“I just figured if anyone knew how to keep us from going, it was you,” he said, really softly, like he didn’t want to admit this. “I know you make . . . PLANS.”
“They’re plays,” I snapped, but then I felt bad because he looked so uncomfortable to be in my room, saying nice things. And then I got nervous because he doesn’t know about you, Playbook, or the plays you contain. “And why would you come to ME about not going to Seattle? Are you trying to make me talk, so you can rat me out?”
Peter was quiet for a few seconds and I thought he WAS going to tattle, but then he said: “The truth is, I don’t want to go to Seattle, either. I like it here. I don’t want to leave.”
Playbook, I believed him. I know that goes against everything I’ve ever said about my lying, annoying, irritating, pestering, ill-willed, sometimes-smelly little brother (who is AS TALL AS ME, which is a betrayal on its own), but I did.
I believed him.
“Okay,” I said, finally. The thing I said next felt like someone else was saying it, even though I could feel words come out of my mouth: “I’ll tell you what I’m doing.”
I poked my head into the hall for signs of Dad and Louie and then shut the door. For some reason, I was welcoming Peter into my room, because when the world has gone topsy-turvy on you, you do weird stuff. “But before I do, we’re a . . . team now.”
I held out my right hand—my pitching hand, my not-in-a-cast hand—for him to shake. And we did.
I shook hands with my little brother.
“So . . . team?” I said. A team. With Peter. What was happening? I felt like I might vomit up the hot dog that I’d tripped over.
“Team . . . ,” Peter said, and it made me feel better that he looked as sick about it as I felt. “So what’s the play?”
“I call it . . . the All-Pros Play.”
Playbook, he liked the idea. I didn’t tell him about you, exactly, but I told him that I use plays to come up with actions and goals and strategies to make my life a win. Or, okay, when it can’t be a win, at least a good effort.
We agreed to think about sweet spots and go over them in a few days. I never thought I’d say this, much less write it, but I think Peter is going to be a good teammate.
Or at least highly coachable.
THE REAL COMPETITION BEGINS!
Peach Tree: 1
Seattle: 1
(Maybe?)
AN UNLIKELY ALLIANCE
For nine years now . . .
My brother has been my bother,
And no it doesn’t matter
He was made by my stepmother
And my father.
He’s pulled my hair
He’s broken my toys, he’s mocked
And rolled his eyes
He’s made me feel like a joke
And he keeps fresh insults stocked.
He gets to do whatever he wants
My parents say he’s the baby and so sweet
But they’re clearly overlooking
All his worst tricks and stunts
(Plus the size and smell of his feet).
He’s been a pain in the morning
In the night and the afternoon
He’s been a pain through every hour
And that takes real might
Even for a goon.
Now he wants to work with me
And admit this, I will.
If he puts half the work into this plan
As he did for making up names for my last zit
We could put this move at a STANDSTILL.
So can my fiercest enemy
Really swear to now be my trusted ally?
Is he plotting to mess up my plan
And only pretending to care . . .
Or is he a good guy?
THREE STRIKES AND WE COULD HAVE BEEN OUT
Goal: To NOT reveal to our parents that Peter and I are up to something
Action: Stop being nice to each other
Post-Day Analysis:
September 11
Buddying up with Peter had one major hazard: I was buddying up with PETER.
Three times today, things almost got ugly. Three strikes, but fortunately, our parents didn’t quite catch them.
Strike One! Breakfast:
Dad was making bacon, and when Peter went to put some on his plate, he offered me first bacon. “Gabby, do you want any?”
Dad’s and Louie’s shocked expressions would have been priceless if they weren’t a red alert that they might catch on to us.
Peter’s nice gesture was like a line drive straight for me: I had to act fast! So, I caught it and lobbed back, “What’d you do to it?” I made emergency eyes at him.
“Like I was actually going to give you FIRST BACON! You fell for it. HA!” Peter said, thinking quick.
Strike Two! After school:
Peter was working on a book report for Ms. Kline, who’d been one of my favorite teachers. He was at the kitchen counter, with the book next to him. I picked it up.
Height: 5ʹ5″ but seems taller due to Teacher Bump
Build: Wiry (Ms. Kline runs marathons)
Favorite Sport: Running but also attends a weekly roller-skate dance.
Favorite Athlete: Serena Williams
Motto: “First forget inspiration. Habit is more dependable.” —Octavia E. Butler
“You got to read Where the Mountain Meets the Moon, too? I loved that book.” I picked up his copy from the counter.
“It was so good,” Peter agreed. “It would be so cool to know the Man in the Moon. We’d have all the answers.”
“I’ve always felt that way. And isn’t Minli’s dad the nicest?”
“Totally!” Peter agreed.
There we were, hanging out at the dining room table, on the verge of a mini book club, when Louie walked in with her friend Patrice, who always makes comments about how Peter and I don’t get along. She’s also a real estate agent so seeing her walking around our house now gave me the chills.
“Would you look at that, Louie? Are your kids getting ALONG?” She said it like we weren’t even there. I’m really not sure why Louie likes Patrice.
“It’s MY book,” Peter said, swiping the paperback from my hand, thinking quick.
“I guess I spoke too soon,” Patrice said to Louie, who made a “CUT IT OUT” gesture at me and Peter. “But those countertops! A potential buyer will love those,” she said, then eyeballed the supplies from my president poster-making still in one corner. “Once that clutter’s gone, of course.”
See? She’s the worst.
Strike Three! Bedtime:
Normally, if I use the hall bathroom for any amount of time (to deal with my hair, which doesn’t follow the laws of nature or even detangler spray), Peter stomps past at least three or four times, just to be annoying. But today, as I was working a new cream into my curls (before bed, so my hair has the whole sleep cycle to maybe follow directions), the hallway was silent.
Then I heard Dad on the landing. “Peter, you okay?” In our house, Peter NOT making a ton of noise is more alarming than if he were.
I couldn’t hear if Peter answered, so when the coast was clear, I knocked lightly on Peter’s door. He opened it a crack. “I almost got caught making my list!” he said.
“We need to stick to our normal habits,” I warned him. “They’ll catch on if they think we’re buddies.”
A hurt look flashed across Peter’s face. “I mean, if they think we’re a team,” I said, to be clearer.
“But we kind of are buddies, too, right?” Peter was standing there in his old soccer ball pajamas and he looked little to me, even though he was my height and the pajama pants were too short on him. He wanted to be buddies?! Everything was SO. WEIRD.
“Yeah, of course we are,” I said, wondering if I meant it and thinking that I did.
Now Peter smiled. “I’ll try to do a better job. I’m just so excited about the plan that I’m not acting like myself.”
“Have you thoug
ht of anything?” I asked him. I still had ZERO ideas, but I didn’t want to tell him that.
“Not really,” he said. “Have you?”
I peered around for signs of our parents. “Not exactly, but I will. WE will,” I said and gave Peter a reassuring pat on the arm. A coach’s second job is to make her team feel like winners. Her first job is to make her team glad they’re on it. “We’ll meet in a few days. Just keep everything under you hat till then.”
SUPER FROM THE SIDELINES
Goal: Find the home-run idea for the All-Pros Play
Action: Open my mind to a great idea by letting my thoughts wander as a benchwarmer
Post-Day Analysis:
September 13
If it weren’t for having Peter on my side the last few days, things would be grim. Dad is still in pantry-cleaning mode and I’ve caught Louie looking at houses in the Seattle area on her phone more than once. (All the houses are TERRIBLE, if you ask me. Even the ones with giant backyards. Because the backyards are in SEATTLE.) THEY SAY nothing is for sure, but THEY ACT like the move is happening.
The problem is, I told Peter we’d figure something out but I’m STILL stumped. The pressure is on to have good ideas for the All-Pros Play by tomorrow, and since sitting in my room hasn’t drummed up any big brain moments, I decided to go to the baseball game, the third one of the tournament. At the second game, with Devon pitching, I’d been a better bench rider. Devon had gotten a win against a team from Hillside, and because she wasn’t my REPLACEMENT, Nolan, I could be happy for her. Piper Bell was up in the tournament with two wins.
Now, we—or Piper Bell—would play LUTHER. The Luther Lions. My old school’s team. I would have loved to be pitching. Instead, I’d probably have to watch NOLAN pitch to my old team.
I’ll admit it now, but for a quick second, I thought about bailing on the game. Until I saw some writing across the top of a blackboard inside a classroom near my locker: “It’s a good thing to clear the mind sometimes. It makes room for new ideas.” It was something Piper Bell, the lady our school is named for, once said.
If I didn’t think too hard about Nolan, maybe the game would clear my head and a good plan would beam into my brain.
I decided not to sit in the dugout this time, so I wouldn’t feel like a ghost again. But from the stands, it was hard to clear my head, or get a clear view. The bleachers were PACKED. With the tourney in full swing (ha!), there were even vendor booths and a concession stand. My baseball brain kicked into gear, and my mitt hand tingled. The only thing on my mind was wishing my arm was in the right shape to play.
Diego was there, covering the game for the Luther Bulletin (it was a step down after his summer job as a Peach Tree Gazette junior reporter, but Diego wasn’t in it for the title). He waved me over to the stands, and as I walked over, I could hear him talking to an old man about birding. Diego’s newish hobby was like everything with Diego: he had to tell the world about it.
The man asked if other kids liked bird-watching as much as Diego did. And Diego said, “I hear some jokes, but I don’t let it ruffle my feathers.”
To go along with him, I added, “Do you call people who tease you mockingbirds?” But Diego and the man looked at me like I was wearing ski gear on a sunny day. But MOCKING-bird, get it? Ha. (For not being a birder, I’m really great at bird jokes.)
GABBY GARCIA’S ORIGINAL BIRD JOKES
What do you call a bird that doesn’t own its nest? A wren-ter!
What do chickens use to dye their feathers? Henna!
How did the inexperienced sparrow win her first baseball game? By winging it!
Did you hear about the bird who caught a great white shark? It was a kingfisher!
What did the nocturnal bird say about its invitation to a sleepover? Owl be there!
I waited for Diego to get the joke. Sometimes he misses them. When he finally laughed (took him long enough!), his face turned serious. “Your mom told my mom about the maybe-Seattle thing,” he said. “We’ll need to really ramp up our last Gabby moments.”
“Did you forget about the plan? The All-Pros Play? Pet—” I stopped. Diego would never believe I had things under control if I told him I was taking Peter’s help.
“I didn’t forget and I hope it works, but Mom even said it would be a great adventure for you. It is a little exciting, don’t you think?” How could Diego say that?
“Sure,” I lied. How was it possible the only person I was seeing eye to eye with lately was PETER?
Diego pointed at the field. “Luther looks good today. I’m lucky you’re not pitching; I wouldn’t know what team to root for.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’ll get a chance to make that decision when you watch me pitch against Luther this spring.” Diego might not have faith in the All-Pros Play, but I still could remind him I wasn’t backing down.
“For sure,” Diego said. His voice still had that unconvinced tone. But he would see soon enough that I knew what I was doing.
I headed up the bleachers where Johnny was showing the clipboard ropes to a younger mathlete. Next to her was Katy, who’d brought some of the new talent squad members. I’d had to pass on the meeting today, and I wasn’t expecting to see her.
“Hey, guys, what’s up?” I was turning my frown upside down. Diego and my friends could plan all the memory lane events they wanted, and I’d use them as motivation to make my plan work. My plan and Peter’s. If Peter and I could find ways to get along, why shouldn’t we be able to convince our parents to stay in Peach Tree?
Johnny looked up from his clipboard: “Have you been talking to people about the new cafeteria options idea? Because there was a poll on the Piper Bell student social page and that idea ranked the highest. You’re leading.”
I’d already seen the poll, but I pretended to be surprised. “That’s great news!” I said.
Then I saw The Look. Same as Diego’s. I knew Johnny was thinking of asking me if I’d still be running if the move became definite. Little did he know, THIS candidate wasn’t taking those questions today. Instead, I turned to Katy and the new talent squad kids. “Hi, I’m Gabby Garcia,” I said, with my best Vote for Me smile. I had Confidence Squared, and that’s math it doesn’t take a Johnny-level brain to understand. I’d make everything work. Even the campaign, which needed my attention. I beamed even harder. “I’m on the talent squad, too.”
“This is who I was telling you about,” Katy said. “Gabby is a pitcher, too. These newbies need some fresh inspiration. So do I. All my songs lately sound the S-A-M-E same. So I said, if Gabby gets some of her genius on the field, maybe it would work for us.”
“You said that about me?” I know I shouldn’t be, but sometimes I’m still amazed that Katy Harris is my good friend.
“I just told you I did.” Katy grinned. She knew when I was fishing for a compliment.
“Oh, and Coach Raddock said we need to do something special for your last talent squad meeting, when you’re ready,” Katy said.
“You told Coach Raddock I was moving?”
“I said maybe moving.”
As nutty as it sounds, the more my friends all thought I couldn’t do this, the more I knew I had to. That I WOULD. Wasn’t the true test of a star athlete playing in even the toughest conditions and when no one believed in her and then WINNING AGAINST THE ODDS?
There I went, thinking about winning again. But sometimes it was win or perish. Like that movie with Indiana Jones, a kind of crabby man with a hat. My dad watches it all the time and goes as Indiana Jones every Halloween. But in one scene, Indiana Jones is running away from this giant boulder that’s rolled out of some cave. The rolling boulder for me is moving to Seattle, and the All-Pros Play is my desperate run to avoid it. If Indiana Jones can avoid being smooshed by his big rock, why can’t I? Rocks don’t always win!
“What are your talents?” I asked the newbies, dodging all talk of the move.
The sixth graders must have still not been used to eighth graders talki
ng to them, because most of them mumbled responses I couldn’t understand. Katy spoke up again. “We’ve got Eric, who does modern dance. Meekayll is a writer, Tessa can juggle, and Aasma does art installations using homemade slime.”
“Wow,” I said. “It’s going to be pretty awesome to compete with you all in the talent showcase.”
“Are you the poet Katy told us about?” Aasma asked.
“Are you the girl who’s running for class president, with the poster that says . . . ,” Eric began.
“Gabby’s got your back? Gabby’s a home run? Gabby Garcia has her thinking cap on . . . FOR YOU?” I rattled off several of my better slogans.
“Yeah, those,” Eric said. “But Katy said you might move. So how can you be president?” Why were people overlooking my excellent platform to gossip about something I wasn’t going to let happen?
“I’m voting for her,” came another voice. It was Rachel, the sixth-grade girl I’d talked to about my plan for athletic opportunities. She sat on the bleachers next to Tessa. “I thought her ideas were weird at first but she DID take the time to talk to me, and every other candidate just shoved a flyer in my face. Or didn’t even care I had a face.”
“Thanks for that, Rachel . . .”
“You convinced me to branch out,” she added.
“What’s your talent?” I asked her.
“Not sure yet, but I’m riding along with the squad until something surfaces.”
I liked Rachel. And if I could inspire her, wouldn’t I do even more good inspiring the whole school? It was as if everything was going my way. Except for the Seattle prospect. And my busted arm. And my friends trying to celebrate me so they could send me away. I guess my grades could be better. But everything else was going my way!
I wasn’t going to run from the boulder, like crabby Indiana Jones; I was going to hoist it up and pitch it far, far away from me. And then make sure it never rolled back into my life.
Gabby Garcia's Ultimate Playbook #3 Page 6