No Cream Puffs by Karen Day

Author:Karen Day [Day, Karan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-49708-6
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2008-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

12

“Look what I brought,” I say to Brett.

I put my bike in the rack and open my backpack. Brett grins and takes out a plump water balloon. We fill our gloves and walk to the field. Mr. Weeks is still in the parking lot, digging through his trunk. Everyone else stands around, too hot to move.

“Randy, catch,” Brett says. But Randy doesn't get his hands up in time and the balloon explodes at his feet, soaking him. He stands there, mouth open, frowning.

“I want one!” Doug yells. I toss one to him, then Tommy. Pretty soon everyone is laughing and throwing them at each other. A balloon breaks against my back, warm water soaking my shirt. Brett grins at me, and I raise my arm to throw one at him.

“Whoa!” Mr. Weeks jogs to the field. “What's going on here?”

“Madison brought water balloons,” Brian says.

“That's enough.” Mr. Weeks glances at me.

Brett squats, putting on his shin guards. I throw a balloon in front of him and water sprays over him. Everyone laughs, Randy the loudest.

“Madison,” Mr. Weeks says, but he's grinning.

“Sorry,” I say. And we all crack up.

Later, after batting practice, the infielders are at their bases. Brett is behind the plate. The stands are empty. I rear back and throw. Aahh. What a great feeling! The ball explodes into Brett's mitt. He falls and stays there, spread out in the dirt.

“Killed by a speeding bullet! That was awesome, Wisconsin.”

Everyone laughs. Practice is nearly over, but I could stay here all day, throwing, hitting, laughing. I glance around the infield.

How different everything is now compared to our first practice. Just give her a chance. Whose dad said that? It doesn't matter, because most of the boys seem glad I'm here. Just a while ago, Doug said to me, “You're the best player we've ever had.” But he made sure to say it when Randy wasn't around.

“Thanks, you're pretty good yourself,” I said. “The home run king.” He's in a bit of a hitting slump now, but no one else has hit a home run so far. If we're going to keep winning, it'll be because of all of us.

Donny stands in the batter's box. He's the youngest, and usually he doesn't leave Randy's side. His T-shirt hangs to his knees and even the smallest helmet swims on his head. Every time he swings, he raises his left foot so his weight falls backward. When he swings he either misses the ball or hits it straight up.

I throw again, and Donny swings and misses. He heaves his bat at the backstop and buries his face in the bend of his arm. Brett takes off his mask and is about to say something to Donny—something mean, I can tell—when I mouth, “No!”

“Don't tell me to use a lighter bat,” Donny whispers through his arm when I walk to the plate. “I tried that. It doesn't work. Go get Randy.”

I glance at Randy, who stands at third base.

“You keep lifting your left leg so your weight goes backward,” I say.

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