Gabby Garcia's Ultimate Playbook #3

by Iva-Marie Palmer

  Peter looked as glum before dinner as he had during breakfast. He was on the couch with our cat, Koufax, and kicking a hacky sack from foot to foot slowly. When I burst in the room, he perked up immediately.

  “You have an idea,” he said. “I can tell.”

  He kicked the hacky sack too hard and it flew across the room, but I was glad he was excited. “I know we said we didn’t want to whine and scream and throw tantrums and we had to make the Peach Tree and Seattle decision feel like THEIR idea, but this idea is sort of halfway between that.”

  “A compromise,” Peter said.

  “Sort of.” I told him about the talent squad meeting, and what had happened, and what I’d figured out.

  At dinner, we put our plan in motion.

  “Have you heard anything from the paper?” Peter, eating a plain cheese quesadilla, asked Dad, who was plating my and Louie’s quesadillas, both filled with shrimp and sweet peppers. “I was just wondering because Justin might have a sleepover for his birthday next month and I don’t know if we’ll be here.”

  Dad looked to Louie and then to us. “I think they’re down to the final round,” Dad said. “But even if I get the job, we’ll probably still be in town for Justin’s party.”

  “Oh, okay,” Peter said. We’d been hoping he’d get the runaround on the answer, showing how unfair it is that we can’t even make plans. Point for our parents.

  We dug in to dinner, waiting before I launched Phase Two.

  “What’s new at school?” Louie said. It was an everyday question that could have had an everyday answer. But I had to play my answer today for all it was worth. Or, really, all the parental guilt it could cause.

  “I practiced my speech for the president race,” I said. “It went really well.” The success of the play came by unfolding things slowly.

  “Oh, that’s great, honey,” Dad said. “When’s the election?”

  “Next week,” I said. “But it doesn’t matter. I realized I needed to drop out.” There. I’d said it. Now, I needed them to swing at my pitch.

  Here was Louie, stepping in like I’d put the ball just where she wanted it. “Why did you decide that?”

  Telling them felt like cheating. It was like a pitcher putting weird stuff on the ball to get a better grip for throwing fancy pitches (by making it sticky) or to throw faster (by making the ball slicker).

  WEIRD STUFF PITCHERS HAVE PUT ON THE BALL TO CHANGE THEIR PITCHES

  Pine tar

  Sunscreen (good for faces, not for the ball!)

  Vaseline

  Spit

  Boogers (picking your nose on a baseball field should be against the rules)

  Earwax (gross and unsanitary)

  “Because we might move,” I said, glancing at Peter to see if I was doing a good job. He hid a smile behind his quesadilla triangle. “I had a good shot but it would be wrong to win and have to leave.”

  “Wow,” Dad said, putting his fork down. This was SERIOUS. “That’s a big decision.”

  “Definitely,” Louie agreed.

  “I was running a really good campaign,” I said—definitely adding a lot of extra gunk to my Parent Guilt ball. “But I guess it’s what I have to do.”

  “It’s not like you would have won, anyway,” Peter said. We’d agreed he had to say something a little nasty to sell the play.

  “This is a big sacrifice, Peter,” Louie said, frowning at him. She reached to squeeze my hand. Mom sympathy! Giant points!

  “It is,” Dad added. “It’s really not very fair to Gabby. I feel terrible.” Dad sympathy! A parental guilt double play! Where were the fireworks? We needed to show a replay on the Jumbotron, at least.

  “I wish there were something we could do,” Louie said.

  There was! All they had to do was say: “We can’t move!” Of course, now that Johnny was in the race I wasn’t going to tell him to quit, but I’d handle that later. I’d be staying in Peach Tree so I’d have PLENTY OF TIME for future presidential runs.

  Dad smiled at me. “I hear Seattle can be a great place for young world changers.”

  “For sure, it’s such a civic-minded place,” Louie said, suddenly brightening. “You’ll be great! Let’s just hope we wind up there!”

  What? This was worse than letting a batter get a home run off me. This was the ball exploding my hand.

  Or it hurt that much, at least.

  I tried to smile, even as my eyes got itchy like they wanted to cry. I couldn’t look at Peter, who I knew would be looking at me like I was the pitcher who lost the game. I didn’t want to change the world if my whole world was going to be completely different.

  Seattle: 3

  Peach Tree: 1 (and in a major slump!)

  THE SHOW HIM HE’S BOSS (HE IS!)

  Goal: Show Dad he’s really valued in the community at large

  Action: Enter a winning application in the Community Alliance Citizen of the Year Award

  Post-Day Analysis:

  September 21

  Like a rookie player who steps off the bench and drives in a winning home run, it was Diego who helped Peter and me come up with our next Stay in Peach Tree play.

  True, after the failures of the Granny Never Let You Go and the Food for Thought, Peter and I both wanted to throw in the towel. And after yesterday’s sacrifice had failed to score, we felt even more defeated. When I finally got the courage to talk to him last night, Peter wasn’t upset with me. He was mad at Dad and Louie. “It’s so wrong that they don’t even care how awful this is.”

  He was talking like he had more faith in me than ever. As he’d put it, “That was a huge play. Even if they didn’t change their minds, they definitely felt guilty. Sometimes in soccer, you don’t get to score but you wear down the other team.” It was kind of nice that even if we spoke different sports languages, we still understood each other.

  One plus today was my visit with Dr. Phillips. She said she couldn’t do anything about the cast smell but assured me my arm was healing better than expected and I’d be able to be active right away once the cast came off. That had me energized, so I called on Peter to regroup in my room.

  I stocked my room with snacks to supercharge Peter and me. After ten minutes, the snacks were gone and we had absolutely zero useful ideas. We kept going over our last few plays, looking for places we could have done better. “It was like everything was going our way, and then it wasn’t,” Peter said of the Casa de Mayo incident, groaning.

  “I know. I thought we had it in the bag when the mariachis came to our table and then suddenly I felt like I needed a bag . . . to barf in.”

  We were acting like a baseball team that kept torturing itself by watching the game where we’d lost the World Series. “This isn’t good for us,” I said. “We’ll never think of anything if we can’t stop watching our blooper reel.”

  Then a text came from Diego:

  At Luther, taking yearbook photos on baseball field. U should stop by.

  Ugh. On one hand, I did want to go, because I felt cooped up in my room and thought the walk would be good to jog my brain. Still, I dreaded seeing Diego at the field of our old school. What if this was some new trip down memory lane? Too depressing.

  Maybe it didn’t have to be. Before I even realized I was doing it, I invited Peter to go with. “Uh, now?” he said. “We’re in the middle of a strategy session.”

  I pointed to the empty bags of licorice and popcorn. “We’re in the middle of a stress-eating session. We need to get out,” I said, using all the Team Leader energy I had.

  When I showed up with Peter, Diego looked at me like I’d shown up pulling a gorilla in a wagon. He sounded alarmed and said, “Did something happen?”

  “What would have happened?” I asked.

  “Like a family emergency, or some other weird thing that forced you to bring Peter along. Is he hurt?” Diego squinted at Peter, maybe looking for parts of him that were gauzed or bandaged.

  “No, I wanted to come,” Peter said.


  Diego looked more stunned than if one of the birds he was fond of watching stopped tweeting to tell him it needed some privacy. (Question for later: Do birds get annoyed by bird-watchers, spying on their bird lives and bird ways?)

  “Did you bump your head?” Diego asked him.

  “Dad had a freelance, office, call-type thing,” I fumbled. “He needed some quiet at home so he asked if Peter could tag along.”

  I didn’t want to get into the exact reasons Peter and I were together. My friends didn’t get the All-Pros Play, and they’d get it even less if I told them I’d been teaming up with Peter, even if he’s the only person who believes this can work, and . . . I don’t think I can do it without him.

  Whoa. Weird.

  Diego still looked quizzical, but I changed the subject and said, “Wow, look at the old field.”

  It had been a while since I’d seen the ballfield at Luther. Actually, the last time I’d seen it was in April when I’d pitched my last game as a Luther Lion. That game—where I’d been throwing a no-hitter—was stopped mid-inning because Luther had to close after a hazmat crew found asbestos inside it.

  I had thought my life was over that day. And then I’d gotten transferred to Piper Bell and started fresh but fresh hadn’t been very fresh at all. It had been so awful that even after I forced my way onto the baseball team, I’d quit the team—something I’d never thought I’d do. I became a field hockey player! Or, really, a talent squad member. I’d started writing poetry! That day when my life at Luther ended had been one of the worst days ever, but somehow, I’d created a whole new version of me that I was pretty happy with. I had new friends, a newfound talent, and even a boyfriend (I think).

  It’s funny, Playbook, but if Asbestos Day had never happened, you wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be here. Like, I would be here, but not in the same way I’m here now: not Gabby Garcia, Piper Bell student, with friends I didn’t know existed before.

  Bob: Is it just me, or is Gabby getting a touch philosophical, Judy?

  Judy: Every great athlete is more than who you see on the field, don’t you think?

  Bob: Sure. I suppose it makes sense that Gabby’s flexing her mental muscles since she’s still in a cast.

  Judy: The question is, what is Gabby driving at here?

  Judy was right: Was I imagining that a Seattle version of me might end up as happy as the post-asbestos Piper Bell, talent-squad-joining, poetry-writing, boyfriend-having version, was now (because, even with a broken arm, I am happy, except for the part where I might move to Seattle)?

  I believe a person can be lucky, but I couldn’t imagine Seattle version of Gabby would wind up as happy as I was now. “Lightning doesn’t strike twice.”

  “What did you just say?” Diego asked, and I realized I’d said that lightning thing out loud. Oops.

  “Oh, I said that the new scoreboard looks nice,” I bluffed. It actually did. When I’d played there, it was made of wood and faded and cracked, but now it was replaced with a new electronic scoreboard that said “Home of the Luther Lions” across the top and “Let’s Roar!” along the bottom.

  “You’re right, I should get that in the frame,” Diego said and snapped a few photos of the kids in the outfield. While he did, I gave Peter a look and whispered, “Make sure you don’t act too nice to me! Diego can’t know we’re working together. He might accidentally blurt something to his mom and she’ll tell Louie and then we’re doomed!”

  “You’re right,” Peter said, AGREEING WITH ME when I’d just told him to be his annoying little brother self. I glared at him again. He gave me a nod to say he had this.

  “Is Dad off his call yet? This is so boring,” Peter said, in his very familiar pest voice. “Baseball’s the worst. I guess that makes sense, since you’re the worst.” Annoying Peter was back, even if it was pretend.

  Diego looked over his shoulder at us. “Oh, whew, he is okay.” He continued snapping and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  As I did, I noticed Coach Daniels across the field and waved. He started to wave until he saw my arm in a cast. Then his face stretched into a scream, like that painting that’s actually called The Scream. He ran over and said, “What happened? Are you okay?” in a way that made it sound like I’d just cracked my arm right then, in front of him.

  “Seattle happened,” I said, gloomily. “But it’s okay—it’s my left arm.”

  “Wow, stay away from Seattle,” Coach said.

  “Tell me about it,” I said. Coaches could decide where to put you on the field. It was too bad they couldn’t decide to keep you in.

  But then Diego said, “She might move there!” Oh, ugh. Coach Daniels’s face went from relieved to woeful. The number of expressions he had was actually impressive.

  “What will Peach Tree be without Gabby Garcia?” he said. Exactly, I thought.

  And THAT was what I’d meant by “lightning doesn’t strike twice.” It had been one thing to make it work when I suddenly had to switch schools and restart my whole life at Piper Bell. I couldn’t start fresh again in Seattle. Fresh starts had an expiration date.

  I looked at Peter and could tell that he was getting mopey, like me. The walk hadn’t helped any new thoughts emerge. But then, Diego sprung a surprise on us. “Oh, I meant to tell you: I saw this contest for the Peach Tree Citizen of the Year and I thought maybe you should enter your dad. Because he’s so involved and everything.” He shrugged. “If he got it, it would be a cool award to remind him of Peach Tree. When . . . I mean, if, you move. The application is due soon. I just found out about it.”

  I looked at Peter, who was already looking at me, and I could tell we were thinking the same thing: If you won an award declaring you your town’s TOP CITIZEN, how could you EVER LEAVE that town? Or at least, how could you decide to leave right after getting the award? You couldn’t.

  At the same time, Peter and I said to Diego: “Where does he sign up?”

  Seattle: 4

  Peach Tree: 1, but with a BIG IDEA coming up to bat!

  A VIEW TO A PLAY: ENTERING DAD FOR THE COMMUNITY ALLIANCE CITIZEN OF THE YEAR AWARD

  So here I am, Playbook, with a new component of the All-Pros Play in motion. Peter and I just downloaded the application. It wasn’t hard to fill it out.

  Dad did a lot of things in Peach Tree. He was . . .

  Volunteer pancake maker at the Kid Kamp Fund-raising Breakfast every year, and had become the Pancake Grand Poobah

  Host of the monthly Culinary Adventurers Club at the Peach Tree Public Library

  Coach of the Slamming Seniors Softball League

  Founder and head of the “Write On” Bilingual Student Writing Workshop

  Three-time winner of the Peach Tree Chili Cookoff

  Coach or assistant coach of multiple Peach Tree youth baseball and soccer teams

  Winner, MVP, of Peach Tree Parks Department Adult Basketball League

  Author of Peach Tree: An Appreciative History, published 2013

  “Wow, Dad does a lot of stuff,” Peter said.

  “I know.” I looked over the list. “And you know what? I feel like we’re forgetting something.”

  “Well, I don’t think he’s ever missed one of my games,” Peter said.

  “Weird, I don’t think he’s ever missed one of mine, either,” I said.

  Peter frowned. “He must have missed one sometime, right? Like if we had games at the same time.”

  “Maybe he can duplicate himself,” I said. “That would be cool if he could share that power. Then maybe a duplicate me and a duplicate you can go live in Seattle.”

  Peter shook his head. “Let’s stop with the sci-fi stuff. We need to write the personal statement,” he said. “I’ll type, ’cause your arm will slow us down.”

  I didn’t argue because Diego hadn’t been kidding about the due date: we had to get the application mailed by tomorrow.

  Here’s a copy of what we came up with:

  We’re submitting our father, Juan Garcia, as a can
didate for the Peach Tree Citizen of the Year Award. When we wrote the list of all the things our dad does as a Peach Tree citizen, we were pretty amazed. Actually, we even thought we could just stop filling out all these forms ourselves because it seems like our dad is someone who should be nominated by everyone in town.

  But just in case he’s not, here’s what we can tell you: Juan Garcia isn’t just a great person to the town of Peach Tree. He’s a great, GREAT father to us. How many other people can say that they come up with an easy step-by-step gnocchi tutorial for the Culinary Adventurers who attend his monthly library demonstrations AND always make sure their family’s favorite taco toppings are available every Taco Tuesday? Or how many people can help students perfect their college essays while also giving insightful notes on their daughter’s English Composition papers?

  My brother are I are athletes (he plays soccer, I play baseball) and there’s a way to describe our dad: best all-around. Sure, there are players who might be better at their specialty, but when you find a player who can do a little bit of everything and do it all well, you’re very lucky to have him on your team. Or, to have him live in your town.

  By sharing so much of what he loves and who he is, our father Juan Garcia has made Peach Tree a better place to live for so many people, but most of all, he’s made it a great place to live for us.

  Even if you don’t select him, we’re grateful we got the chance to see he’s not just awesome in person, but he’s pretty darn awesome on paper, too.

  “If they don’t pick Dad after that, I’m going to learn how to make medals so I can give him one,” Peter said.

  “Nah. We’ll make him a trophy. A BIG one,” I said. There was a little tiny tear in my eye as I thought about leaving Peach Tree, but also about what would happen to Peach Tree if it lost Dad. Like that old movie It’s A Wonderful Life, where the town is completely depressing because George Bailey is never born. “Maybe a trophy so big we can’t fit it in a box to go to Seattle.”