Plunked Page 4

  “Not even McDonald’s?”

  I don’t say anything, and he doesn’t ask again.

  All right, whatever. Shake it off, Jack.

  I have a pretty good day in school on Wednesday. I mean, I don’t humiliate myself in any major way, and it goes by quickly. Also, I talk to Katie Bowe. Kind of. I guess I’m sort of getting ahead of myself.

  First period is blah, second period is bleh, and third period, well, you get the idea. But something cool happens in science class. We come in and take our seats and here comes Mr. Rommet, wearing safety goggles and some kind of heavy apron.

  I don’t mean the kind of apron your dad uses to cook at a barbecue with some dumb saying on it. I mean the kind you see in movies when people are messing around with uranium. Or the kind they put over you when you get X-rays at the dentist. Tim is sitting next to me, and I look over at him like, What the heck?

  We all follow Rommet with our eyes as he heads up to the front of the room. That’s when I notice the beaker set up on the big table. He’s used it before. It’s made out of that special science-class glass that you can heat up over a flame.

  There’s a thin metal strip in it, folded over a few times. It’s like a silvery ribbon, and Mr. Rommet is carrying the sparker that he uses to light the Bunsen burner. I hear that in high school everyone gets their own Bunsen burner, and they do experiments. At Tall Pines Elementary, there is exactly one Bunsen burner, and Mr. Rommet is the only one who gets to use it. I look around at my classmates. That’s probably a good call.

  We know what the sparker is for, but we’re wondering what he’s going to light on fire with it. Meanwhile, our science teacher still hasn’t said word one. He knows he has our attention in that get-up. He should have been a drama teacher.

  So then he starts in: “Magnesium is a chemical element. Its symbol is Mg on the periodic table.”

  He points to the chart on the wall with the sparker, then continues: “It is the ninth most common substance in the universe in terms of mass.” He breaks into a big smile. “And you would not beeeelieeeve how it burns! This is the stuff they use in flares.”

  He puts on some kind of heavy-duty glove, stands back the full length of his arm from the beaker, and starts flicking the sparker over the magnesium strip.

  “Don’t look directly at it!” he says, which of course makes us all look directly at it. And FOOOOOOOF! A spark lands, and the thing instantly turns to bright white light. It’s super intense and over as soon as it begins: so, so fast.

  I blink a bunch of times and then look over at Tim, just to make a “Wow” expression with my face. I can still see the exact shape of the magnesium strip in my eyes. It’s sort of like a bright white half-unfolded paper clip everywhere I look. How cool is that? In a few seconds, it starts to fade away.

  Anyway, it’s pretty awesome. It’s definitely one of Mr. Rommet’s finest moments, and he knows it. He stands up there smiling and blinking.

  A little while later, I’m pushing my tray along the rails in the cafeteria. I have my chocolate milk, and I’m trying to decide if I really want an apple. I close my eyes to see if I can still see the magnesium strip at all, and someone bumps my tray with theirs.

  “Move it along!”

  It’s a girl’s voice. This is a little embarrassing, but I have this feeling of — I don’t know what the word is — dread? There’s nothing worse than those mean, popular girls. I figure it’s Trina or Brie or one of them. I open my eyes, exhale, and look over. It’s Katie, and she’s smiling.

  “Thank God,” I say. “I thought you were Brie.”

  “Are you calling me cheesy?” she says, and I laugh a little.

  “Good one,” I say.

  “But seriously,” she says, and nods toward the growing gap between me and the next kid.

  “Sorry,” I say, and push my tray along. I don’t take an apple, and suddenly, I’m kind of nervous. It’s just Katie, I tell myself, our shortstop. But I don’t fool myself with that.

  “That pitcher’s back,” she says after a few seconds.

  “For Haven?” I say. “The big one?”

  “That’s the one,” she says. “I guess he was only eleven last year!”

  She says eleven like it’s the craziest thing in the world, and it sort of is.

  “No waaaaaaay!” I say. “That kid was huge. I want to see his birth certificate.”

  “Seriously,” she says. “Maybe I’ll bunt.”

  It occurs to me as soon as she says bunt that Katie already knows she’s going to start, that she’s going to get at least two at-bats on Saturday. Almost everyone else is sweating it out for the announcements at practice tomorrow, but this cute girl behind me in line is already thinking strategy.

  I feel her bump her tray into mine. Again. I’m being a total spaz! I move my tray and try to think of something funny to say, but I’m at the front of the line now. Mrs. Flaneau is asking me which “entrée” I want. I look down at the options. I haven’t even thought about it.

  “I’ll have the grilled cheese and Tots while he’s making up his mind,” Katie says from behind me.

  “See ya,” she says after she gets them.

  “See ya,” I say. Focus, focus, focus, I tell myself. Think of something good to say. But it’s too late, and I only have one thing left to focus on.

  “I’ll have the chicken nuggets and some Tots, please.”

  On Thursday, I get a hit off J.P.! I know, right? Here’s how it happens. Practice starts out kind of slow. Everyone is in a jumpy, weird mood because it’s the last practice before our first game on Saturday.

  I’d like to say that everyone is OUT FOR BLOOD because it’s the last one before our first game on Saturday. That everyone is READY TO TEAR SOME CRAVEN YANKEES’ HEADS OFF. But that’s just not the vibe. I’m not saying that won’t be the vibe on Saturday, I’m just saying there are a lot of nerves on Thursday.

  Coach knows it. “I’ve been doing this since I was skinny,” he always says. And so you look at him, and yeah, that’s a lot of pounds of experience. So he eases us into things with some BP.

  And so now you’re thinking, Oh, you got a hit off J.P. in batting practice. But that couldn’t happen because J.P. doesn’t pitch BP. That would be like using a helicopter to go to the store. The coaches pitch, usually Wainwright. They put some on and take some off of the pitches so they can really size up our hitting and work on stuff.

  It’s just what I need. I’d done a pretty good job of shaking off my one at-bat in the scrimmage the other day, but I’m still kind of embarrassed about it. I got owned by Malfoy, basically. Not because he’s that great a pitcher. I mean, he’s good, but I’ve gotten hits off him before. It was because I got scared, and that’s embarrassing. I hate both those feelings: being afraid and being embarrassed.

  But Coach isn’t going to hit me. I take my time and go through my full routine at the plate, digging in, taking my mini swings, and all that.

  “All right, Garciaparra,” he says. I know who that is. A long time ago, Nomar Garciaparra was a big star for the Red Sox. I figure he took a really long time at the plate. Anyway, I cock my bat back and I’m ready to go.

  Maybe Coach is going easy on me, taking a little off rather than putting a little on. He was behind the plate when I got knocked off it, and he had a front row seat when I gave up on that at-bat. Whatever the case, I’m really drilling the ball.

  “Who died and made you a hitter?” says Dustin, hanging on the wire backstop and waiting his turn.

  I step into another one and hit it hard to left.

  “I don’t know, but we should check the obituaries,” I say. “Must’ve been someone good.”

  “SHUHH!” says Dustin. “Someone lucky.”

  I said before that the outfield gets really crowded during BP. I probably don’t have to worry about Geoff making a great catch on one of the bombs I’m hitting, but I don’t want to chance it. I start moving the ball around. I hit some sharp grounders and a few shots to right
(you just wait on the ball a little longer). I even square around to bunt once. Coach likes it when we “work on the fundamentals,” but everyone in the outfield boos.

  I wave them off and leave the plate feeling pretty good about my swing, pretty darn good. Then I pick up my glove and hustle out to left field.

  We do some fielding drills, the lawsuit drill again, and then it’s the pitchers’ turn. I mean, in Little League, half the team will pitch at some point. But we all know this is about getting our big guns game-ready. That means J.P. and Malfoy and Dustin, who has the third-best arm.

  Coach wants them to face live hitting. I’m the second guy up against J.P., after Jackson goes down swinging. Maybe Coach just doesn’t want me facing Malfoy again right away, but I decide it’s because I lit it up in BP.

  “Kass, shift over there to left,” Coach calls to Geoff as I pick up a bat. I don’t like that, but I tell myself it’s only because I’m hitting. It’s normal defense in the field, and Assistant Coach Liu is the umpire.

  Anyway, I dig in, but I don’t take as long this time. Then I look out at the beast on the mound. J.P. is kind of a big dude, but not that big. He’s just really good.

  I don’t know if you’ve ever watched the Little League World Series, but you know how most of those teams have one kid who’s just, like, a monster? You know, maybe he’s a little bigger than the other kids and actually has some breaking stuff? Maybe he’ll take on, like, the team from the Netherlands and strike out thirteen out of eighteen? Well, that’s J.P.

  I don’t think he’s ever struck out quite that many, but he’s been close. I think he got ten once last season, and that was his first year in majors. The fact that this town isn’t going anywhere near the Little League World Series isn’t his fault. He made the All-Star team last year, easy. There just aren’t enough kids like him around here.

  Anyway, that’s who I’m staring out at. And he isn’t glaring back at me, like Malfoy does. J.P. is just looking in for the sign. If he looks anything, it’s maybe just a little bored.

  It’s the same way in school. Everyone likes him because he’s so good, but you can never really tell if he likes you, too. He’s like a rock star. Mostly he hangs out with Manny, another guy everyone likes. He just seems a little above it all. And anyway, he probably gets tired of striking out the same kids in practice.

  But here’s the thing: He doesn’t strike me out. I take the first pitch. I’m hoping to get ahead in the count and maybe work a walk, but he paints the outside edge of the plate for strike one.

  Now I have to take the bat off my shoulder. I just get a hunch. He’d gone outside on the first pitch, and I figure he might come inside on the next one. Because, I mean, this is still just practice. He’s facing “live hitting,” and I’m facing “live pitching,” but it’s still just practice at Culbreath Field, just like every other Tuesday and Thursday. He’ll want to work both sides of the plate.

  So I figure: heater inside. I start swinging at it almost before it leaves his hand. You sort of have to do that with J.P., and of course you look like a total idiot if it’s anything off-speed, but it isn’t. I guess inside fastball, and that’s what he throws. It comes in just a little above the knees, and I have it timed.

  I hear the ping of the aluminum and feel the sting in my hands. I sprint down to first base and make it easily.

  “Well, well, well!” says Coach. “Let’s try that again.”

  I groan and head back in. I know how lucky I got, and when I look out at the mound this time, J.P. doesn’t seem bored anymore. Not even a little bit.

  He strikes me out on three pitches. He has his choice of weapons on the third pitch, and he goes with the changeup. Remember how I said you could look like a real idiot on those? Yeah, well I prove it big-time on that swing.

  Coach calls Chester in to hit.

  We bump fists as we pass.

  “Sweet hit,” he says. “Killed it.”

  “Thanks. Nice day for a walk,” I say, because everyone and his brother knows Chester is heading in to test J.P.’s control with that tiny strike zone of his.

  Geoff is still in left, so there’s no place for me in the field. I go over to sit in the grass with the others, and I get some high fives.

  “You’re on fire today,” says Evan, a really good fifth grader who’s battling Tim for the start at second. “I’d kill for a solid hit off J.P.”

  “Thanks, man,” I say. “Think I just used up my lifetime supply.”

  “Good day for it,” he says. “Really good.”

  All I can do is agree. I just got a hit off John Piersol “J.P.” Walters. And I did it on the day Coach is going to name the opening day starters.

  Maybe it seems like I’m making a big deal out of starting. It’s Little League, so everyone is going to get at least one at-bat and some time in the field anyway. But our roster is maxed out, and that’s a lot of kids to stuff into a six-inning game. And it’s not like the big leagues, because starters can come back in the game after they’re subbed for.

  If you’re a starter on my team, you’re going to be in there at the beginning, and at the end, too, if it’s close. Because you’re the best one at your position, and who doesn’t want that? My friends and I have played ball for most of our lives, and this is our last year of Little League. We don’t want to watch it from the bench.

  So when Coach lines us up at the end of practice on Thursday, my stomach is turning over on itself, and my heart is beating like it’s trying to break out of my chest. Am I going to be scrambling to get my first at-bat as a sub in the fourth inning, or am I going to be digging in, nice and easy, in the first or second?

  And of course, Coach makes us wait. He’s been using this one thing, this one little word to make us bust our butts. He’s made everyone think they have a shot. So I guess he feels like he has to announce it in some special way. What he does is line us up on the field.

  You know how every position has a number when you’re scoring the game, like pitcher is number one? He goes in that order, scorecard order. Left field isn’t until number seven.

  So we’re standing there, all in a line in front of the bleachers. It’s kind of a gray day. Right before Coach starts talking, a big gust of wind blows in from the side, and we all grab our caps so they don’t blow off.

  I take a breath and nod over at Geoff. We have a long wait, and it’s like no hard feelings, either way. He nods back. I like Geoff, it’s just that he’s the competition.

  “One!” says Coach. We don’t really need to wait for him to call out J.P.’s name, but we all do anyway. Even J.P. stands there like he’s waiting in line at the caf, like he has no idea anything is going to happen.

  “Get out there, Walters,” Wainwright says. J.P. jogs out to the mound, nice and easy, like it’s for a fielding drill or something. Man, to be that good, just for one day … A few spots down, Malfoy deflates. The look on his face is somewhere between disappointment and stomach pain. He really thought he had a shot. I can’t blame him for wanting it. He’s been playing as long as I have. This year means the same thing to him.

  “Two,” Coach says. “You know the spot, Cuddy.”

  Not much drama there, either. Good catchers are as rare as plutonium in Little League. Dustin sprints over and stands behind the plate.

  “Three, Jackson,” says Coach, and Jackson makes the short trip to first base. No surprises so far, but there’s no clear front-runner for the next spot. One kid will be surprised, and one kid will be disappointed.

  “Four,” says Coach, and I elbow Andy in the side.

  “Let’s go, Timmaaaay!” he says under his breath.

  “Liu,” says Coach. “Get out there.”

  “Yessss!” Andy and I whisper.

  One of the younger kids gives us a look, but we don’t care. We low-five. This is no offense to Evan, not at all, but he’s still got another year, and Timmy’s our friend.

  “Five,” says Coach.

  I hear Andy take a quick, sharp br
eath next to me. I hold my breath, too.

  “Don’t make me look bad, Rossiter,” Coach says.

  Sweeeeeeeeeeeeeet!

  Andy jogs out to third without looking back. It’s rude to look back: You might see the guy you beat out. That’s Chester, but he’s a good sport about it. He just doesn’t have a big enough arm for that long throw across the diamond. (Of course, nothing about Chester is all that big.) He’s going to end up second string at both spots on the left side of the infield, because he won’t beat out Katie at short, either. He’ll still get plenty of playing time and at-bats, though. He’s our supersub.

  I don’t hear Coach call Katie’s name, because right about then, my heart climbs into my head and starts pounding there, too. One more until left field.

  I see Katie jog out to short, her ponytail flicking left-right, left-right.

  B-dum! B-dum! B-dum! My heart is pounding so hard I wonder if I’ll even hear Coach announce it.

  “Seven,” he says.

  B-DUM! B-DUM! B-DUM!

  “Mogens.”

  That’s me. That’s me!

  Yes! Yeeeeessssss!

  SWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!

  I just stand out there in left, feeling my heart settle back into my chest and go back to its day job. I look around: It’s the nicest windy gray day I’ve ever seen.

  Manny gets the start in center for the second straight year, and Malfoy is over in right. They put him over there because not much gets hit that way, so it’s easy to sub in for him if he needs to come in to pitch. It’s where they put J.P. when he doesn’t start, too.

  The main thing is that Malfoy is in right. Good, I think. Stay over there. He’s a pain when he’s in center, always trying to call you off so he can come all the way over and snag a high pop-up.

  After a while, Coach calls us back in and says: “That’s the starting lineup for Saturday. Nothing is set in stone after that. You got me? You want to stay there, you’ve got to earn it. You other guys want to grab one of those spots, you’ve got to earn that, too.”