make it happen for me.
I pitched a few more, studying her footwork closely until finally she said, "That's enough. You try it."
I sighed and walked to the plate, feeling my whole body clutch up.
Gerry's first pitch traveled straight across the strike zone. All this practicing was working on her, anyway. I stepped out and swung with all my might and whacked the big zip, zero, nothing!
Gerry said, "Don't give up. At least now you kinda look like you know what you're doing."
"Geez, thanks, nothing like looking good at your own funeral."
Gerry shrieked with laughter, which made me laugh and maybe I relaxed and loosened up, because with the next pitch, my bat actually made contact with the ball. It was more a tic than a hit; I barely felt it.
"It's a hit, I heard it," cried Gerry, bounding up to the plate.
I looked at the ball. It lay about five inches in front of the plate. "Geez, it's so puny," I said.
We both stood over the softball, staring at it as though it was a chunk off Mars just fallen to earth.
"Doesn't matter how puny it is. That's a fair ball. C'mon, let's do it again."
So, for a few hundred more times, I stepped out and smacked the air around some more. Once, I nicked a piece of it, one of the stitches, I think. It fell a good two feet in front of me. Another time Gerry's pitch was so low, I just used my bat like a golf club and knocked the ball along the ground.
The third hit was respectable. I swung, felt the connection zip up my arms, heard the crack of the bat and banged one straight into Gerry's hands.
It felt great, solid, a true hit. But could I do it again? It might be the law of averages at work here. I mean, any jerk would eventually hit a ball pitched to them a few thousand times, right?
I didn't want to test the law so I said, "Let's wrap it up. want to quit while I'm ahead."
Gerry's face fell. She would have stayed there for a week. So I said, "You want to bike to Nana's? Maybe she'll let us drive the tractor."
She lit up. "Wow, yeah."
We dumped the softball and bat off on my front porch. As we bicycled back past Grogan's field, I saw Valerie and Ava and Bonnie practicing.
"Hey, duck feet," Valerie yelled at me in her dictatorship voice. "Come over here. We need to practice; we've got a game Monday."
Gerry slowed down and looked at me. "What do you think? Val's a better pitcher than me. Let's show them your stuff."
My chest tightened. I felt like I was getting thrown to the lions. "No way," I croaked. "After that fight with Ava, she'd probably ram one into my skull and put me in a coma. Then they wouldn't have to kick me off the team, right?"
"Hey, easy out; we're talking to you," shouted Valerie.
"We don't need to practice," Gerry shouted back.
"Well, maybe you don't, but..." Valerie's voice was drowned out by Gerry singing at the top of her lungs, "LA DA DA, LA DEE DA."
I burst out laughing, but my stomach felt like one hugh guilty pit.
We rode, "no-hands, no-feet" down Sutton Street. Cars honked and dodged past us. A teenage girl stuck her head out of a window and screeched, "You want to get run over? Get out of the street."
Someone always yells that. It cracks me up. Where do they expect us to ride? Sidewalks are for pedestrians.
We biked into the Center which is the historical part of town. It has a bunch of shops that are inside buildings that used to be colonial meeting halls.
"Wait a minute," Gerry said, pumping her brakes. "Phil's working today. Let's get a cone." Gerry's brother works week-ends at the Yogurt Loft.
He waved to us as we walked in. "Hello, you two; what'll it be?"
We sat at the counter. I love this place. It's all painted in sherbet colors. I feel like I'm sitting inside a rainbow.
"What have you got?" Gerry asked Phil.
"Raspberry for you and mint for Paige. What else is new?"
He knows our favorites, even though we always go through this routine.
Gerry lucked out with Phil. He kids around with us. He even gives us rides on his motorcycle. And last summer he taught us how to waterski. In my secret heart I wish Mark would join us. Sometimes I feel like an only child.
"Where are you guys headed?" Phil asked us. He was scooping up a strawberry cone for this little kid who was waiting with his finger in his mouth.
"We're going to Nana's; maybe ride the tractor." Gerry said, licking a groove around her yogurt.
Phil leaned way over the counter and handed the cone to the little kid. He took the kid's money, then said to him, "Thank you, sir." And the kid smiled a gigantic smile that made his eyes squint.
We biked out to Chickering Road that leads to my grandmother's place. She owns a strawberry farm and lives in this old farmhouse where Mom and her three brothers and two sisters were raised.
As we got closer, I could see Nana and Blue out in the field.
"Ya-hoo," Gerry yelled. "The tractor's out. Maybe we can drive it."
Blue came staggering to meet us. She's Nana's Siberian Husky and is thirteen in dog years, and eighty in people years. I read it on Nana’s chart. Bigger dogs age faster than smaller ones. So Blue is really ancient for her size. She doesn't bark; she howls like a wolf. We imitate her, and that really sets her off.
"Well, will you look who's here," Nana said, putting an arm around each of us. She is even shorter than my mother, but rounder like a dumpling. She wears pants everywhere. Mom says, "She's self-conscious about her varicose veins."
"You two are just in time to do some plowing for me." Nana said.
"You mean we can run the tractor by ourselves?" I asked.
"Sure," Nana said. "I want you to break up the ground in my veggie garden for spring planting. Okay?"
"Okay," we said, and raced off.
Years ago my grandfather bought a Princess size tractor for Nana because she was afraid to drive the big one. I don't remember Grampy much, except that he would lift me onto his shoulders so I could pick the fattest cherries from the Bing Cherry tree in the front yard.
The tractor was on the road that leads to the garden. We climbed on. I sat there in the seat, my mind going blank.
Gerry stood on the running board. "Come on, turn the key. Let's go," she said, bobbing up and down.
Then I remembered and repeated to myself. "Turn the key, clutch in, and shove it into first. Down with a little gas, up with a little clutch."
We jerked forward, and Gerry almost fell off. We kept jerking forward faster and faster.
Gerry yelled, "Ya-hoo, here we go."
I got these crazy giggles that wouldn't stop. I forgot everything I was supposed to do. I pressed my foot on the gas, and we shot ahead, the treads bumping so hard over the rocky road that Gerry almost slipped off.
"Slow down, Paige, will you slow down," Gerry yelled. "You're going to kill us."
Instead of taking my foot off the gas pedal, for some stupid reason, I turned the wheel and aimed us right at a tree. We both screamed. I turned the wheel with superhuman strength, and the tractor swerved just barely skinning the trunk. My foot slipped off the pedal, and we stopped.
"You two all right?" Nana called.
"Yes," I shouted. "It's all right. I got it now."
"You're sure about that?" Gerry panted.
My memory was coming back. Clutch, shift, gas; clutch, shift, gas. I started it up again. We rolled over the roadway; sometimes in jerks, sometimes pretty smooth.
"Hey, this is great," I said. "I can hardly wait til I get a car."
"How about a turn?" Gerry asked.
"Okay, you take it from here to the garden."
Gerry changed places with me. She did the same thing I did, and we screamed like maniacs.
We took turns plowing the garden, and it was terrific, moving the gears around and steering. I'd hate a push button car where you practically just sit there. All you need is one leg.
Blue trudged alongside us, howling and stumbling over the clods. A couple times I though we had plowed her under.
Nana came over just as we finished. "Good work, girls. I can get the whole sheebang planted tomorrow morning." She took our hands and led us toward the house. "Now, why don't you put your bikes into the pickup. I'll call your mothers. If it's okay with them, we'll go for pizza."
"Fantastic," Gerry said, as we raced each other to our bikes. "I wish every day could be like this."
How could we possibly know that the day after next would be the worst day of Gerry's life and a massive rotten one for me.
Monday, after school, was the day of the game with Union. This was a supremely important game. We were tied with Union for first place with six more games to go.
We had a big crowd; both bleachers half full.
Janet, Gerry's mother, waved to us from her usual place. She always brings her crocheting and sits in the top corner of the first bleacher so she can see Gerry in right field.
"Play ball!" our umpire, Emmett, yelled after we had warmed up. Whenever I hear that, my stomach flips. I get jittery, and I wish the game were over. I couldn't understand why at first until Gerry and I talked it over one day.
"Whoops," she had said. "There goes my stomach again."
"What's the matter with it?" I asked.
"It always flips out before a game. Doesn't yours?"
"Every time,” I said. “I wonder why. I really love softball, especially pitching."
She pretended to swing an invisible bat. "At practices my stomach doesn't flip. I mean, what's the difference between a game and practice? We practically know all those other kids anyway."
"I don't know." We were silent for awhile trying to figure it out. Then my mind tripped over something. "I know one thing that's different. An audience. We've got an audience at the games."
"Sure," Gerry had said. "That must be it. I hate it when they boo."
We were the home team so Union was up first. I knew right away it was going to be one of those days. With my first pitch I knew it. Union was hot. This was their day. You get so you can feel it.
My arm couldn't find where it belonged. It would get close and then lose its way again.
Our fielding really sucked. Sure, I was giving up hits, but they were either fly balls that we dropped or short groundies that we fumbled.
Whenever we did something half right, little cheers would rise from the bleachers: "That's the way, now." "Let's go; let's get a rally going."
Everybody would start to get hopeful, and then we'd strike out or make an error. I could hear people in the stands groaning.
I felt like throwing up every time I came to bat. People called out: "Easy out," "Move up," "One, two, three," "Here comes the wood chopper."
When we're winning, it isn't so bad. It's like the fans forgive me as long as I'm the winning pitcher.
The only dependable player was good ole Gerry; until the deadly seventh inning.
The score was eight to six, their favor. Of course, while Union danced into their runs, we had to grind out each of ours. Our side was up with one out and a runner on second.
Gerry smashed one to center field. It was a double for sure, or so we thought. The throw into second was true and so fast that Gerry, who was rounding first at breakneck speed, would have to slide to beat it.
"Slide, slide," we yelled. And she did, at the same time the ball whipped in. Then the second base girl fell, trying to tag her. There was dirt and dust flying around and arms and legs flopping in the air. When the action stopped, Gerry was doubled over, clutching her ankle. The whole team and Janet and Mr. Archer raced over to her. Gerry's ankle was twisted to one side and looked deformed.
"Can you straighten it out, Gerry?" Mr. Archer asked.
Gerry sucked in her lips and took a deep breath. With her arms, she braced herself in the dirt and tried to straighten her foot. Then her elbows collapsed, and she groaned, "I can't; it hurts too much."
Janet bent down and smoothed Gerry's hair. "Don't try to move, hon."
"I bet it's broken," a little kid piped up.
"Yeah, it's broken," echoed another kid.
"We don't know that yet," Mr. Archer said. "It could be a sprain." Very slowly and carefully, he lifted Gerry and headed for our bench. We followed after him. "Mrs. Atkins, do you have your car here?"
"No," Janet said. "But I can get it in a second. I live just a couple blocks from here."
We had a time-out when Janet drove up. Mr. Archer carried Gerry to the car with all the team traipsing behind him.
The score was still eight to six in the last inning. And then we got a rally going. We were beginning to roll out of the groove. Maybe it wasn't too late.
There were two outs. Then Bonnie bagged a single, and Lyn, the next hitter, also hit a single. Union fumbled the double play.
The pressure was on, and Valerie was up. She whacked a groundie to the pitcher, but, instead of throwing to first, the pitcher went after Bonnie, who beat it back to third.
So now the bases were loaded, and guess who was up?
I had been sitting on the bench through all of this praying for an earthquake or a Martian invasion or any disaster that ever existed.
I walked to the plate on rubber legs, my ears ringing with Gerry's voice, "Loosen up, step out, meet the ball, loosen up..." Out of the corner of my eye I could see Valerie shaking her head. Out of the other corner, I saw a few people leaving the bleachers.
With her thumb the Union catcher drew a quick slash across her neck. "You’re dead,” she said, as I positioned myself at the plate. "One, two, three, easy out, and we win."
She was right, of course. All Gerry's instructions flew out of my head. I swung like a wuss at the first three pitches. couldn't even feel myself swing. I wanted to get out of there so fast, I would have swung at a watermelon. I struck out. And right there our team sunk into second place.
"Why did you swing at the second pitch, for crying out loud," Bonnie said, as she walked in from third.
"Why didn't you wait for a good pitch, Paige?" Lyn whined.
Ava hit her forehead with the palm of her hand. "Those pitches were so-o lousy. You might have even walked if you had just stood there."
"Okay, girls," Mr. Archer said, patting my back. "Let's not be so fickle. Paige was a hero last week after she struck out six players in a row. It was a bad day for everyone, an off-day, that's all."
"Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate, Bradstreet, Bradstreet, yea." The Union players were in a circle doing their good sportsmanship chant.
It's so phony to me. It okay if you win. But if you lose, you want to say it real fast, and get it over with, except you feel so rotten that it takes forever to squeak out those eleven words. We didn't even put our arms around each other's shoulders. We just made a crooked circle and leaned into the middle and mumbled the chant.
And with all those dirty looks aimed at me, I felt two giant steps closer to getting kicked off.
Dinner was ready when I got home. As usual Mark practically inhaled his food like a starving maniac, then bolted back downstairs to practice his guitar.
I told Mom and Dad about Gerry. "She's our ace slugger, too. And she'll probably be out all season."
"Poor Gerry. Maybe that third rate prize fighter father of her's will lay off those boxing lessons for awhile," Dad said, rubbing a piece of salmon around in his pesto sauce.
Everything would be perfect if Dad and Monty were friends like Mom and Janet.
"Their vibes just don't jive," Mom has said to me, whatever that means.
I sopped up the rest of my sauce with the baked potato and said, "We'll probably lose all the rest of our games now."
"Why should you?" Dad said. "It's the pitching that wins. Nobody expects pitchers to hit. Look at Roger Clemens and Randy Johnson."
Yeah, that's right, I thought. I light turned on in my head. "And Pedro Martinez, the hottest,” I said, getting happier all the time.
“And let’s never forget Oilcan Boyd,” Dad exclaimed.
"Oilcan?" Mom lifted her eyebrows. "A mechanic?"
Dad stopped chewing and stared at her as though she'd used a big word he didn't understand. "No, honey," he grinned, his voice super patient. "Dennis, Oilcan, Boyd, was a great Red Sox pitcher. The point is pitchers don't have to hit. Teams appoint designated hitters for them, in the American League, anyway."
"Well," said Mom, stacking her dishes. "That seems very unfair. Every player should get a turn at bat."
Dad and I looked at each other and shrugged. Mom knows zero about sports.
The phone rang and Mom answered it while Dad and I cleared the table.
I tried to listen because Mom gets into some heavy chats on the phone. Dad's conversations are dull and short. Mom analyses every movie, book, Dad and even Suki.
"It's Janet," Mom said. "She wants to know if you'll stay overnight. Gerry is bored stiff. She's driving Janet up the wall."
"On a school night?" I asked.
Mom wrinkled her nose. "Well, this is a special case."
I got my Magic Marker pens and the peechee with all the extra paper and stuffed some clothes into a back pack.
"Gerry's in the rec room," Janet said, when I walked in. "She knows you're staying the night." Then she whispered. "She's kinda blue."
I went downstairs to the rec room. Janet's house is pretty and dainty just like her. All her curtains have ruffles. She knits afghans and embroiders pillows. Mom says she'd like to board at Janet's.
At our place Dad's sketches are strewn over the coffee table. Mom's accounting books lie all over the rec room floor. We have a pot belly stove in almost every room. Mom installed them herself, smokestack and all.
"When the crunch comes, I'm going to be ready," Mom says. The crunch means global power overloads.
Our house isn't pretty, but it's cozy.
Gerry was lying on her back on the rec room floor, lifting and lowering a barbell to her chest in slow motion. Her left leg was in a cast to her knee, and her toes stuck out.
"Should you be doing that?" I asked.
She gasped, "If I can't work out the bottom part of me, at least I can work out the top." She grunted out three more lifts, then raised the weight above her head and placed it slowly on the floor behind her.
"Whew." She stuck out her tongue and sat up straight. "Ow," she groaned, looking at her ankle. "FOUR weeks I have to wear this stupid thing. That means I can't play ball or box or go biking. I can't lift weights unless I'm flat on my back. I can't do a thing." She slapped the floor with her palms.
"I know something you can do," I said. That beautiful pure white cast was just waiting. "We can draw designs on your cast. Come on. You take one side; I'll take the other. And people can autograph it in between the designs."
Her eyes opened wide. "Yeah, I'd forgotten. Let's see, the designs will be all colors and the autographs in black." She scrunched around on the floor and sat against the couch.
I made a half sun on the horizon with six different colors, an upside down tepee with hearts inside of it and some star shapes in four different colors. I printed my name in fat black linked letters.
Gerry designed her favorite stuff like crooked looking numbers and diamond shapes; the sun with all its rays sticking out in a trillion colors.
As I studied her cast, my mind traveled backwards to the game, back to my sickening, striking out, to Valerie kicking me off the team, and an idea hit my brain.
"I was thinking," I said, "since we can't win the championship, anyway, without you, maybe I'll just quit the team."
"What? You're crazy. If you quit, we'll lose for sure. You're the only one who can strike out those big guns on Merrimac."
Merrimac was the third place team. They were the reason we were on top. They had sensational hitters, but lousy pitching, which meant that I usually struck out the hitters, and our team usually hit off their pitcher. Even I got a hit once.
"Valerie says she can pitch as good as me so maybe I should give her a chance."
"That's stupid, Paige. Ignore her. Why do you let her rattle you?"
"Why?" I raised my voice. "Because she's always jazzing me, that's why."
"Tell her I'll beat her up."
"Oh, sure. Have someone else fight my battles. That's how I got into the last fight."
Janet came downstairs with the crutches. "Time to practice your crutch cruising."
"Oh, Mom, gross." Gerry squinted. "I'll never learn how to use those dumb things."
"Nonsense; it just takes practice. Now, come on, upsa daisy." Janet pulled Gerry to her feet, but before she could stick a crutch under her arm, Gerry started hopping around the room on her good foot.
"I hate those things. I feel like I'm going to swing myself flat on my face. I'll just hop around on one foot." Gerry hopped once more, lost her balance and landed backwards on the couch.
"And that, Geraldine Atkins, is why you need crutches. Here, let's try again. Just stand awhile; get the feel of them," said Janet.
Gerry stood there leaning on the crutches. Her shoulders stuck up like a scarecrow's.
"Boy," I said. "You really look crippled now."
"Thanks a lot. It'll take me two years to get across the room.”
When Gerry couldn't fit her pajama leg over the cast, Janet brought in one of her own frilly pink nightgowns.
"Oh, yuk, Mom, gimme a break. I can't stand nightgowns. They scrunch up and get all twisted around my neck. I could strangle myself."
"Well," Janet hesitated, smiling sweetly. "We'll just have to cut your pajama leg, I guess. After the cast comes off, I'll teach you how to restitch it on the sewing machine."
Gerry groaned, "Wow. Sewing. I can hardly wait."
I climbed up on the top bunk, and after Janet had closed the door, I stuck my head over the side and said, "Pitchers in the American League have designated hitters. They're not even expected to hit."
Gerry giggled, "Well, nobody expects you to hit, either."
"Oh, thanks, that makes me feel a lot better."
"Kidding, Paige. But you're talking major league there. Our pitchers gotta play offense ball too. You did good Saturday. Just practice some more."
She made it sound so easy. "And what if I don't improve?" I asked, feeling around for some pity.
"Don't sweat it; you will. Just remember the stuff I told you." Gerry's voice started to fade away, and I barely heard her say, "Goodnight."
In the morning Janet woke me up. "I'm letting Gerry stay home another day," she whispered. "Help yourself to breakfast."
For a minute I couldn't swallow. School without Gerry? She was my bullet proof vest, my support system.
Immediately, Valerie's self-satisfied smirk appeared in my head. Boy, the ammunition she would have if I also cut school.
That was enough to give my guts a good jolt. I took a deep breath, and climbed quietly down the ladder.
I got to school just as the last bell rang.
Valerie was blocking my aisle. She stood beside her desk, talking to Ava and Bonnie. They looked at me like I'd committed a crime.
"Look at Paige," Valerie smirked. "She made it all by herself without her bodyguard."
I pushed past them and plunked down in my seat. I could feel my stomach getting those wrinkles. Then it almost went into convulsions when we started studying the government again. Mr. Archer wanted to review the definition of democracy.
As usual, Valerie practically fractured her arm waving it at him. "It is when the majority of the members of an organization decide what the laws or rules will be." As she sat down, she shot a glance at Ava and Bonnie who, I noticed, were looking at me. Quickly, they turned the other way.
My body went numb. I hardly heard anything for the rest of the morning. I just wanted recess to come and get over. I missed Gerry. Her empty desk felt like a lump in my stomach.
When the recess bell rang, the softball teams made a dive for the closet. The equipment is in there, and the boys try to shove the girls aside to get theirs first.
I pretended to be looking for something in my desk until I was sure they had all left.
I wasn't going to go out and stand there while they court martialed me. So, I went behind our building to the younger kids' playground.
We're allowed there only as helpers. The ground teacher likes it because she can go inside and leave the kids to us.
Ms. McCarthy, the second grade teacher, smiled when she saw me. "Oh, you're a life saver, Paige." She handed me some kid's jump rope. "I have a million things to do to get ready for the Spring Program."
I jump roped closer to a tetherball group. They were so tiny. I don't think I was ever that small.
I remember the Spring Program we did in second grade. I was a seed that sprouted up to be a snap bean. What else would the tallest, skinniest person in the class be?
Gerry was the April shower. She clumped around with strips of aluminum foil hanging from her arms, and made a sh-shing sound like falling rain.
Of course, Valerie was the sunshine, spreading her golden rays over the earth.
When the bell rang, I helped the kids gather up the equipment and stalled around until the last second. I wasn't going to be sitting at my desk alone, looking like an outcast, when the team walked in.
I timed it perfectly. I walked into the room just as the last bell blasted off. I had run part of the way and was breathing hard, so it seemed as though I had been involved in something important.
As I walked past Molly's desk, she shoved a note in my hand. It read: "Have to talk to you after school. Important!!!"
I tried to read Valerie's face, but she had on her innocent mask. Molly was looking right at me and I nodded.
After school, she was waiting for me on the walkway. "Where were you at recess?" she asked. "Valerie and her friends voted you off the team. She said the majority should decide like in a democracy..."
"I don't care," I said. "I'm quitting the team, anyway."
"But the vote doesn't count, Paige. And it would have been a tie if you and Gerry had been there."
My friends let it happen. How could they do that?
"Well maybe now you can win ALL your games with Gerry and me out of the way. Lucky you."
"Well, Paige Ricco," Molly said, stopping short. "I didn't vote you out."
I walked away from her fast. "Well, SOMEBODY did," I yelled, and broke into a run. I could feel my face getting hot like it was sunburned, and I knew any minute I would start bawling.
They did it; they actually kicked me off. A spot in the middle of my chest started to burn like I'd been stung by a bee. My mouth tasted like blue cheese. I almost threw up again. I kept running and running until my legs took me automatically straight to Gerry's house.
Janet was taking a pie out of the oven. The whole place smelled like cinnamon and cloves. For some stupid reason it made me feel worse instead of better.
"Well, hi there, Paige. Gerry's in the rec room. Hey, you okay?"
"Sure,” I croaked, and ran down the stairs.
Gerry was sitting on the floor tossing velcro balls at a cloth target on the wall. "Welcome to Boredom City here," she said, glancing at me before firing off another ball.
She looked at me again and frowned. "You look sick; what's the matter?"
My chest was stinging and I was panting so hard, I could hardly speak. "I, I, quit -I quit the team."
Gerry screwed up her face. "You what?!"
Suddenly I couldn't see Gerry very well. My eyeballs had flooded up. I blinked her back into focus and bowling ball tears rolled down my face. I dropped onto the couch and she scrunched closer to me.
"Why, Paige? What happened? Don't cry." Gerry patted my leg. "You get right back on. I know Mr..."
"No, you don't understand. I quit, after - after the team kicked me off," I slobbered, swiping at the tears.
"What? They KNOW they can't do that," exclaimed Gerry.
"Sure, tell that to Valerie and her slaves. They voted me out."
"Well, TOUGH COOTIES! You march right back there tomorrow and practice same as usual." Gerry's eyes bulged.
"When my own team just voted me out? Thanks all the same." I sniffed.
Gerry pushed herself up off the floor and sat next to me. "You can't quit. With both of us out, we'll never win the championship."
"It'll serve Valerie right," I said, knowing how disloyal that sounded and not caring. A splinter of meanness started poking into my misery. "Now I'll never get to play at junior high."
Gerry was quiet for a moment, then she spoke slowly, "You're the best pitcher in the primary league, Paige, and you'll be the best at Blaine. But, well, I think at Blaine you'd have to hit a little bit too."
The stinger plunged deeper into my chest and hit my secret fear. Would Blaine Junior High ding me if I couldn't hit? All the Valerie voices in my head chorused, "You better believe it, spider legs."
My athletic career caved in. It was over. I slumped down. "You saw how lousy I was. One for one thousand. Wowie."
Gerry turned real cheerful. "Hey, what you need is a decent pitcher, that's all, and some practice time. Mark was a hot player in Little League. Maybe he could pitch a..."
"Mark help me?" I choked. "He hates my guts. Besides he's glued to his guitar, remember?"
"Oh, yeah, okay. So, how about at recess, instead of doing all the pitching, which you don't need, go off by the hedges with Molly or Denise and practice your hitting. They're pretty fair pitchers. Yeah, whatta ya say?" Gerry jabbed me.
Oh sure, just jog right up there into the enemy camp. No problem for Geraldine Atkins; the brave and fearless Ms. Mega Confidence, but all I could see was Valerie and her friends smirking and slinging dirty cracks.
"You forgot one thing. They voted me out."
"No sweat. At recess you grab a bat. When Val sees you making an effort, she'll back off, I bet."
I couldn't believe this. My one true friend would throw me to the wolves. I sprang up. "Don't you understand? Valerie has hated me all my life. She doesn't want me on the team, EVER. I'm not crawling back, she'll have to ASK me back." I started up the stairs. Arguing with Gerry was giving me a headache.
"Hey where you going? Wanna play darts?" Gerry called, as I stumbled up the stairs and out of the house.
I ran home, took my bike off the back porch and pedaled hard and fast to Chickering Road. Then I let go of the handlebars and held onto the sides of the seat. I leaned back. The air was soft and cool and dried the sweat on my face.
When I turned into my grandmother's road, I could see the water sparkling from the sprinklers in the field.
Nana was cutting away blackberry stickers, and Blue was sacked out close by.
I parked my bike in the driveway and ran down the bank. "Hey, Nana, it's me," I shouted.
Nana looked up and waved. "Well, look who's here. And just in time, too," she said, catching me in a hug.
For what?" I asked. I'm always just in time for something.
She tightened the bright red scarf around her long fuzzy gray hair. She looked like a fortune teller in it.
"You see those stickers there in that pile? You can fill up the wheelbarrow, then unload them into the truck. I'm going to the dump tomorrow. And get yourself some gloves from the shed."
It took six loads to finish off the pile. Blue trotted back and forth with me. Working there with Nana, both of us singing, "We Are the World,” almost made me forget softball and
Valerie. Almost.
After we put the tools away, we walked back to the house.
"Are you having dinner with me?" Nana asked, untying her scarf and sticking it on a hook in the entryway. She took a rubber band from her wrist and twisted her hair into a ponytail.
"Sure, if it's okay."
"Of course, sweetheart." She said, starting upstairs. "I'm going to take a shower. Why don't you pick out a couple jars of your favorite veggies."
I opened the canning cupboard in the pantry and picked out two big jars of corn on the cob and a jar of carrots.
I set the table, then grabbed some raisins to eat while I watched T.V. Nana keeps a little television on the kitchen table. She has a big one in her bedroom. When I stay overnight, we get into bed and watch it together. The trouble is I never see anything straight through; it's so cozy in her bed, I always fall asleep.
The Golden Girls rerun was just finishing up when Nana came down wearing her white jeans and faded N.O.W. sweatshirt. Her hair was twirled on top of her head.
"Oh, rats, I missed the Golden Girls," she said.
"You've seen it a million time, Nan. It was the one about the garage sale. "
Nana whooped loudly, "That one's a riot."
I clicked off the set and climbed onto the stool beside the frig. I needed to talk. "Nana, did anybody ever hate you for no reason?"
She was prying the jar lid off the carrots. She stopped and peered at me from over her shoulder.
"Did anybody ever hate me?" She stuck her hand on her hip. "For no reason," she said slowly. Suddenly, her eyebrows lifted. "Ah, ha, I should say so." She dumped the veggies in their pans and turned on the gas. Then she leaned against the counter and stared at the wall.
"There was this girl in my eighth grade class. Her name was Marjorie. We used to take turns playing piano for music class. At recess, if it rained, I used to play, and people would gather round and sing. Marjorie would be fit to be tied." Nana chuckled and gazed into space again.
"And," I prodded. Nana always is reminded of a million other things when she tells a story. She gets dreamy eyed and forgets the main part.
"Well, as you know, I can play by ear. So I got to play all the time because poor Marjorie needed her sheet music. And, boy, she would needle me every chance she got."
Nana stuck her hands on her hips and imitated a girl's voice that sounded just like Valerie's phony one. "Did you pray for rain again, Rose? Rose asks the Lord for rain every night. I wonder why?"
"But at least you knew why she hated you."
"Well, I thought so, until Miss Wimmer, who was a very fair teacher, brought a big song book to school. She had Marjorie and I take turns playing piano on rainy day recesses. It didn't make one ounce of difference. Margy still hated me and needled me until graduation. Come to think of it, she never liked me from first grade."
"Mom would call it bad vibes."
Nana took two plates from the cupboard. "Your Mom used to get teased too. She was such a whiz kid in math that the other kids would tease: 'How much is ninety nine thousand times nine hundred ninety nine thousand, Lee Ann?' or 'How many ounces in a million gallons, Lee Ann?'"
"Poor Mom; what a drag."
"I didn't know anything about it until one day your Mom announced, 'I am not going to school anymore. I have gone long enough, thanks, and don't mention it again, if you please.'"
It cracks me up when Nana makes Mom sound like a kid.
"Did you let her stay home?"
"Sure, I knew it wouldn't last long. Poor Lee Ann spent her days being my sitter, refereeing fights, folding clothes and peeling potatoes."
"Did they quit teasing her?"
"Eventually. I think she started sharing a few math tricks with them like that one where you pick a number from one to one hundred and multiply it by ninety nine. Then you add the digits in your answer together and you get the same number every time."
"Oh, yeah, I LOVE that one. It's ALWAYS eighteen; I can't figure it out!"
The wall phone above the sink rang. Nana picked it up. "Hello. Oh, hi. Paige? She's right here. What? Oh, I thought you knew; just a minute." Nana frowned and held out the receiver to me.
It was my mother. "Hi," I said.
"Well, I'm glad you're all right, but next time tell me where you're going. I don't want to have to worry about you too okay?"
"Okay," I said.
After I hung up, Nana dished out the food, and we carried our plates to the kitchen table.
Nana smashed up her carrots and ground up some pepper on them. "Something bothering you? Maybe if you dump it all out, you'll feel better."
I munched a row of corn. It was hard to know where to begin. I swallowed and blurted out, "I got kicked off our softball team because our captain says I can't hit. But it's really because she hates my guts. She's despised me from kindergarten."
Nana looked like I'd hurt her feelings. "Oh, Paige, that's a shame. Can't you get back on?"
I stabbed a hunk of carrot. "Well, it's really against the rules to forbid anybody to play. Still, I can't just stroll out to the diamond and pretend nothing happened."
Nana moved my glass of milk behind my plate. "If you're having trouble with hitting, maybe Mark would help. He used to play ball."
"Oh, and that's another thing. All he does is rag at me. Jocketto this, jocketto that. Help ME? Anyway, he's married to his guitar."
Nana placed her knife and fork across the top of her plate and said in a soft voice, "I wonder if Mark is a little jealous of you."
"Jealous of me? No way. Why would anybody be jealous of me?"
Nana smiled. "Because Mom and Dad treat you different. They're always hugging and joking around with you. Even their tone of voice changes."
I was about to argue when I remembered the notes Mom tapes to the frig for Mark and me. The ones to Mark end with, "thanks, Mom," instead of, "love, Mom," like she puts on mine. A sad little wrinkle began forming in my stomach.
Nana patted my hand. "Your problem with Valerie might be something like that, also."
"No. That's absolutely impossible. Valerie is totally perfect. I'M jealous of HER."
"Well, kiddo," Nana said, pushing back her chair. "I've learned a few things in my road trip through this life: there are some boulders you can't move; you just walk around them. Now, what say we clean up this stuff and get you home."
I didn't want to leave. It was so peaceful at Nana's even though I hadn't solved one single thing.
Next day at recess Gerry wanted to watch practice, but I said, "You'll just feel lousy cause you can't play."
"Well, I can't do anything anyway with this stupid cast," she grouched. She handed me her crutches while she hung onto the railing and hopped down the stairs.
"Yes, you can," I said. "C'mon, we can be ground helpers for the little kids."
"Yuk, gimme a break," she said, sticking the crutches under her armpits. "Oh, heck, I guess it's better than gawking around."
We swung the jump rope for the kids while they played the Alphabet Family Game.
We were on the letter w when I saw Valerie and Ava walking toward us. I figured it must be close to the bell.
"Oh, isn't that cute," Valerie said, stopping near the lined up kids. "Teacher's little helpers. It's too bad you can't use a jump rope to hit the softball with; you swing that rope so well."
Ava snickered.
"Bug off," Gerry said.
"Yeah," said this little girl with Snoopy ear rings in her pierced ears. "Bug off."
"Yeah, get lost," said another girl, who jumped into the rope we were still swinging.
It was like a chain reaction. All the kids got into the act, ordering Valerie and Ava to, "Get off our playground."
Valerie and Ava gave their phony laugh and jumped into the rope.
Then the kids really started to yell, "Ms. McCarthy, oh, Ms. McCarthy."
By the time Ms. McCarthy stuck her head out of the second grade portable, Valerie and Ava had split.
When the bell rang, the kids didn't want us to go. They hopped around like jumping beans, until Gerry barked, "Okay, troops, line up."
"Oh, poo," said one girl, shuffling into line. "Will you swing tomorrow, please?"
"Sure." I waved goodbye. "See you tomorrow."
Gerry waved her crutch. She was getting pretty good with those things.
After school, Gerry and I decided we would sneak to the game and watch it from behind the bleachers. Bradstreet was playing Adams, the third place team. No way was I going to miss that!
We waited awhile, then took the back road to Grogan's, and hid behind the bleacher closest to the first base girl.
We crouched down among the dirty weeds, and candy wrappers and soda pop cans. Nobody was sitting this far over, so we didn't have to look through anyone's legs.
Gerry whispered, "I wonder what the score is."
Through the slit in the bleacher step, I could see practically everybody except the batter and the left fielder. I had to move my head up to the next slit sometimes to catch all the action.
"Okay, one, two, three, easy outs," the first base girl called.
"Does that mean they're winning?" Gerry asked.
"Who knows? We should have a score board at this field."
"Next year we'll have an electric score board at the High School field." Gerry said, cheerfully.
I felt like a virus had suddenly attacked my stomach. We? I'd be sitting in the bathroom waiting for recess to end.
The first base girl was right. Our team lobbed two easy fly balls to center field, and Molly rapped a line drive smack into the second base girl's hands.
The Adams fans cheered.
The right field girl leaped around like she'd been stuck with a pin. "All-ll right," she yelled and started up for the Adams bench. "Let's make it eight more runs this inning."
I looked at Gerry. "Eight? Does that mean they're ahead?"
"Sure," Gerry said. "Look at Denise and Bonnie. Any minute now, they're going to bawl."
Valerie wound up and pitched.
"Ball one," Emmett called.
I could feel my arm going through the motions. "Swing way back, and follow all the way through," I mumbled to myself, but I wanted to shout it. I could hardly stand to watch. The palm of my hand was aching just to get a grip on that ball.
Valerie threw another pitch. The batter connected and slammed one to Molly at first base for an out.
"Luck-ee," Gerry said.
I had two minds about it. I wanted Bradstreet to win, but I wanted Valerie to lose.
The next two batters whacked line drives to left field, and both got on base. The next batter fired off a fly ball that landed smack in the middle of center and right field. It was one of those fly balls where you're both yelling, "I've got it, I've got it," and nobody's got it, and it plops to the ground. Then you crash into each other and fall on the ball, and it gets lost. By the time you're untangled all three runners have gone home.
"YO," yelled an Adams player. "Eleven to four; way to go."
"Har," I said. "Guess who's winning?"
"We're getting smeared," Gerry moaned. "You should have played, Paige."
"How? They kicked me off."
"They can't," she said, in her exasperated voice. "Look, Mr. Archer's pacing around, probably wondering where you are."
Just then two Adams players walked in front of our bleacher. They stopped at the bubbler that is attached to a corner post of the bleacher. I could have reached out and touched their legs.
While one drank, the other one said, "What happened to their regular pitcher, that tall, skinny one?"
The other one gulped her water and said, "I don't know, maybe she's sick."
"Yeah, lucky for us. We're going to move into second place if Union loses."
After they left, Gerry whispered, "You see, they were talking about you. If you don't pitch, we'll end up in third place."
"If I don't pitch? I was the one who lost the last game, remember?" I shook my arm where the water had splashed me.
"It wasn't you, it was the dumb errors everybody else made."
"WHO everybody else? It was me who struck out."
"Who cares? We've already got too many hot shot hitters, but see, there," she nodded at the field. "Who else can pitch as good as you? We're getting creamed."
"I know, I know," I said, suddenly feeling very heavy, like I weighed three hundred pounds. "I don't want to watch anymore. Let's go home."
"Yeah," Gerry said. "My knees are getting locked into this position." I helped her up and handed her the crutches.
When we were back on Belmont Street, Gerry said, "I don't think you care about the team anymore, Paige. You want us to come in third place just to get even with Valerie."
"She says you can win without me, so what does she need me for?" I was half pretending, and Gerry knew it. But lately I had been feeling meaner and meaner, and numb to everything else. I could get back at Valerie this way even if it meant selling out Bradstreet.
Next day in class Molly passed me a note. It read: `If you come to practice at recess, we'll take another vote. Tell Gerry to come too. We need her vote. P.S. You're being stubborn. Do you want us to lose the rest of our games?'
Who cares, I thought, and crumbled up the note. Let them sweat.
I spent every recess for the rest of the week with the little kids. Gerry came once, then decided she'd rather watch our practice.
"We're still a team," she said. "And I care about it, even though I'm not playing."
"Okay. But, you see, I'm not a member of the team." My stomach hurt with this sour pain, which was strange because it felt so empty.
"Yes, you are." Gerry stabbed the end of her crutch down hard on the pavement. "You're just being a traitor to spite Valerie."
Her words slapped me in the face. "Traitor? You're the traitor. You're siding with them."
"No, I am not, Paige Ricco. But you're just being plain stubborn and mean."
I didn't answer. I turned and ran toward the portables. My best friend had called me a traitor. My body was shaking so hard I almost tripped. I had no team. I was losing my best friend. And here I was spending every recess with the little kids, when softball was practically the only reason I went to school in the first place. Maybe I'd drop out of school.
That Monday we lost again and dropped one half a game from third place.
Gerry didn't sneak off to the game with me. She went with her dad to some weight lifting tournament. I think she was glad.
On Friday I took a different route home. Some of Valerie's allies had begun walking with Gerry and me to the gate every day after school. I figured it out right away. They were just buttering me up.
That weekend Gerry, Denise, and Bonnie came to my house. I was giving Suki a bath in the back yard. We were both sitting in our gigantic wash tub, covered with No Tears Puppy Shampoo.
Suki hates baths. She treads water like she is in the middle of the ocean even though the wash tub water is only an inch deep. If I get in with her, she settles down.
I was sudsing her when Gerry came hobbling from around the side of the house followed by Denise and Bonnie.
When she saw me in the wash tub, Bonnie broke into a run. "Oh, far out. Isn't Suki adorable?"
"Doesn't that bubble stuff sting Suki's eyes?" Denise asked.
"No; it's made so it doesn't sting." I picked up the No Tears and held it out to her.
When I did that, Suki sprang out of the tub, and went hopping and leaping around the yard. She shook herself and soap suds flew everywhere.
I scrambled out of the tub and yelled. "Grab her, I've got to rinse her off or she'll get snarly."
"I'll get her. C'mon, Suki, here girl." Bonnie called.
"C'mon, Suki," Gerry coaxed. "Hey, she thinks we're playing with her."
Suki went racing a thousand miles a minute, round in circles; first one way, then the other, dodging us and yelping her head off. Once in a while she'd stop and lower her head like a bull and stare at us and just wait. We'd sneak closer and get her surrounded. Then suddenly she'd blast off again right between our legs.
"Rats, I almost had her," said Bonnie who was stretched out on the grass with her arms flung out. "Let's just sit here and ignore her, and I'll bet she'll come to us."
"Not me; I'm going to change," I said. I was shivering. Spring sun doesn't stick to the bones like summer sun.
"Hurry back out, Paige," Denise said, in this funny little girl voice.
I felt like asking why, but we all knew why, and we weren't saying - yet.
I thought about escaping out the front door. Instead I went into my room and took a long time changing my clothes.
As I was tying my sneakers, I heard a cheer from the backyard and the outside faucet was turned on. I looked out the window. They had caught Suki. Bonnie and Denise were holding her in the tub. Gerry was rinsing her off.
By the time I went out, Bonnie and Denise had Suki out of the tub and were towel drying her. Gerry was lying on the grass trying to balance one of her crutches on her forehead.
"I wish I had a dog this size," Denise said. "Sheba is so big, it takes my whole family to give her a bath."
I got Suki's brush from the basement and started to brush out her tangles.
Gerry hopped over to me. "What are you going to do after you brush Suki?"
I tugged hard at a snarl. "I'm going to a gallery opening in Newburyport when my parents come home."
"Oh, that's too bad," Bonnie said. "Do you have to go right away? We were hoping you would practice with us at Grogan's. If we don't beat Union Monday, we'll drop to third place."
"I don't have to practice," I said, in my sweetest voice. "I'm not on the team."
"Don't be so stubborn," Gerry sighed. "Of course you're on the team, isn't she, guys?"
"Yes!"
"Yes, of course!"
"We really need you," Bonnie said. "We wish you hadn't quit."
That made me boil over. "Quit?" I half shouted. "How could I quit when you voted me off the team. Remember?" I tugged hard at one of Suki's tangles and she yelped. I patted her head.
"We didn't ALL vote you off," Denise said.
"And even if every person on the team did, it wouldn't make any difference. They still have to let you play," said Gerry.
I said, "Pretend you're me for a minute. How would you like to be forced to play on a team that just voted you out?"
"It was Valerie's idea. She kept bugging us about you striking out all the time, and how she could pitch as good as you," said Bonnie.
"It's just that Valerie picked a good time to take that vote after Gerry had broken her ankle and we lost the game.”
And everybody was mad at you. We just hadn't calmed down enough to be fair," said Denise. "I realized how stupid that vote was after I got home. I thought you would just go and tell
Mr. Archer,"
"I wouldn't ask Mr. Archer to fight my battles."
"I thought you would ignore it and play anyway," said Bonnie.
"Hello, young women," Mom called from the porch. She was holding up a bunch of hanging plants. "Aren't these beauties?"
Everybody agreed with her. She hung a couple on the porch railing and went inside.
I picked up Suki and headed for the house. "I have to get ready now. We'll be leaving soon."
"Will you pitch on Monday?" Bonnie asked.
"Come on, Paige; the team needs you," Gerry said.
I was getting this sorrow in my heart which I didn't want. I wanted to keep the stiff, mad feeling. "If your captain wants me, she'll have to ask me." I tried to sound strong, but it came out sort of wimpy.
"You KNOW she'll never do that, not in a trillion years." Gerry said.
I started up the stairs. "Then SHE'S the one who doesn't care about the team."
"You're being a mean, old dweeb, Paige Ricco!" Gerry hollered. "I'm getting really mad at you!"
Nobody else said anything. I couldn't breathe. Gerry had knocked the breath clean out of me. I stumbled into the house without turning around.
Once inside, I went to the front door and peered through one of the colored window panes. The blue wavy glass made Gerry and the others look like they were under water. I watched them straggle slowly toward Grogan's, and my chest felt like somebody was burning a hole in it.
Right in front of everybody my best friend had called me a dweeb. I squeezed Suki tighter to me, and let myself bawl. I had never felt so rotten in my entire life.
On Monday when I figured the game was halfway through, I got Dad's binoculars and walked to the stone wall that runs behind Grogan's outfield.
I crouched down behind the wall and adjusted the binoculars. It always feels like they are sucking my eyeballs clean out of my head.
Gerry was sitting in the middle of the bench. With her hands cupped around her mouth she was yelling, "Let's do it now, guys! One more out, that's all!"
Valerie wound up and pitched. The batter swung, and I heard the crack of the bat. I didn't see the direction in which the ball went until Sara, our right fielder, began running backwards with her head up. Then she turned, her head still up, and ran straight at me, faster and faster.
With the binoculars held tight to my chest, I dove for a clump of taller bushes and lay flat on my stomach seconds before Sara came leaping over the stone wall, panting and searching round in little circles. She kept moving her head the way a bird does, jerky-like.
I could see a piece of the ball poking through some leaves right by her foot. I wanted to scream, "There it is, right there."
She missed it and started scuffling closer and closer. The binoculars were digging into my chest. I held my breath. She was heading straight for me. Just before our eyes connected, somebody called, "Sara, never mind; we've got another one."
She turned away, and I went limp. Slowly, I lifted myself to a sitting position and massaged my chest. It felt like I'd been socked in the rib cage. I didn't want to risk getting caught again so I left.
Gerry didn't stop by on her way home. I watched her from behind the wavy green window pane in the door. She never even looked at my house; just hobbled straight ahead.
I straggled back to the kitchen to wait for the yucky vegetarian pizza Mom and Dad were bringing home for dinner.
"Yo, Jocketto, the old folks back?" Mark was be-bopping to absolutely nothing. His head is a tape deck where tapes run endlessly. He was snapping the fingers of one hand and balancing a pitcher of orange juice on his other palm, hoisting it high like a waiter.
"Not yet," I said, taking a glass from the cupboard.
Ever since the new Junior High music teacher told Mark he was gifted musically, Mark struts around like some kind of celebrity.
"I want a glass of that before you drop it," I said.
Mark gave me a smarmy look. "Drop it? Get serious. With my perfect balance and..."
The plastic pitcher suddenly teetered on one edge, then the other. Mark grabbed for it and missed. I tried to catch it, but it slipped and went crashing to the floor, orange juice splashing over the floor, splattering the frig and wall and counter stools.
"What happened here? What were you doing Mark?" Mom said, crossly, walking into the kitchen.
Dad came through the doorway, the pizza stuck out in front of him. "What are you up to now, Mark, huh?" he demanded.
Nana's voice suddenly played in my head: 'Mom and Dad treat you different, Paige.' Mom and Dad had just assumed it was Mark's fault.
"It just fell, Dad. We were both fooling around and sorta bumped if off the counter." I couldn't believe I said it.
"Well, you can both just clean it up. Lucky it was a plastic pitcher," said Dad, picking his way around the orange puddles.
Silently Mark and I sopped up the juice. Our bare feet would be sticking to it for weeks. Mark never even grunted a thanks. What a creep.
I took a slice of pizza, scooped up Suki and sat on the back steps, feeding her some tidbits.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Gerry and her parents walking to their car. Probably going to the Yogurt Loft. She never even called. She always invites me. The pizza was making me sick.
How long could Gerry go without speaking to me? How long could I? Mean and stubborn she had said I was. My best friend.
Suki trotted down the steps and started chewing on a beaten up tennis ball. What a great time Suki had Saturday getting chased by my friends. My friends? "We really need you," they had said. "We didn't all vote against you." Even though I couldn't hit, at least Bonnie and Denise and Gerry wanted me back.
My eyes zeroed in on Suki's ragged tennis ball. I jumped up, grabbed a bat and tennis ball from the box in the hallway and went down to the back yard.
Gerry practices for hours this way. She tosses a tennis ball up and whacks it against the side of the garage. I've tried it, but I end up doing these nerdy pirouettes.
I tossed the ball up, swung and spun around in my usual pirouette. After a hundred times missing the ball, I was making myself dizzy pirouetting all over the yard.
"Hey, you trying to screw yourself into the ground?” Mark was standing at the foot of the stairs, juggling my softball, a milky grin on his face.
I forgot to be embarrassed. I couldn't keep my eyes off that softball.
"Back up there, I'll pitch a few to you."
I almost tripped over my own feet, backing up. My brother pitching to me?
"All set? C'mon, choke up more."
I brought my hands closer together.
"That's it. Get ready now," Mark said.
With all my might I swung and missed.
Mark swore and said, "What are you looking at me for, stupe? Keep your eyes on the ball."
"I was," I said, thinking where else would they be?
"No, you just THINK you are. You're looking at ME. Look at the BALL at all times."
"Gerry says I have to step up and meet the ball."
"Yeah, well, Gerry could hit a speeding bullet. You can't copy Gerry. Just keep your eye on the damn ball."
As Mark pitched I kept my eyes glued to the ball and realized immediately something was different. I really had never actually watched the ball.
I swung hard, and got a sudden jolt as the bat connected with the ball. My hit zipped past Mark into the laurel hedge a few feet behind him.
"Not bad. Do it again, now," said Mark.
Not bad? Not bad? Coming from my brother it was like he had just hugged and kissed me. Course, I knew he was really doing this so I wouldn't rat on him.
I turned my thinking on real high. Choke up, swing straight across, and keep your eye on the ball. Concentrate.
I swung and smashed another one into the hedge. My stomach leaped, the way it does down that first plunge on the roller coaster.
"Adequate," Mark said, retrieving the ball.
I missed the next pitch, hit and missed a bunch more.
"Ever think of looking up the word, practice, Jocketto? Why do you think my band and I are so great? Practice, practice, practice."
I drove the next pitch straight into Mark's hands.
"Way to go, Paige." It was Gerry's voice. I turned and saw her standing there, a crutch under her armpit, a mint yogurt cone in the other hand.
I was so happy I wanted to bawl.
"Some stick you got there, Slugger. You want to be my drummer?" Mark said. "Oo-oo, for me? Hey, thanks." He plucked the mint cone from Gerry and ran up the stairs.
"Hey, that's for Paige, you creep," yelled Gerry.
"Thanks anyway," I said to her.
Gerry screwed up her mouth. "Geez. Brothers, huh?" She drew a deep breath. "You, um, looked real good there."
"I need a lot more practice, I guess." Both our voices sounded super nice, like the way you would talk to a sick person, not natural.
Then Gerry said, "You want to go to Grogan's and help me find that softball Sara was looking for?"
"Sure, I know exactly where it is. I was spying on you guys. C'mon."
It was while we were crawling around looking for the ball that we heard the laughing. We stood halfway up and peered over the wall.
At first I couldn't see anything until Gerry whispered, "Over there; it's Valerie and Ava, see? They're going behind the bleacher."
"What for, I wonder?"
"Let's find out." She started to get up.
"No, wait; let's spy on them. We can crawl around the wall and get behind the clubhouse. Maybe we can see them from there. Come on, just leave your crutch."
Slowly, we inched alongside the wall. It ran into the back end of the clubhouse which was about twenty yards from the bleacher.
I reached the clubhouse and peered around the side of the building.
Valerie and Ava were sitting in the dirt behind the bleacher. They were leaning toward each other and giggling.
A second later, a puff of smoke blew over their heads.
"What is it?" Gerry gasped, panting against my shoulder.
"They're smoking. Watch, you'll see the smoke."
"Valerie smoking? Geezus." Gerry eased herself to the ground, and leaned against the clubhouse. "Her perfect body will have a mass attack."
"Ms. Perfect Person polluting her perfect lungs." I added.
We stared at each other for a second. Then I put on a devil smile. "You want to crash their party?"
She snickered, "I can't wait to see their faces."
"How fast can you limp?"
She stood up straight. "Just watch me."
I felt an icy shiver shoot up my back. “When I take off, you follow fast as you can. Got it?"
"Got it," she whispered.
I peered around the building again. Another puff of smoke sailed up. Ava giggled and coughed.
"Let's go," I said, and I hunched over and ran on my tiptoes. I made it all the way to the bleacher before they saw me. And when they did, it was too late.
They scrambled around shoving stuff into their pockets, and stomping at the dirt with their heels. They hadn't even had time to stand up.
Gerry limped up behind me. "Well, look who's here," she said, in this high sugary voice. "The captain of Bradstreet's softball team and her slave."
"Aa-nn-d, we know what they're doing, don't we, Gerry?"
"We weren't doing anything," Ava said, standing and brushing herself off.
"Oh? And I suppose that smoke was coming from a little camp fire?" Gerry asked.
Valerie got up and pulled a comb from her pocket. "Big deal. We were just burning a bunch of litter, that's all," she said, running the comb through her blonde springs.
"Sure you were," I nodded.
"Yeah," Gerry gave a sickly smile. "And smoking cigarettes or maybe pot?"
"We were not!" protested Valerie. Her face started to get that swollen look.
"I know cigarette smell a mile away." I said.
"So what?" Valerie stuck her comb back into her pocket. "You can't prove anything."
I had seen the pack half buried in the dirt. As we talked, I was inching my way toward it. "Oh, yes, I can. With this! Didn't you forget this?" I cried, pouncing on the pack and waving it in the air.
"Give that back," she demanded, reaching for them.
I took off across the field. "Come and get it," I yelled.
She started after me, but I'd had too big a lead. She stopped at the pitcher's mound, and shouted, "That still doesn't prove anything! They aren't even ours!"
"Naughty, naughty girl, telling lies," I sang out, bouncing around on second base.
Valerie and Ava just stood there for a while and watched. Then they turned and walked up the road that leads to Main Street.
I retrieved Gerry's crutch and we headed for home.
"Well, now, we finally have something rotten on her," Gerry said. "Why don't we mail the pack of cigarettes to her parents with a note saying that Valerie forgot to take them home after practice?"
"I don't know; maybe her parents don't care." I said.
Gerry shook her head. "No way. She wouldn't have been so scared if her parents didn't care."
We got to my house and sat on the front steps. "She could get busted out of school for this," I said.
"That would kill her, not being able to show off her brain every day to an audience."
I shook my head. "But don't they have to catch you smoking on school grounds?"
Gerry took a handful of sunflower seeds out of her pocket and poured some into my hand. "All I know is; she sure seemed scared to me."
I let a seed soften in my mouth. “Hey, let's not do anything for a while; let's make them sweat."
We concentrated on eating sunflower seeds. After months of practice we can finally shell the seed with our teeth. We store the shell under our tongues and eat the seed without once using our fingers.
"I think I'll go to practice tomorrow," I said.
Gerry sighed, "Well, it's about time. That whole thing was so stupid. We all got kinda nuttzo. Hey, that reminds me. We forgot the ball."
"I'll get it and use it tomorrow at recess." I jumped up. An idea had popped into my head.
"Great, see you in the morning. Oh, one more thing." She fisted her hand and socked me lightly on my jaw. "Welcome back, teammate."
"Thanks," I said, feeling like any second I would break out in a happiness rash.
I found the ball, and before going to bed, stuck it on my sneaker so I wouldn't forget it.
It would come in useful tomorrow.
The next morning I was hanging up my windbreaker when Mr. Archer came over and said, "I wish you had told me your were going to quit the team, Paige."
"I didn't quit, I wouldn't do that."
Mr. Archer shrugged, "Well, you've missed the last three games, and you haven't said anything to me; I just assumed you had quit."
I closed my locker door. "Oh, no. I had some unexpected stuff come up. But it's all taken care of now."
From the corner of my eye I saw Valerie and Molly and a couple others on the team hanging around the hallway. I raised my voice a little. "I'm definitely pitching on Monday's game."
"We can count on you?"
"Positive. I'll be there."
I had stashed the softball in a corner of my locker. So, after the recess bell rang, while everyone was busy diving for the closet, I casually walked to my locker, got the ball and waited for them on the pitcher's mound. Molly came out first and ran behind the plate. She didn't say anything. In fact, nobody did. It was like they were a little shy.
Molly clapped her hands, "Hey, Paige. Pitch a few while we're waiting."
I tossed the ball up in the air several times. I love the feel of it. You can get a solid grip on a softball. Baseballs are different. They're like rocks or bullets. But a softball has that springy feel. And, if you sink down as you catch, it won't sting at all.
I pitched to everyone for most of the recess while trying to screw up enough nerve to ask somebody to pitch to me.
Valerie was so quiet that Gerry asked her if she was sick.
"Sick?" Valerie pinched up her face. "Of course not. Why would I be sick? What a stupid question."
"Well, excuu-se me."
I was sending up easy pitches so most of the hits went into the outfield. But, finally, after Denise swung and missed a few times and Sara kept fouling to the catcher and Bonnie nicked a groundie to my feet, I figured it wouldn't look so dumb if I struck out.
So, I tossed the ball back to Bonnie and ran up to the plate. "My turn, I guess. Pitch me a few?"
Her whole face sort of opened up. "All - right."
I picked up the bat and got those crummy wrinkles in my stomach. Geez, how I wished the bell would ring or a space ship would land in the school yard. Hurry up, Bonnie, before my brain freezes.
I forgot everything and just swung out of reflex and missed.
"Those were lousy pitches," said Bonnie.
I hadn't thought of that, but it made me feel better. Maybe that was her idea.
Then just as the bell rang, she pitched a perfect, four point, over the plate, and my batting average limped up half a notch. I swung and rapped a line drive towards the first base tree, straight into Ava's hands. Her mouth dropped open; she gaped at the ball, her eyes bulging.
"Way to go, Paige," Bonnie cheered, bouncing up and patting my arm.
Gerry clicked her crutches together. "Nice swing, there. Good hit."
"You're looking better," Denise said, as we walked back to class.
"I'm practicing more, now," I said. I felt like I weighed two ounces and would go floating up the school steps.
The rest of the week was straight A. Valerie hardly bossed us at all. She walked around real stiff-like with her lips squeezed tight. Whenever she talked her voice sounded crabby. And, if anyone inquired about her mood she would jump down their throats.
"Mind your own business," she would sneer, or, "Get off my case." Finally they stopped asking.
I started to feel squeamish because I wasn't used to seeing Valerie in the pits. I mean, I never thought of her as having any weak spots like the rest of us. That was why she was always the leader. You could depend on her to take charge.
The next Saturday I was in my room trying to straighten out the smashed cigarettes in Valerie's pack, when Gerry came limping in.
She lifted her leg, and whooped, "See? It's gone; I got the cast off this morning. Cripe, did it ever itch."
“Hey, congratulations. Can you play ball now?"
"No," she said, in a pouty voice. "I have to do all these exercises first to build it back up. Hey, what are you doing with those?"
"I have a plan. I'm going to sneak the pack of cigarettes into Valerie's desk, just to see her reaction."
Gerry giggled, "Can't you see the look on her face when she opens her desk?"
To tell the truth, I couldn't get a clear picture of that in my mind. Valerie just wasn't the kind of person to lose her cool over anything.
"Anyway, I came over to see if you wanted to go to the Center. My Mom will drive us." said Gerry.
"Sure, great." I dumped the pack in my stationary box.
The Center was jumping as usual on Saturday.
"Let's sit in a booth," Gerry said, as we walked into the Loft. We didn't have to meet Janet for an hour. We picked the booth in the farthest corner and ordered our usual favorites.
When Phil brought them over, he said, "I feel it is my duty to inform you that there's a whole new world of flavors out there waiting to be discovered. Why don't you explore a little?"
"Not me. There is nothing better than raspberry," Gerry said, licking her lips.
"Unless it's mint, of course," I said.
"Oh, of course, of course," she laughed, then slid to the end of the bench. "I'll be right back; I'm going to the restroom."
As I sat waiting for her, I heard some people get into the booth behind me.
"Mother, I don't have much of an appetite; I think I'll pass today," said a little girl's voice.
I smiled to myself. Little girl genius back there.
"That's fine, dear. You can have a sip of my tea if you like," said the mother in a loving, sweet voice. Then, although it was hardly noticeable, her voice dropped lower, obviously addressing someone else. “And what have you decided on?"
I could feel someone squirming against my back. Then Gerry came out of the restroom. She glanced at the other booth and her eyes popped out. Quickly she ducked into her seat.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
She shoved her index finger against her mouth and shook her head. When Phil came over to take their order, Gerry leaned across the table and whispered, "That's Valerie's mother and sister behind you."
The booths at the Loft are as high as my Dad's head so Gerry hadn't seen the person sitting back to back with me.
I cupped my hands over my mouth. "I think that's Valerie behind me."
We both stared at each other and listened.
"I don't understand it," Valerie's mother said. "That is the second time you failed the test. Don't you want to go to Holly Ridge?"
"Holly Ridge?" I mouthed to Gerry. Holly Ridge was the school for gifted kids. We heard Valerie mumble, "Yes, but..."
Her mother interrupted, "Well, I should hope so. Just imagine, having your own science laboratory and attending plays and symphonies once a month."
"I wish they had a softball team," Valerie said. She talked in this thin voice that I had never heard before.
"But there's tennis and ice skating," her mother said. "And, and, what else is there, Pamela?"
"Valerie knows all about it, Mother. There's soccer and skiing. We've gone to Franconia six times this year."
"I don't understand," Valerie said. "If they have everything, why don't they have softball?"
"Oh, good Lord, Valerie. No school can have EVERYthing. Besides what is so important about softball?"
"It's, it's," Valerie stammered, and then whined, "I LIKE it."
In my entire life, Valerie Thomas had never whined.
"Well, you will just have to learn to like something else," her mother said.
"But I love playing softball, and Mr. Archer said that when we get to Junior High next year, we could probably win the championship."
"This is just a phase, young lady. Softball is not the reason you are going to school."
A phase? Mom says that about Mark's guitar.
"I know, I know," Valerie's voice dropped. "But I did get all A's again this semester, didn't I?"
"It's harder to get A's at Holly Ridge," piped up Pamela.
Gerry and I pressed our hands over our mouths. Pamela cracked us up.
"Everyone's as smart as everyone else," Pamela was saying. "So you're not that different."
"You know what I think?" Valerie's mother said. And I got the feeling we would find out whether we wanted to or not. "I think Valerie wants to be the big fish. The big fish in the little Blaine Junior High pond. "
It was weird hearing her talk ABOUT Valerie instead of TO her.
"But Blaine isn't so bad,” muttered Valerie. “They have a ski club, and they go to Franconia too, and the French class goes to Cafe De Paris for lunch sometimes, and the whole softball team goes to the circus every year..."
Her voice was drowned out by a bunch of rowdy teenage boys who came barging in. They practically took over the whole counter and started jazzing Phil.
We chewed on our straws for a while and bit off pieces for spit balls. I thought about the crabby way Valerie's Mom talked to her, and how sweetly she talked to Pamela. And I thought again about Nana's words, "Mom and Dad treat you different. Even their tone of voice changes." Sure, Mark was - could be such a creep. Sure, I like being my parent's favorite. But I knew in my bones it wasn't right to talk crabby to one kid and sweet to the other.
Gerry ducked way down in her seat, and I could tell by the way the booth moved against my back that Valerie and her family were leaving.
We waited a few minutes before going out to watch for Janet, then sat on the curb and ate sunflower seeds.
Gerry threw one up and caught it in her mouth. "Just think; all your troubles will be over if Valerie goes to Holly Ridge."
I stuck a nut under my tongue and spit out the shell. "Yeah, no more getting bugged, no more dirty remarks." I lifted my arms to the sky. "I'd be free, free!"
"You're forgetting something," Gerry said. "She has to pass that test."
"Maybe they'll let her in, anyway. They might figure out she's flunking on purpose."
"I don't blame her. Who wants to go all that way every day when you can go to Blaine Junior High?" said Gerry.
"Not me. Even if Holly Ridge had a softball team, I wouldn't go." And before I could stop it, my mouth said, "Poor Valerie" Then I caught myself. "I mean, her Mom is really leaning on her. That's a drag."
"Geez, I'm glad I'm not smart. Meeting new kids at a new school would kill me," Gerry said, and she drew her finger slowly across her neck.
That night, in bed, I kept hearing Valerie's voice talking to her mother, and I felt like I had been divided into two people. One person hoped Valerie would go to Holly Ridge, and the other kept feeling sorry for her. I knew exactly how she felt about softball.
I went over and over the bitchy stuff she's said to me since kindergarten: "spaghetti arms" and "duck feet" and "dead hair" and "spider legs." But it wasn't enough. I kept thinking about how I'd feel stuck up at Holly Ridge with all those brains and no softball.
Finally, I got out of bed, took the cigarettes from my stationary box and put them in the pocket of my jeans.
I had a new plan.
Monday afternoon we played Adams. If we beat them and won the next two games, and, if Adams beat Union, we'd win the championship.
With the first pitch, I knew we were hot. I felt this tingling sensation, even in my finger tips. Our team was doing everything right. almost like we had no control over it.
The flyballs fell right into our hands. The groundies rolled straight to our feet, and the line drives we grabbed as though they never happened.
I was striking out two and three hitters in a row and my team was hitting them all over the field.
When the moment of truth arrived for me, I dragged my lead legs up to the plate, armed with the "good lucks" and "out of the park, Paige" and a "go get em" from Gerry.
Predictably, I swung at the air with the first two pitches, then made a feeble connection that trundled down the first base line for a respectable out.
Before the game ended, I connected with a few more respectable outs. I hit one that climbed up so high, straight above my head that it became a speck and almost disappeared.
The catcher danced around, zig-zagging, loosing track of it, then sighting it and yelling, "I got it! I got it!"
The ball landed in her hands just as she keeled over. thought to myself, at least it wasn't an easy out.
Denise giggled, "That was a HIGHLY respectable out."
When it was over, we all put our arms around each other and leaned into the circle and chanted the, "Two, four, six, eight,” and so forth, as usual.
Mr. Archer said, "Good game, girls, and let's hear it for our wandering pitcher, too." He lifted my arm up and everybody shouted, "Hip, hip, hooray," a couple times and clapped.
I noticed Valerie wasn't there. When I looked around, I saw her stuffing the gear into the bag.
I walked over to help, but she said, "I can do it. I'm almost finished, anyway."
"Here," I said. "I have something for you." I dug into my pocket and took out the pack of cigarettes and shoved them into her hand. Immediately, I felt lighter, like I'd just lost three hundred pounds.
"Hey," Mr. Archer shouted. "Anyone for ice cream?"
We all hollered yes, and half of us piled into his Pontiac, and the other half into Janet's station wagon.
We went to Howard Johnson's near the turnpike and pushed two tables together in the middle of the dining room. The flavors are different from the Loft, so I always get spumoni because it has raisins.
We talked over every single play we had made, and Molly had a new riddle. "What key is too big to carry in your pocket?"
Not even Valerie got it. And it's so simple when you know it. "A turkey."
In the parking lot we tried to walk on our hands like Gerry. Of course, the only one who could do it perfect was Valerie. I wondered if she would be going to Blaine next year.
Gerry and I went home in Janet's wagon, and gave four other kids a lift. We sang, six bottles of beer on the wall, and, whenever we dropped someone off, we subtracted a bottle of beer.
It was one of those days you never wanted to end.
We won the next two games, and my batting average crawled up another notch.
I got on base once. My hit plopped about three feet in front of the plate and I outran the throw to first. My teammates screamed so loud, I though the bleacher had collapsed.
I never made it to home plate. Val, of all people, hit a long fly ball to center field for the last out.
The last game of the season Union beat Adams and won the championship.
Bradstreet came in second place and Dad said, "Second place is commendable. Beats coming in last. We should celebrate."
Mom said, "How about you make us some popcorn?"
Immediately Dad jogged into the kitchen. "You're on," he said.
Mom and I changed into pajamas and waited in the TV room. We watched a James Bond movie starring Mom's favorite movie star, Sean Connery.
Dad came in with the popcorn and the three of us sat on the floor with the popcorn in the middle.
We had eaten half of it when Mark stuck his head in the doorway and asked, "What's on?"
"Bond," Mom said, in this deep voice, "James Bond." Then she giggled and lifted the bowl to him.
He took a fistful of popcorn and perched on the very edge of the chair like he was getting ready to split any second.
"Guess what?" he said, chewing and dropping popcorn all over the floor. "You know that new music teacher at school, Mr. Kleist? He wants to hear our tunes. If we're good, he'll help us do a gig."
Dad nearly choked on a hunk of popcorn. "A gig?" he croaked. "He thinks you guys are that good?"
"Yeah. He's a good bass player, himself, but he wasted a lot of time. Messed up his head with drugs, and thought he sounded real cool, ya know, til he heard himself on tape, and couldn't believe how bad he was. So he quit, went clean."
Mom reached out and patted Mark's knee. "That is just terrific, Mark, just great." I stared at her hand. For my mother to even touch Mark was so weird. I felt those opposite feelings again. It sort of embarrassed me, but it also made me want to hug everybody at once.
"Just make sure you wear ear plugs," Mom said.
Visions of the famous Vexations wailing in concert flashed through my head.
"Hey Mark, thanks for the practice. I got some hits this week," I said.
"A-course. You were coached by an expert." He stood up and stretched. "Guess I'll crash." On the way out he grumbled, "Gees, James Bond. Superjock."
After he left, Dad said, "Face it, Lee Ann, tunes are in his blood."
A week before graduation a really terrific thing happened.. Mel Kleist called and asked me if I thought Mr. Archer would let Mark's group play at our graduation. I said he should ask him. So the next day he came to school with me.
"I don't see why not. Let's ask the kids," Mr. Archer said.
He waited until we were all seated, then he asked us, and everybody clapped and whistled and kept looking at me. For a minute there I thought I was the one going to perform.
We had graduation in the assembly room. I will never forget it. The parents danced, and the fathers danced with their daughters and mothers with their sons.
The Vexations really wailed. Practice pays off, I guess. I hope!
Then Phil danced with me, and I thought I would pass out. I think I love him.
These last two weeks Gerry and I have picked strawberries at Nana's, along with a million other kids. Nana pays us forty cents a basket.
Yesterday we saw Valerie working a couple of rows across from us. After we had filled our flat, we walked over to her.
She had one flat filled and was working on another. I'd heard my aunt say that Valerie's baskets of strawberries were the most perfect of anybody's. I sighed. Of course; I could have told her that.
"Wow," I said, in a cheerful voice that was for real. "You've got a whole flat filled already."
Without turning around, she said, "Why not? That's why I'm here."
Gerry and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes.
As we walked away, Gerry said, "Oh, well; you win some, you lose some."
I thought about that for a minute. Somehow, it didn't apply. "No, I never had Valerie to lose in the first place."
"So then you didn't lose anything," Gerry laughed.
"I wonder if she'll go to Blaine," I said.
"Who knows? Tune in next September."
Valerie and I would never be friends. But it just didn't bother me anymore. She was one of Nana's boulders you just walk around. I was free - spaghetti arms and all!
I turned and looked at the back of Valerie's straw hat. Her long golden curls sparkled and stuck out like the rays of the sun. She really did have the most perfect, beautiful hair.
I gave Gerry a light jab. "Hey, let's go to Groggies and practice."
She jabbed me back, and hopped on her bike. "Al-l-right. We'll make a slugger out of you yet."
Me? A slugger? Not in a million years, but just maybe I won't be such an easy out, anymore.
My essays, articles, poetry and short stories have been published (under Jane Morse Thompson) in American Girl, CO-ED, Sassy, Seventeen, Teen, Reader’s Digest, Riverfronts, a textbook anthology published by The Economy Company’s Keytext Program, and local and regional newspapers and magazines. I was also awarded a prize for juvenile fiction in the Pacific Northwest Writer's Conference.