by Annie Bryant
Avery sighed as Ms. R read the rest of the poem. That poem was okay, but what was with those old words like “far and wee”? They sounded so weird.
“Over the weekend you were asked to write a poem about something you are passionate about,” Ms. Rodriguez said.
Avery squirmed in her seat.
There were lots of sighs heard from around the class.
Dillon looked at Avery and rolled his eyes. Avery wanted to laugh, but she was afraid Ms. Rodriguez would see her.
Betsy Fitzgerald raised her hand. “I’d like to share my poem with the class, Ms. R.”
Now it was Avery’s turn to roll her eyes. A poem by Betsy. Oh, boy, this was going to be good. Avery could hardly wait.
“Let me guess,” she whispered to Pete Wexler, who was sitting right next to her. “Betsy’s probably passionate about how she color-coded the paperclips in her desk drawer.”
Pete squelched a laugh, which made it look and sound like a loud sneeze instead. Ms. Rodriguez glared at them both. Avery flashed her very best I’m-paying-attention-and-can’t-wait-to-hear-Betsy’s-poem smile.
Ms. Rodriguez raised her eyebrows. Avery knew she was skating on thin ice. She’d have to try extra hard to show fake enthusiasm for Betsy’s poetry.
Betsy Fitzgerald stood up and went to the front of the room. She cleared her throat, took a deep breath, and began…“Perseverance.”
She paused and looked proudly around the room. Avery figured Betsy thought the title alone was impressive enough for applause.
Avery couldn’t resist: “Perseverance? That’s what she’s passionate about?” she said out of the side of her mouth. Pete didn’t make a sound, but he began shaking all over.
Betsy’s poem had a lot of big words and rhymed like she was reading something from Mother Goose. Now sometimes, thought Avery, Mother Goose is funny. But there was nothing funny about Betsy’s poem. It was boring with a capital B and really serious. And she read like she was on stage doing Shakespeare, pausing dramatically after every line, as if to give the class time to understand her deep ideas. Avery couldn’t help yawning and putting her head down on the desk. The poem seemed to drone on forever. It’s too bad Betsy doesn’t have a cape and a sword, thought Avery. That might improve her performance.
By the time Betsy finished, Avery was afraid to turn around. What if everyone in the class had fallen asleep?
“Thank you for sharing, Betsy,” Ms. Rodriguez said as she clapped loudly. Ms. R always made everyone clap after someone got up and presented. This time she probably wanted to wake everyone up, figured Avery as she joined in. Betsy walked back to her desk, nodding to her classmates.
“Perseverance is very important. I bet we have some other inspiring pieces as well,” Ms. R said, looking around at the restless class.
Pete Wexler raised his hand. “I wrote about pretzels.”
“Pretzels?” Maeve asked. “I can’t believe that you’re passionate about pretzels!”
“Yeah,” Pete said, “I am.” Unlike Betsy, he read his poem sitting in his desk chair.
Ode to a Pretzel
My dad takes me to Fenway Park,
Where snack food vendors like to bark.
“Pizza, come on, get your cheese!”
None for me, Dad, if you please.
“Fenway Franks, here, Fenway Franks!”
Fenway Franks today? No thanks!
“Soda, soda, get your pick!”
The thought of soda makes me sick!
“Peanuts, peanuts, cashews too!”
Peanuts? Cashews? Boo, boo, boo!
When I’m in my Fenway seat
There’s just one thing that I would eat.
It’s warm, it’s soft, it’s great to chew,
It’s doughy, sweet, and salty too.
When Dad takes me to Fenway Park
And snack food vendors start to bark
There’s only one that makes me cheer:
“Pretzels—get your pretzels here!”
No matter if it’s rain or shine
A pretzel will make the game fine.
So if the Sox (gasp) LOSE the game
The pretzels make me glad I came.
Avery thought it was pretty funny, and so did the rest of the class. Ms. R called it “simply marvelous.” Pete blushed big time. Avery didn’t think anyone had ever complimented Pete Wexler on his schoolwork before. He was probably in shock. Avery was getting excited now. If what the class wanted was chuckles, wait until they heard her poem.
“Thank you, Peter. You sound very moved about pretzels, you sound…”
“I was. I got a humongous pretzel at the Sox game. Dillon and I went to Fenway on Saturday.”
“Awesome game,” Joey Peppertone blurted out. “I saw it on TV.”
“What happened?” Avery asked. She was usually the resident expert on the Red Sox, but she’d been so exhausted and upset from worrying about Marty that she’d only quickly checked the score a couple of times. Between Marty and having to write a poem, Avery had abandoned her beloved baseball team. She felt like a totally disloyal fan.
“Will someone please tell me?” she looked frantically around the room.
“Where were you? On the moon?” Dillon asked. “Flores broke out of his hitting slump on Saturday night.”
“He did?”
“Yup. A single, a double, and a three-run homer. Six RBIs in all.”
“Woooo HOOOO!” Avery shouted as she leapt up from her seat.
“Avery!” Ms. Rodriguez said, giving her a stern look. “Keep it down.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. R. It’s just that Robbie Flores is what I’m passionate about.”
“Me, too,” Maeve sighed.
“I even wrote my poem about him,” said Avery.
“Would you like to share it with the class?” Ms. Rodriguez asked.
“Yeah!”
Avery popped out of her chair and rushed to the front of the room, then spun around to face the class. She was so excited about Robbie Flores that she just knew the class, especially the Red Sox fans, would love her poem.
The poem was short. AND it could be acted out—at least a little. As Avery read her poem, she swung an imaginary bat and jumped up in the air, pretending to catch a fly ball in the outfield.
Rookie of the Year
Extra! Extra! Read all about it!
Red Sox are gonna win, no doubt about it!
Forget about Babe Ruth and move back Sosa
Our dude makes Mark McGuire look like a posa
Sorry, Ms. Rodriguez, but I’d rather play some hooky,
I want to go to Fenway NOW to see the brand new rookie!
His name is Robbie Flores, and some girls say he’s cute,
But I just care ’cause he’s the best new ballplayer to
BOOT!
Curve ball, fast ball, lefty pitch or right
It doesn’t even matter—Flores hits it out of sight.
Extra! Extra! Flores gets it done!
He’s up at bat again and hits another sweet home run! When Robbie Flores stands at bat he looks so strong and
brave
The sight of him alone will make the Sox fans do a “wave.”
“Boo Yankees! Boo Yankees!” some fans like to cheer.
But I will shout, “Go, Flores! You’re the rookie of the year!”
So if you bring your mitt for catching Flores’s pop fly,
Please don’t hold your breath or get your little hopes too
high.
Chances are if Robbie takes a swing at any ball,
The only thing to catch it will be the old Green Monster
wall!
Extra! Extra! To the World Series, we are bound!
I wonder what good luck it is that Robbie Flores found.
I was great, Avery thought smugly as the class clapped and whistled. Avery smiled and took a bow. Pete and Dillon stomped their feet for emphasis.
Avery’s probably the only girl in the whole school who cou
ld get away with a performance like that, thought Maeve, laughing.
“Enough,” Ms. Rodriguez said between laughs. “Avery obviously has a lot of passion for baseball, the Red Sox, and Robbie Flores in particular. Thank you for sharing, Avery. You can go back to your seat now.”
On her way back to her seat, Avery high-fived Maeve and Dillon.
Back to Reality
Charlotte felt sick to her stomach as Avery read her poem. How could she be so happy and carefree when Marty was lost somewhere? And to top it off, Avery’s poem was about baseball, reminding Charlotte what had started this whole mess. It’s a good thing she sat on the other side of the room. She was so distraught that she didn’t want to be near Avery right now.
“Can I go next?” Charlotte asked when the noise finally died down. Charlotte stood at the front of the room. She read her poem about losing Marty.
A Rhyme for Marty
Losing a pet is like losing a best friend,
No comforting words can anyone send.
I hope Marty’s safe, not scared and alone.
More than anything, I want Marty to come back home.
If he doesn’t, it will never ever be the same.
Nothing will make it better, not wealth or fame.
If Marty the dog is gone forever,
Sunny days will seem like bad weather.
When Charlotte finished, she looked up from the paper. She looked right at Avery. Avery’s head was face down on the desk.
There was no yelling or whistling. There was no laughing or stomping of feet. Everyone seemed sad and serious.
“Avery,” Ms. Rodriguez said. “Are you okay?”
Avery raised her head and shook it sadly. Tears were running down her face. Ms. R grabbed some tissues and brought them to Avery.
Suddenly, Charlotte felt awful. She remembered Mrs. Weiss’s advice. “Everybody gets distracted sometimes.” Was she actually starting to be mean to Avery? She’s obviously as upset as I am about losing Marty, she just doesn’t always show it the same way.
“As you can see from the four poems we heard today,” Ms. Rodriguez went on, “poetry can pack a big punch. Have you found little Marty yet?”
“No,” Charlotte said, her voice breaking. “We lost him on Saturday. He’s been missing for…” Charlotte checked her watch. “For forty-five hours. We’ve looked everywhere. It’s like he…vanished. Into thin air. I don’t know what to do.”
The class was silent. Everyone knew that the BSG were crazy about their little adopted dog.
“Maybe someone kidnapped him…you know,” Joey Peppertone suggested.
Kidnapped! That had never occurred to Charlotte. She assumed that, like the pets that were stranded in hurricane areas, Marty was lost out there along the creek or the Charles River. Lost and homeless. But…kidnapped! She snuck a look at Avery. Her tearstained face pained Charlotte.
Dillon jumped in. “Hey, I saw that on some TV show…dogs were missing all over this neighborhood, and…”
“I doubt that’s the case here, Dillon,” Ms. Rodriguez interrupted before Dillon could reveal any more disturbing details. “Charlotte, do you have any fliers?”
Charlotte nodded.
“Perhaps we all could take a few posters and help distribute them around all the neighborhoods. Why don’t you get them out, Charlotte, and anyone who would like to help can take a few,” Ms. Rodriguez suggested.
Charlotte pulled the stack of fliers from her book bag and handed them to Ms. R.
“Why don’t I leave them on my desk?” she asked.
At the end of the class, the BSG waited as their classmates all came up and grabbed a few fliers. Even Anna and Joline, the famous Queens of Mean, took some. Maeve exchanged surprised glances with Charlotte.
“Maybe they’re not as bad as we think they are,” Maeve said as Charlotte gathered the remaining fliers and left the classroom.
“Maybe they have a sweet side we don’t know about,” Isabel said.
Katani looked at her like she was crazy. “Yeah right! And God doesn’t make little green apples and it don’t rain in Indianapolis in the summertime.”
“What?” Charlotte asked.
“It’s a song,” Maeve said. “An old song…good one.”
“What I mean is, those two were probably showing off for Ms. R. You know how they like to pretend they’re sweet in front of the teachers. I bet they’ve wadded them up and thrown them away already,” Katani said.
“No, Katani,” Isabel spoke up. “I think you’re wrong. They both like Marty. I ran into them into the park once and they were really nice to him. Joline even said he was ‘adorable.’”
Katani wasn’t so sure. She would believe it when she saw a flier in Brookline Village where they both lived.
Avery’s Blog
Why Robbie Flores should be Rookie of the Year
- Highest batting average
- Highest number of RBIs
- Highest slugging percentage
- More than 20 stolen bases
Marty’s still missing. Almost 48 hours gone. Where is he?
CHAPTER
8
High Hopes
Charlotte was alarmed when she arrived home with Maeve to find her father’s bike on the front porch. He wasn’t supposed to be back from school until after six on Mondays. Was there something…
“Dad?” she called up the stairs as soon as she pushed through the big wooden front door of the yellow Victorian. “Are you home, Dad?”
“In here, Char,” he called down from the kitchen.
Charlotte pounded up the stairs. Her father was bustling about in the kitchen. “Hello girls,” he said as he stirred a pot of fragrant soup.
“What’s going on, Dad? Why are you here so early?”
“It’s Monday. I cancelled my office hours today. I thought…where are the rest of the BSG?” He looked over at Maeve.
“Katani had to help her sister and Isabel and Avery had basketball practice. So Maeve came with me. She said she didn’t want me to come home alone to an empty, Marty-less house,” Charlotte sighed.
“Ah, that’s nice of you, Maeve. Well, don’t leave her standing in the foyer, Charlotte.” Mr. Ramsey beckoned for Maeve to come in.
“How about some popcorn and chocolate milk, ladies?”
“Yes, please,” both girls nodded. “Popcorn is a favorite in the Kaplan-Taylor home, Mr. Ramsey,” added Maeve as she sat down at the kitchen table.
“Well, Maeve, I don’t think my popcorn will stand up to your dad’s, but for an afternoon snack it will have to do,” laughed Mr. Ramsey. Everyone knew that the Brookline Movie House—the theater that Maeve’s parents owned—had the best popcorn in town.
“Dad…”
“Charlotte…”
Both Charlotte and her father spoke at the same time.
“You first, Dad,” Charlotte said as she grabbed a handful of warm, buttery popcorn.
“Listen, I thought we could spend some time this afternoon visiting animal hospitals and shelters. While I was waiting for you to get here, Charlotte, I looked up all the clinics and marked them on the map. If someone found Marty, they might have taken him to one of these places.”
Charlotte got up and hugged her dad. It was so great of him to come home from work to help them search for Marty.
“Mr. Ramsey,” Maeve interjected. “That is a brilliant plan. Don’t you think so, Charlotte?”
“Not only do I think it’s brilliant, but I think we should get going right away. And Dad…”
Her father looked at his daughter with a reassuring smile. He knew how important finding Marty was to Charlotte.
“Can we stop at the Copy Cafe first and get more copies? Oh…and before we leave I need to check the website,” Charlotte said.
“I already checked, sweetheart.”
“And…?” Charlotte asked a twinge of hopefulness in her voice.
Mr. Ramsey shook his head. “Nothing.”
Charlotte choked
back a sob. She couldn’t cry now. They had work to do.
Maeve looked pensive. “Mr. Ramsey…Perhaps we could drive by the park first. Maybe Marty returned to the last place he saw us,” she suggested.
Charlotte doubted that this was possible, but she was touched by Maeve’s concern.
“Good idea, Maeve. Let’s get going,” Charlotte said, heading toward the door.
Charlotte was happy that both her father and Maeve were there to help her look for Marty, but it was Monday afternoon. Marty had already been missing for forty-eight hours. Charlotte was beginning to lose hope.
Maeve must have read the worry on Charlotte’s face. “Don’t worry, Char,” she said, squeezing her friend’s hand. “We’ll never stop looking for Marty!”
Hip, Hippo-ray!
Katani sat next to Kelley in the middle seat of Big Blue, her grandmother’s old boat-size blue car, and stared out the window. Normally, Katani loved to go for a ride in Big Blue. Usually it meant a trip to the mall or a day trip to Cape Cod. Ruby Fields loved to take her granddaughters on little adventures. She said it was “good for the soul.”
Today was different, however. They were going out to Weston to the High Hopes Therapeutic Riding Stable. Weston was a half-hour away from their home in Brookline. That meant in addition to the riding lessons, Katani had to spend an hour in the car with her sister instead of hanging out with her friends, or more importantly, looking for Marty.
Katani was really worried about Charlotte. Char was so angry with Avery and her role in Marty’s disappearance that Katani was afraid it might impact their friendship. It was so unlike the normally sensitive Charlotte to get that mad, or even be mad at all. Perhaps, wondered Katani as she stared out the window, it was easier to be angry than feel sad that Marty might be lost forever.
As they got closer to the stables, they entered a semi-wooded suburban area of Boston that Katani had never been to before. It was lovely, but she wouldn’t let herself admire the beautiful trees or the graceful colonial homes. She didn’t want to go horseback riding—and that was that.