“Pizza,” I said. “Bobby loves pizza. He had four large slices.”
“Four? Gosh,” said Omar.
“With extra cheese,” I said.
“Well, Bobby is a big guy,” said Ricky. “He would have a big appetite.”
I nodded. “That is right.”
“So, Karen, have you ever been to Bobby’s house?” asked Jannie.
Uh-oh. I did not even know where Bobby Martinez lived. Would it be San Diego, where his team played? I had no idea.
I decided it would be safer to say I had not been to his house. Then I would not have to describe it.
“No, I have never been to his house,” I said. By the looks on their faces, I could tell they were disappointed. “But Seth has,” I added quickly. “They are still really good friends. Seth visits him sometimes. We have pictures of Bobby in our family photo album.”
“Oooh,” said Ricky.
“But I have not visited Bobby at his house,” I added. “After all, he plays for the San Diego Padres, and I have never been to San Diego. It is very far away from Stoneybrook, you know. But I will probably visit him someday.”
For two seconds, Ricky, Omar, and Jannie said nothing. It was my chance to get away.
“Hi!” I shouted over to Hannie and Nancy. They were getting ready to climb the jungle gym. “I will be right there,” I called.
“Well,” I said to Ricky, Omar, and Jannie, “I have to be going now. It was fun talking about Bobby Martinez with you guys. See you later.”
I ran off toward the jungle gym as quickly as my legs would take me.
Bugle Boy
When I got home that afternoon, I was exhausted. (Making up lies is hard work.)
All I wanted to do was lie down on the couch, close my eyes, and rest. Maybe while I was resting I could think up a way to make Bobby Martinez disappear from my life.
Blaaaat!
My eyes flew open.
Blaaaat!
Andrew was standing next to me. He was blowing into some sort of horn.
Blaaaat!
“This is a bugle,” said Andrew. “Isn’t it great?” He took a deep breath. Blaaaat!
“It is not great,” I said. “It is horrible. Why do you keep making that horrible noise with that horrible horn?”
“It is not horrible noise,” said Andrew. Blaaaat! “It is pretty music.” Blaaaat!
I was about to tell Andrew to go make pretty music someplace else. Of all days, I was definitely not in the mood for Andrew’s “music.” But Merry came into the room before I had a chance.
“Karen, come have a snack,” she said firmly. She crooked her finger at me.
“Sure,” I muttered. “Anything to get away from this — ”
Blaaaat!
I followed Merry to the kitchen.
“Now Karen, I want you to be nice to Andrew about his bugle playing,” said Merry. “He is showing an interest in music. We should encourage him.”
“But it is so loud,” I said.
Merry gave me a Look.
“Why the bugle?” I asked. “Why can’t Andrew play a quieter instrument? Like — a triangle?”
“After Andrew said he wanted to learn about music, I asked your mother and Seth if they had any musical instruments,” Merry explained. “The only one they had was Seth’s old bugle. When he was a camp counselor years ago, he used to play it at sunup and sundown.”
“I wish Seth had played the flute,” I said.
“Be nice,” Merry told me. “Andrew has been having fun with his bugle. Let’s not spoil it for him.”
“Okay,” I said. “I will be nice.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Just then Andrew came running into the kitchen.
Blaaaaaat!
“Wow, did you hear that?” he said.
Merry and I nodded. How could we not have heard it? Daddy and Nannie, in the big house across town, probably heard it.
“Very nice,” I said miserably.
I looked at Merry. She smiled at me.
“Thank you,” said Andrew.
Blaaaat!
I decided to lie down in my room. My head was starting to hurt.
To Tell the Truth
By the next morning, I hoped that my classmates would be thinking about something other than Bobby Martinez. No such luck. Bobby Martinez was all anyone wanted to talk about.
Bobby Martinez this, Bobby Martinez that.
If only I had not gotten that baseball card out of the box of Krispy Krunchies! I had been hoping for some cool butterfly tattoos. They would not have caused me nearly as much trouble.
For the rest of the week I tried not to answer any more questions about Bobby Martinez. I kept ducking and dodging and making myself look busy. Luckily, my two best friends were not pestering me about Bobby Martinez. In fact, Hannie and Nancy had not mentioned him at all. They do not care very much about baseball.
But on Friday things got worse.
I was hanging upside down on the jungle gym during recess. Ricky appeared and stood next to me.
“Hi, Karen,” he said.
I swung through my arms and landed on my feet. (This is a fancy move that I have practiced a lot. It looks harder than it is.)
“Hi, Ricky,” I replied. I wanted to distract him before he could ask me about you-know-who. “Have you heard the latest song by the Lemon Drops? I am going to buy their new — ”
“Karen, do you think you could please do me a really big, really special favor?” Ricky asked.
Now, when a person asks politely for a favor, it is hard to say no. When that person is your pretend husband, it is almost impossible. Still, I wanted to know what the favor was before I agreed to it.
“What kind of favor?” I asked.
“Well, you are good friends with Bobby Martinez,” said Ricky.
Uh-oh.
“And I am good friends with you,” said Ricky. “In fact, I am your pretend husband. Right?”
I nodded slowly. “Right.”
“Well, do you think Bobby Martinez could visit our class someday?” he asked.
“Oh, I do not think so,” I said confidently. “He is a very busy man. Baseball season has started already. And it does not end until …” I did not know when it ended exactly. “Well, until a very long time from now.”
“Oh,” said Ricky. He looked disappointed.
I felt bad letting my pretend husband down. I wanted to make him feel better.
“Sorry,” I said. “But you know how it is. He is playing baseball almost every day. Even Seth hardly hears from him during baseball season.”
“Oh,” said Ricky, looking very sad. “It is just that Bobby Martinez is my favorite player in the whole world. I liked him even when he was a rookie. I think he is terrific. If I met him, it would be the best thing that could ever happen to me.”
“Is there something else I could do?” I asked.
“Well,” said Ricky, scuffling his sneaker in the dirt. Suddenly his face brightened. My stomach knotted up. “Hey! I know!” said Ricky. “Maybe you could get an autographed picture of Bobby Martinez for me. You probably have a stack of them at home, since he is such good friends with Seth. Could I have one, please?”
“Uh …” I said. I had no idea how to get an autographed picture of a baseball star. Could I buy one at a store?
“It would mean a lot to me, Karen,” said Ricky. “It would be just about the best thing anyone ever did for me.”
Ricky gave me a big, sweet smile.
How could I say no?
“I will see,” I said. “I will ask Seth about it. I know we do not have any at home right now, but maybe Seth could give Bobby a call.” I wanted to melt into the ground as I said that.
“Thanks, Karen!” said Ricky happily. “You are the best pretend wife ever.”
I smiled weakly. “No problem,” I said.
I was trapped.
Letter to Bobby
The next week was one long nig
htmare. I spent every day dodging Ricky and the other kids at school. They still had questions about Bobby Martinez. It was all I could do to keep one step ahead of them.
At home, Andrew had, thank goodness, given up on the bugle. (I guess he finally realized that blaaaats are not the same thing as music.) But he had taken up a new instrument. And you will find this hard to believe, but it was even worse than the bugle.
Andrew had discovered the tom-tom drum.
Thugga-thugga-thugga-thugga, went Andrew on the drum. Over and over. For hours at a time.
Thugga-thugga-thugga-thugga, thugga-thugga-thugga-thugga. I heard it first thing in the morning. Thugga-thugga-thugga-thugga. I heard it at breakfast. Thugga-thugga-thugga-thugga. I heard it when I got home from school. Thugga-thugga-thugga-thugga. I heard it after dinner. Thugga-thugga-thugga-thugga. I heard it in my dreams.
It was enough to make me wish for the good old days of blaaaat.
I tried to complain to Merry. “Andrew is driving me bananas with that thugga-thugga-thugging.”
“I know,” said Merry. “But it is wonderful that Andrew is interested in music. We should all try to be supportive of him.”
“I like music,” I said. “But banging on a tom-tom does not count as music. It counts as noise.”
Merry gave me a Look.
I sighed. “I know,” I said. “I will be nice.”
“Thank you,” said Merry.
* * *
I did not like lying to my friends at school. I did not like having to change the subject whenever the name Bobby Martinez came up. I wished I had not lied in the first place. But now that I had, I had to stick with my story.
When I first dumped the Bobby Martinez card out of the box of Krispy Krunchies, I did not really know who he was. But ever since I had claimed I knew him, I had noticed his name everywhere — on TV, on the covers of magazines, in the newspaper.
I had learned a lot about him. For instance, I knew he played right field. I knew he hit a lot of home runs. I knew his favorite cereal was Krispy Krunchies.
And he seemed like a very nice guy. I began to think that if I wrote him a letter and explained what I had done, maybe — just maybe — he would come to my school and pretend to be my friend.
I took out a sheet of paper and sat down to write him the letter.
Hmmm. That was not a good beginning. Bobby Martinez was probably too busy to play guessing games. I crumpled up the paper, took out a new sheet, and started over.
No, that was not good. It sounded like I was blaming him. I crumpled the paper and started over again.
I reread the letter. It sounded terrible. It sounded like I wanted him to be my friend only to help me out. I would hate to get a letter like that.
I thought about the kind of letter I would like to get if I were a big baseball star. Then I took out a clean sheet of paper and wrote:
I reread the letter. I liked it. I had not asked Bobby to come to my school and pretend to know me. I had only told the truth. And telling the truth felt good.
I folded up the letter and stuck it in an envelope. I would put it in the mailbox in the morning.
Paints and Pots
“Here is a picture of me during my family’s trip to New York,” said Omar. He held up a photograph. It showed him standing with one arm raised, like the Statue of Liberty. In the background was the real Statue of Liberty.
It had been two weeks since my Show and Share about Bobby Martinez. We were still practicing our Show and Shares. (Ms. Colman wanted us to be really ready when we went to Stoneybrook Manor.)
“We went to a baseball game when we were in New York,” said Omar. “We saw the Mets play the San Diego Padres. Karen’s Bobby Martinez hit the game-winning home run for the Padres.”
I cringed. Just when the kids were beginning to forget about Bobby Martinez, Omar had to go and bring him up again.
Omar passed around the photo of him and the Statue of Liberty, then sat down. Everyone clapped.
Ricky was next. He walked to the front of class and held up a book. I could read the title. It was called Superduperstar: The Bobby Martinez Story.
“I have been reading a very interesting book,” said Ricky. “It is about Karen’s friend Bobby Martinez. I can hardly put it down. I am already halfway through chapter three. I cannot wait to see if the book mentions Seth Engle.”
Ricky looked at me and smiled.
I tried to smile back. But I could not. I wanted to disappear.
Natalie Springer gave her Show and Share next, and she did not mention Bobby Martinez, thank goodness. (She showed her penny collection. She has a penny from 1971. That is practically ancient.)
After Show and Share, we worked on decorating our flowerpots. I sat at a table with Hannie and Nancy.
“Too bad Omar did not tell you he was going to see a Padres game,” said Nancy. “You could have helped him meet Bobby Martinez.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That is too bad.”
I hated lying to one of my best friends. But I was too ashamed to tell her the truth.
“Funny that you never mentioned Bobby Martinez to us, Karen,” said Hannie. She looked at me knowingly.
“Um, yeah, funny,” I said.
Luckily, Hannie did not say anything more about Bobby Martinez. I had a feeling she did not really want to catch me in a lie.
I concentrated on decorating my flowerpot. I cut some pink and purple flowers out of construction paper and glued them to the pot. I added some green construction paper stems and leaves. Then, as an extra touch, I glued on some yellow squiggles that looked like the sun’s rays.
I held up my pot. It was very pretty. I could not wait to transplant my flower into it. Then it would be perfect.
In fact, everything about school would be perfect, if it weren’t for Bobby Martinez.
Karen’s Promises
On the way to the bus after school, Ricky caught up to me.
“Karen, wait,” he said. “Have you asked Bobby Martinez for his autograph yet?”
“Well, not exactly,” I said. “I have not seen him lately.”
“How often does he come to your house?” Ricky asked.
“Oh, all the time,” I said. “He sometimes comes at holidays.”
“That is probably when your family takes the pictures of him, right?” said Ricky.
“Right.” Family pictures? Had I said something about family pictures? I kind of remembered saying something about that.
“Do you think you could bring in your photo album, so I could see your pictures of Bobby?” Ricky asked.
“Well, I do not think I would be allowed to bring in our photo album,” I said. “My mother would not want me to lose it.”
“Oh,” said Ricky. “Then I could come over to your house sometime and take a look at it there.”
“No!” I said. I thought fast. “You don’t have to do that. I think I can bring in a picture of Bobby. Just not the whole family album.”
Oh for goodness sake! I was digging myself into a deeper and deeper hole. Where was I going to get a picture of Bobby Martinez with my family?
“That would be great, Karen,” said Ricky. He gave me a big smile. “I am really looking forward to seeing it.”
* * *
That evening I looked through all our photo albums, plus a box full of extra pictures. (It was fun. I love looking at pictures of myself when I was small.) I was not looking for a picture of Bobby Martinez, of course. I knew we did not have any of those.
Finally I found what I was looking for. It was a picture taken last Christmas. It showed Andrew, Mommy, Seth, and me. Standing next to Seth was another man. Maybe it was Uncle James. Uncle James is not really an uncle, but just an old friend of Seth’s. I could not tell for sure whether it was him because his head was cut off by the edge of the photo. I could not tell who it was.
And if I could not tell whether it was Uncle James, then Ricky would not be able to tell whether it was Bobby Martinez. Which was who I was planning on
telling him it was. He would just have to take my word for it.
* * *
“This is Bobby Martinez?” asked Ricky.
It was the next day, during recess. Ricky was holding the photo of my family and Uncle James. He turned the picture this way and that.
“It does not really look like him,” Ricky said.
“How can you tell?” I asked. “His head is cut off.”
“Bobby Martinez has great big muscles,” said Ricky. “From hitting all those home runs. The man in this picture is skinny.”
“Well, I do not know about that,” I said. “This was at Christmas, you know. Baseball players do not play during the winter. Maybe Bobby lost some weight during the off-season.”
“Hmm,” said Ricky. “Maybe.” He handed me back the picture. “Anyway, Karen, I was wondering if you could please, please, please do me one more huge, gigantic, enormous favor.”
I had a bad feeling about this. I had already found him a picture. What now?
Ricky reached into the pocket of his windbreaker. He pulled out a brand-new, shiny white baseball.
“I took all the money out of my bank and bought this baseball,” Ricky explained. “It is an official Major League ball, just like the ones Bobby Martinez knocks out of the park.”
Ricky handed the ball to me.
“What do you want me to do with it?” I asked him. I was afraid of the answer.
“It would be the best thing anyone ever did for me ever,” said Ricky, “if you could have Bobby Martinez sign it for me.”
I nodded. Then I sighed long and hard.
“I will see what I can do,” I said glumly.
Easy as Pie
That afternoon I went home in a bad mood. How was I going to get Ricky’s baseball autographed by Bobby Martinez? I could not even come up with an autographed picture.
Note to myself, I thought: Do not ever make anything up ever again for the rest of your life. You will regret it.
When I came in the front door to the little house, I heard a weird sort of humming-warbling sound. At first I thought Andrew had taken up the bugle again. Then I realized that whatever was making the noise was not a bugle.
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