All Shook Up by Shelley Pearsall

Author:Shelley Pearsall [Pearsall, Shelley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General Fiction
ISBN: 9780440421399
Publisher: Yearling
Published: 2007-12-31T13:00:00+00:00

19. Signs of the Zodiac

As it turned out, Ivory’s prediction did come true two days later—which is exactly how horoscopes can pull you into believing in them. After you hear one, you can’t keep the little zodiac voice in the back of your mind from whispering maybe the moon and stars do know all.

On Monday morning, the gym teacher took us outside to play baseball. Puddles of water from the downpour we’d had on Sunday still dotted the clay of the ball diamond, but the sky was totally clear and blue. The trees on the far edges of the school property were beginning to change color and the warm air smelled like fall. It made me feel kind of homesick for Boston and my friends.

We lined up on the grass to pick teams. I was picked fourth by a guy named Dave, who looked like he was probably part of the vending machine crowd. First, because he appointed himself the team captain and nobody disagreed, and second, because he wore a sports jersey with his last name plastered across the back.

Fourth wasn’t a bad spot to be, I decided. It was better than being picked last—or after a girl. Or a fat guy. Digger, the dog-collar guy, was in the class and he was picked last for the other team. In fact, he wasn’t even really picked—the teacher just divided up the last few people with a “you here” and “you over there” arm move. Since nobody knew me that well yet and we hadn’t played baseball before, being picked fourth wasn’t too bad. Maybe I looked like I had potential.

In the second inning, with our team losing by one run and with two people on base, I went up to the plate. Behind me, I could hear the team captain and a few of the other guys call out, “Go on, Boston dude, hit one out of here.” I shaded my eyes against the sun and looked out at the field, which was pretty pathetic. The pitcher for the other team was good, but the outfield was dotted with their last picks, including Digger, who was standing in the farthest part of the field among the tall wet grass and fuzzy weeds. If I could smack one that distance, I was all set.

The ball came sailing toward me, like a fat and juicy grapefruit curving through the air. I swung hard. The crack of the ball meeting my bat sounded like a soda can exploding.

Note to pitcher: In Boston, I’m a very good hitter.

The ball flew toward the outfield, and Digger was just about the only person who had any chance at it, and not much chance at that. I watched him stretch upward so that sky and glove were connected for a brief minute, and then in one slow-motion frame it all began falling apart. Digger started tipping backward, landing heavily on his butt in the grass, and the ball sailed easily into the outfield. My team went

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