“Eggs?” Garland wiped his hands on his shorts.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ve got a date with June Mattingly.” And I had my eye on strawberries and oatmeal raisin cookies instead.
“We’ll prep before the game, okay?” Garland never let the Grill routine mess up my own, and I was awful grateful for that.
Triple dropped his plate in the sink and launched himself out of our flimsy front door. He took Twang with him, because although Twang made a great banjo, in a pinch he also did a really great job of housing turtles.
A smack-split second before I lost sight of his brown curls, he turned around and said, “Last one back does the onions!” We both hated doing the onions. Slicing them made you cry and frying them made a bunch of grease splatters. Still, like I said, I’d always preferred grease splatters to blisters.
The night before had been dark and still except for Ferdie and his flashlight, but in the steamy morning you could almost see some electricity in the air. Since the stadium was pretty much in our backyard, I didn’t have to walk far to get to it, but I still wanted to go through it rather than around it.
I’d liked it that way ever since Marcus’s dare.
So I waited in the space between right field’s foul pole and some dusty gravel, right behind a sign that was stuck to the fence, as close to the wood as I could get. It didn’t matter that the paint on the other side was peeling and faded, because I knew what it said even without seeing it: THE SWEET STREET MART, FILLING BELLIES AND HEARTS SINCE 1957. I slipped through the skinny hole between FILLING and BELLIES, where the boards were too bowed to stand up straight. Marcus had shown me that you had to suck in your gut to not get splinters, but once you breathed again, you’d be standing right there in right field.
Even though it was hours before the game, I could still feel this rickety old park’s majesty. The charm of the Ridge Creek Rockskippers was never lost on me. Some of the kids in the Christmas‑tree part of my life got a little snobby when it came to sports, what with the Milwaukee Brewers sharing their state and all. You could feed a family of eight at Garland’s Grill for the cost of one plain old hot dog at a Brewers game, so I didn’t really think that was something to brag about. I never did see what the big deal was about the big leagues.
This place was more like me. Maybe because it felt kinda nice that I was the one to stay put for a bit and the players were the ones on the road together.
Luckily, June Mattingly stayed put at the stadium all summer, even during away games. She had to, since her husband, Franklin, took good care of that grass, the green I was standing on in right field.
Franklin Mattingly had broad shoulders, massive hands, and an even bigger heart. Players came and went as they got good enough for the big leagues, and the teenagers that sold peanuts and pretzels night after night left for college. But Franklin Mattingly was always there. The first to show up and the last to leave.
He had been the groundskeeper since the year the James Edward Allen Gibbs Stadium was built, and it belonged more to him than anyone who ever wore a Rockskippers uniform. He was why center field and left field looked just as good as the one I was on. He was why even the dirt sparkled. He was also why June Mattingly smiled so big that some of her lipstick shimmied down and stained her front teeth.
Halfway through the fifth inning at every game, Franklin would drive June around on his cart as it smoothed the infield, and they would hop out at second base and dance. They didn’t depend on the ballpark organ for the rhythm; they just made up whatever felt good, I guess. Some nights it was a calm kind of boogie and other nights it was a flailing type of jive, but my most favorite nights were the slow dances. June always kissed the top of Franklin’s shoulder and they stood there, just for a moment. And after their dance, they’d hop back in the cart and continue as if nothing had ever happened.
Games like that made me forget about the onions and annoying Betsy Plogger and the table for four in our Rambler. Maybe we were lucky, getting to watch baseball and sunsets every summer.
But then the sprinklers ch-ch-chhhhhhed on without any warning, spraying me with water from all angles. June wouldn’t care if I looked a little unruly. I could be wearing a prom dress or a grease‑splattered T-shirt and she would still call me Sugar Sue.
“Careful!” Ferdie’s voice carried across the infield. “Grounds crew won’t want to clean up your mud prints!”
I nodded over in his direction, toward third base, both because I didn’t want to give Franklin more cleanup work and because I didn’t really want to get much wetter either. And I didn’t even mind that I’d gotten caught sneaking in again. It would be a good story to tell Marcus later.
So I raced down the first‑base line. Dirt and chalk flew up and stuck to my wet legs, making a slimy mess all the way up to my knees. I didn’t mind that, either.
I jumped on home plate for good luck, waited until I heard three clanks of Old Glory waving wildly into her pole, and then ran my hands along the net behind home plate to find the strings where the knots had come loose. And then I used Marcus’s secret hold-your-breath trick and executed a very ungraceful belly-slide under the bleachers.
Five
THE inside walkways of the James Edward Allen Gibbs Stadium cast the same kind of spell as the outfield. They smelled like peanut butter from all the smashed and salted shells, which was almost as delicious a smell as the one in Franklin’s field.
The day was still quiet, but getting louder. There were some pops and cracks of gloves as the Rockskippers began to take the field for drills, and a cluster of pigeons poked around for stray peanuts. They’d have more luck once the season was in full swing, because for now the stadium was looking almost brand-new again.
June’s tiny hut always made our Rambler look like some real queen’s quarters, but her place was just as special. Rockskippers pennants earned in seasons past covered it from the shingles to the ground—always blue and red, some more weathered than others. They were familiar and faded, like some kind of home.
I heard her singing something a little bit hushed inside her box office. And then, there she was. June came out with two lemonades and a grin. “Hey there, Sugar Sue. I’ve been waiting for you.”
I flopped into her arms and didn’t even care that I was still grassy from the outfield and wet from the sprinklers, or that a cold bottle of lemonade was giving me goosebumps where she pressed it into the back of my arm. She was easy to melt into, and just like when Franklin danced with her under the stars in the infield, she rocked me back and forth and just let me be for a minute.
“What do you think of this color, Sugar Sue?” June pulled away and smacked her lips, and all of the years between my eleven and her many more slipped away.
“Fancy, June—perfect for the first game day of the summer,” I said. “It’s almost even the Rockskipper red.”
I never talked about lipstick with Garland and Triple. Color only mattered to them when the gas gauge got to red or the evergreens weren’t so green.
“There’s this new one you might like—it’s called Christmas Nutmeg. Doesn’t make much sense to smear Christmas Nutmeg on your lips when it’s hotter than the devil’s sauna here in Ridge Creek, but it sure is beautiful.”
And that was the first time I ever thought the name Derby Christmas Clark was glamorous like hers.
“It’s gonna be a fine summer, Sugar Sue.” June disappeared into her box office. She didn’t come back out with strawberries or oatmeal raisin cookies like she did when we were on her porch, but she did have two old Rockskippers seat cushions. It looked like the cush part had long gone, but we plopped onto them, right on the front steps of the stadium.
“Did you get in real late?” she asked.
“Not too bad,” I said. “After it’d gotten dark, but we still did the ride-around.”
June sipped her lemonade, which left a little ring of red around the rim of the bottle. “Lots to see, hmm?”
“I mean, it would be
impossible to get the Rambler down by the creek, so we didn’t get there yet,” I said. “Triple’s already down there, of course.”
“Because of Charlie?”
She was right about that. Charlie Bell was the littlest daughter of one of the pitchers, and she always won the turtle race at the Rally. I’d always told Triple not to get so hung up on those dumb turtles, because she had twelve whole months to train them in Ridge Creek, and Triple was stuck with not even one.
“I suppose Mr. Bell wasn’t traded during the off-season?” I asked hopefully. June laughed the kind where you throw your center of gravity out of whack, and I could have sworn I saw her tear up a little too. I wasn’t sure what was so funny.
“How’s Marcus?” I continued.
“Marcus?” June got that faraway look again, but this time it came with a smile. “Bet he’s one of the greatest friends you’ll ever count on. Been looking forward to this day all spring too, you know.”
“Opening Day?” I blew across the top of my lemonade bottle, making a sound low and slow like June’s own song.
“I mean the day you get back here—that’s the one he’s been looking forward to, Derby.”
“Oh.” I didn’t want to rush away my time with June, but it was nice to know that someone was counting on my rambling just as much as I was counting on their solid ground.
“Do you and Triple want behind-the-dugout seats again? Every game? I haven’t sold those yet, see, because I knew you were coming,” June said. “How about Garland? Can we make it three this year?”
I couldn’t remember a time that Garland had taken me to a Rockskippers game. He always worried about the Grill and the burgers and the mustard tubs, and even on the night the Rockskippers’ marquee shouted CHRISTMAS IN JULY! GET YOUR STADIUM IN A SNOWGLOBE! he didn’t show up.
Maybe baseball just wasn’t his sport.
“I’ll ask him, June,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure he’s as close as he’s gonna get to the bleachers right now.”
“Well, then. Two it is.”
“Two it is,” I said. “Speaking of two, how’s Franklin? I didn’t see him when I snuck in.”
June set down her lemonade bottle and put her chin in her hands. “Franklin,” she said, and left it at that, because just then someone shuffled down the stairs. Ferdie carried a big box that must have held the letters for the marquee, because he’d dropped one or two behind him. June creaked her way to standing, picking up an L and a P along the way.
“Excuse me, ladies,” Ferdie said. “I’ve just got to finish this up before this afternoon.”
“Excuse me, too,” I said. “I think it’s about time for me to find Marcus at the creek.” I picked up both of the lemonade bottles so Ferdie wouldn’t have to, and skipped down the steps toward the Rambler’s side of the parking lot.
“See you both for batting practice!” I said, and off I went.
Six
WHEN I ran through the parking lot where the Rambler sat still, Garland was fixing up the Christmas lights and the ribbons and the greenery around the Grill. I slowed down enough for the trotting kind of high-five, even though it sounded like he wanted me to stay awhile.
“Derby,” I heard him say.
“The creek!” I said back, and kept going.
But before I could get all the way to the creek, I heard my stomach grumble. Since I hadn’t eaten eggs with Triple and hadn’t eaten strawberries and oatmeal raisin cookies with June, I was awful hungry. Maybe I should have stopped at the Grill after all, but the Sweet Street Mart wasn’t such a bad pit stop instead. After all, they’d been filling bellies and hearts since 1957.
Only problem was, that’s where Betsy Plogger spent her time. She didn’t like the creek so much, since she was fussy about her hair and things, so the air-conditioned pickle-smell of Sweet Street was how she stayed cool and kept track of Ridge Creek’s business.
And so of course when I got close, I saw both of those Ploggers right outside: Betsy and Lollie. They were the only two girl cousins in the whole Plogger bunch, and so Lollie was the only one who ever paid any attention to Betsy. Lollie was a year younger than me, so I didn’t pay her much attention either. Betsy, though, was one year older and a full head shorter, and she ran around Ridge Creek like the boss of everybody.
Nobody knew where Betsy’s mother was. Sometimes I wondered if that’s why Betsy was so mean-hearted, but then I figured it must be something else, because nobody knew where my mama was either and I didn’t go around trying to be the boss of everybody.
I flattened my hair down with my fingers and hoped I didn’t smell too much like a cheeseburger. “Hey, Betsy. Lollie.” I also hoped I was faking nice enough that they couldn’t tell I was gritting my teeth.
Betsy twirled around Sweet Street’s front porch banisters, and Lollie copied her. Both smacked their gum like cud-chewing cows, and Betsy blew three whole bubbles before she said hello.
“Welcome back to another summer of flipping burgers, Derby,” she said. “You might lose a whole lot of money this summer. I became a vegetarian.” The way she strung out vegetaaaaaaaaarian into a ten-second word made me forget I was trying to hide my teeth-gritting.
“That’s real nice, Betsy, but the Rockskippers are a pretty hungry bunch of boys, so I’m not too worried about one twelve-year-old vegetaaaaaaaaarian.” I couldn’t help it. I’m pretty sure Lollie wanted to laugh. “Well, if you still eat burgers, Lollie, it’s two-for-one Wednesdays again this summer. And Garland’s making some new sweet‑potato fries that I learned about somewhere down in Mississippi.”
Betsy rolled her eyes and blew a fourth and fifth bubble.
“That’s kind of like eating your vegetables and dessert at the same time,” said Lollie, looking between me and Betsy for some kind of nod.
Number six popped loudly.
“I guess so,” I said back, sort of disgusted by Betsy’s deflated bubble.
“Do you still have real dessert too, like ice cream or something?” Lollie asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Sprinkles and everything.”
With one fierce glare from Betsy, the nice parts of Lollie got sucked back inside, and that was the last I’d hear from her for a while.
Then Betsy turned that glare to me. “I guess you’ll be using the lobby bathroom again this summer?”
Pop.
Pop.
“I guess so,” I said. “Good thing Lollie’s got a real nice mom.”
And I did mean that about Candy Plogger, for Lollie’s sake. But if Betsy was anything like me, it would sting. Even still, spitting out that kind of thing made me not so hungry anymore, so I figured it was time to go see about Marcus.
“See you later, Ploggers. And don’t forget, sweet‑potato fries—they’re even vegetaaaaaaaaarian!”
Good thing I had turned around by that point, because if I had gritted my teeth any harder, they would have shoved themselves up into my brain.
Seven
RIGHT when I’d untangled my heart from that conversation, I had to do the same with the vines of honeysuckle to get to the creek. Betsy would never fight this sweet wall just to get to the water, but she was really missing out. Not that I was ever missing her, but still.
Something familiar was on the ground, small and blue. It was a rubber band, and I figured it had snapped off Twang. Triple had barely known our mother; he didn’t even have two years with her before she was gone. But Twang was built out of a shoebox that had held her favorite sandals, and it was about all Triple had of her.
He probably hadn’t even noticed that his blue string was missing, on account of the turtles on his brain. But I scooped it up and stuck it in my pocket, figuring I’d come to the rescue of a shoebox banjo that used to hold sandals.
And that’s when I felt it. A small tube, cool and compact, with a tiny circle sticker on one end.
June.
She must have slipped the Christmas Nutmeg into my pocket while we were having lemonades under the marque
e. That made me do the kind of grin where you put your hand over your mouth and you don’t even realize it went there. But I stuck the lipstick back in my pocket real quick, ’cause I didn’t want to lose it to the quick-moving waters of Ridge Creek itself.
The path to the creek was well marked, thanks to all of the running back and forth kids had done here since who knew how long ago. You had to be careful in some spots or you’d get a branch in the face, but even after being gone for a year, I knew right where to leap and right where to duck. And after I’d gone about the distance around the bases, there it was.
Triple was a few rocks away, face‑down near the small rapids and the muck.
“Hey, Triple!” I yelled. “Any luck?”
All I got back was a halfhearted wave, and I couldn’t tell if that was good news or bad. So I flopped down on a rock, careful to keep my sneakers out of soaking distance. And then I twisted up the Christmas Nutmeg, rich and smooth and beautiful, and I put it on the best I knew how. That’s why I didn’t notice at first when Marcus showed up.
“Derby, what the heck is all that paint you’re putting on your face?”
“And why are you so filthy?” He had red dirt all over, from his knees down to his feet and from his elbows out to his hands.
Neither one of us was mad, of course—sometimes it’s easier to pick on a friend than to just say hello. And then we smiled and did our most favorite version of a Rockskippers victory high-five, one we had studied for two-thirds of a season before we got it right, the one that went right slap, left slap, right slap, fake the left slap and tap shoulders twice instead, slap the back of your left hands, go down low for a five on the right and then snap your way out.
By the time the snaps were through, a whole year had fizzled away.
“How’s June?” Marcus asked, a little quiet. “You saw her?”
“June? Great, I think. She said it’s going to be a fine summer,” I said. “Oh shoot, I forgot to tell her about the sweet‑potato fries. You are going to love them with a burger or two. Unless you became a vegetarian since last year.”
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