“What?” Marcus flipped his wilder-this-summer hair around a little, and then said, “Oh. Betsy.”
“Oh, Betsy,” I said, and then our smiles turned to the laughing kind.
Through the trees shading the creek, we could hear Miss Houston’s kerplunks. She was the organist at the stadium, and she wasn’t all that good. But that meant batting practice was close, and watching the warm-ups was what Marcus and I always did on game days. We’d stand low in the bleachers pretty close to the bullpen and watch his dad, Lump Emmett, shag balls and joke around with the rest of the outfield. The rest of that outfield happened to be Goose and Scooter Plogger, who played right and center field alongside Lump’s left, and they happened to be Lollie’s dad and Betsy’s dad. Lollie and Betsy weren’t into batting practice like we were.
“Derby,” Marcus said, “I gotta go. I can’t make batting practice.” And before I could even ask him why or why not or anything at all, he leaped and ducked his way away from the creek.
“Marcus Emmett, get back here! It’s tradition!”
I hoped a root would stub his toe and slow him down, but it didn’t. He was gone.
And so was Triple. I’d probably have to do the onions.
Eight
I FOUGHT my way back through the honeysuckle, which seemed to hang lower than it had on my way in. Once the mud on the path had turned back to dirt, both Marcus’s and Triple’s footprints disappeared. But each step took me closer to where they were supposed to be, toward the stop-and-start of Miss Houston’s notes, toward the hit-and-run of the Rockskippers’ warm-ups.
Back at the stadium, I stopped behind FILLING and BELLIES and pressed my face as close to the bow in the boards as I could without being in danger of splinters. There was no shimmying through when the Rockskippers had the field, since a fly ball was way more dangerous than a sliver of wood. And at that angle, I couldn’t even see our spot close to the dugout. That was where I was supposed to be with Triple in one hour, watching Marcus roaming around somewhere nearby.
It was my opening day in Ridge Creek.
And now it was all wrong.
What in the world was going on with Marcus Emmett? Sneaking around the same way Garland did when there was pie involved? Running off to who-knew-where and not even telling me?
At least there’s always June, I thought. I should thank her for the Christmas Nutmeg. I circled around the long way, behind left field to the front of the stadium, avoiding the Grill side of the parking lot because maybe Triple had gone back and been stuck with the onions and would holler at me for help.
The stadium was a bit more bustling now. Season regulars dotted that side of the parking lot, wishing and hoping and praying for their boys. That meant, of course, that June was already in business at the box office.
I was kind of invisible in that field of folks, but I could still soak in whatever it was they were whispering to each other. All of their eyes looked up more than at each other, and mine searched for what they were looking at.
Up there on the marquee were the rest of Ferdie’s letters.
SAVE US ALL A DANCE, FRANKLIN MATTINGLY.
THE ROCKSKIPPERS MISS YOU.
Save.
I stared at that marquee so long that the insides of my eyelids saw fuzzy spots, soft and gray and angry all at once. Those things under my eyelids moved down to my belly, almost like the sinking feeling was the news itself, soaking into each bone, slow and sure.
“Derby,” I heard from somewhere out of reach.
For the second time that day, June hugged me. And it should have been the other way around, me making posters for her and hugging her and bringing her ice-cold lemonades. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t wanted to be on her front porch, with the swinging and the strawberries. Maybe that’s why we’d met at the box office. Maybe being close to his name on the marquee stuck her extra tight to him.
“June,” I said. “How? Why?”
She held my face in her hands, like an expert in the art of comfort. “It was time, Derby. He got sick, and it went fast, and we sent him to forever with some dirt from this place.” She waved her arm toward the stadium when she said that, toward the place they both called home. “The man at the funeral home thought that was real strange, but I knew Franklin would be right understanding of all that dirt.”
“I wish I had known,” I said.
“We had his service right here, right on the field.”
“I bet you were awful careful with his grass?”
“Sure were,” June said. “He’d have been gnawing at his fingernails if he knew about all those feet on his turf, but I bet he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”
“He knew,” I said.
“I know,” she said.
The line was getting longer at June’s box office, wrapping into the parking lot where some kids were playing catch, but nobody mentioned the waiting. They let her be and let me be, and we stood there under Franklin’s name until batting practice was nearly over and I was real late for prep at the Grill.
Nine
GARLAND always said aren’t we lucky, ’cause whether the creek rises or the pit sinks, we’d just ramble on to the next pin in the map. Leapfrogging those pins made me homesick, but I guess there could still be heartache even when your pin was planted in one place.
I walked real slow from the stadium to our side of the parking lot, hoping to get a little distance from the marquee. Except that wasn’t any kind of possible, what with the Grill being only one long sweet potato-fries line away.
There Garland was, sitting on the step to the Rambler and unraveling the last of the Christmas‑tree lights for the Grill. Maybe he’d been waiting for me. Maybe he’d seen the marquee too.
“Hey, Garland,” I said, scooting in next to him on the step.
Garland wrapped his arm around me and said, “How’s June?”
That’s when I finally cried the kind of cry where your breath catches up in your throat and you can’t suck in a good one without your shoulders rising up. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t let me go.
“Did you know?” I asked him.
“Candy Plogger sent me a message at Christmastime. Right about when things are supposed to be the happiest. I didn’t want to wreck things for you and your brother.”
Garland hated the idea of troubles interrupting such a jolly time. We must have been wrapping trees like huge burritos right about then, watching the white lights coming and the red lights going. And here was June Mattingly, left alone like the bright North Star itself.
“She said this was gonna be a fine summer,” I said.
“Could still be,” Garland said. “She’s got you back. That makes her awful lucky.”
“Can you come to the game? She asked if you’d be there.”
Garland fidgeted with his lights, knotting them up even more than they’d been when he started. “No, ma’am,” he said. “Not my thing.”
“I’m sorry I missed prep time. Tell Triple I’ll clean up extra for him tonight.”
“Not my thing,” he said once more, quieter.
I’d heard him, though, so I stood up to wash the dirt and tears off and let him finish that untangling all by himself. Another trip to the Heritage Inn wasn’t real high on my want-to-do list, but it was necessary, and so I went.
“Did you fall in the creek or what?” Of course Betsy saw me. Lollie was with her, matching step for step.
“The or what part,” I said.
I wasn’t in the mood for trading eyerolls with Betsy Plogger. I kind of just wanted to go to the bathroom and get on with things. The two of them marched past, leaving behind poofs of more perfume than any girl had business putting on.
“See you at the game?” Lollie said, letting Betsy get a step ahead of her.
I could have sworn she even smiled at me a little.
Ten
“TRIPLE, are you ready? Come on, it’s time.”
He was still dirty from the onions and whatever else he’
d prepped at the Grill, but making him clean himself up wasn’t worth a rumble.
“Charlie said it’s twenty-five whole dollars for the winner this year. That’s five more than last summer!” Triple stuck a pickle spear toward a turtle’s mouth. Twang wasn’t doing much good as a banjo anymore, because he’d taken up a new job as a turtle habitat.
“Looks like a fast one,” I said, whether or not I believed it. “What’s his name?”
Triple thought for a minute. “Peter,” he said. And then he ate the pickle spear himself.
“Peter. Okay, then,” I said. At least someone around here had a good old-fashioned normal name.
“Ready?” Triple asked me that question like I hadn’t asked him first, as though he’d gotten transfixed by Peter and a pickle and forgotten that the first game was about to start.
But I laughed, and I didn’t argue when Triple said he was bringing Peter along. Sometimes, later in the summer, the marquee read BRING YOUR DOG TO THE STADIUM DAY! BEER FOR YOU! BONES FOR THEM! And so if Ferdie was okay with a bunch of drooling dogs, I’m sure he’d be okay with a turtle in a shoebox.
“You really don’t want to come, Garland?” I knew the answer would still be no, but it’s like he always said—food, family, and fun. Asking again was the family part of that.
The look on his face was all the answer I needed. It looked a little sad, like when you hear some music that stirs up something inside your soul that you didn’t even know was there.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll see you after.”
“I’ll leave the light on for you—all three thousand of them!” And there it was again, the sparkle that made Garland Garland.
We didn’t need to wait in June’s box‑office line. She’d given me the tickets already, and the fewer people who had to meet Peter, the better.
Triple and I always sat together behind the dugout on the first‑base side—every inning, every out, every game. I liked having some time with just him, and I think he liked it too. Marcus was always nearby, but he was more of a roamer, so once our batting‑practice routine would end, we’d high-five goodbye until the sun set and the burgers flipped. He liked left field to give Lump a little oomph and he liked close behind home plate to taunt the ump. But a lot of the time he’d just get bored with baseball and sneak into the bullpen to share some pistachios and blow bubbles with the relievers.
Even though he was supposed to be everywhere, Marcus wasn’t anywhere. And I was still mad at him for not telling me why.
As Triple and I scrambled up the steps and the noise of the stadium tickled my bones, I felt like a small part of something big. Miss Houston whaled on the organ with all the dazzle of a third‑base coach wildly waving a runner home. Rockskippers were scattered on the field in their blue-and-whites while they stretched and spat and scratched. Howls of “Peanuts! Popcorn! Cotton can-day!” echoed from the upper deck.
Triple seemed less enchanted by the magic that was swirling around and much more interested in the cotton can-day.
“Fine, fine, Triple. Let’s just sit down first.”
Charlie Bell’s dad was pitching. I liked him an extra bunch because we were both lefties. When he ran out to take the mound, he flashed me a thumbs-up, the left one.
“Strikes, Mr. Bell!” I yelled down to the field. “And, hey, free sweet‑potato fries all summer for the first shutout!”
Garland might not have been too thrilled by my giving away free sweet‑potato fries, but that was how easy it was to get caught up in the glory of this old place. Even Peter was clambering all around inside Twang with the most excitement a turtle could muster.
“This is awesome,” said Triple.
“Yeah,” I said.
It was.
And it still was through the first four innings. The outfielders ran all around the grass out there, protecting their turf from the other guys’ runs. Mr. Bell threw more strikes than balls, and the newest Rockskipper even hit a home run.
But then the fifth inning came around, and the stadium roar lowered to a hush. Everyone waited. Everyone wondered.
“Where’s Franklin?” Triple asked.
What about June? I thought.
Lump Emmett caught an easy fly ball to end the top of the inning. I’m pretty sure he also caught flickers of memories in his glove, because he stood still for just a nod and a beat before jogging back toward the dugout. I looked around for Marcus, sure he would be raising his fists in pride and jumping higher than the rest of the crowd.
I still didn’t see him anywhere.
Miss Houston began to play, and her song had hints of bittersweet vibrating through it. Maybe I was the only one hearing things, but one ear heard a rousing in-between-innings tune and the other heard heartbreak.
But the Rockskippers didn’t go into the dugout for the switch. Instead, clump by clump of brawny ballplayers stood guard just outside the bullpen, which wasn’t much more than some dirt and overturned buckets for chairs just across the foul line from shallow right field.
It’s also where Franklin Mattingly had kept his rakes and tools and cart. And there was June Mattingly, in the bullpen without him.
Clump by clump, the Rockskippers took off their ball caps, revealing bald heads, sweat-soaked hair, and a whole lot of awkward smiles that stretched more down than up.
June stood still. She smiled back, hers a little more successful in the upward way.
“Is that Miss June?” Triple had to stand on his seat to see.
I didn’t answer. Because then, introduced by a few clunky plunks from Miss Houston, the ramshackle bullpen fence swung open and out came Franklin Mattingly’s cart.
Marcus was driving it.
Even from all the way behind the dugout I could tell how fiercely he was gripping the steering wheel, knuckles whiter than a brand-new baseball. When he got to the infield, he hopped out, unfurled the rake, and moved through the motions of groundskeeping, swift and fluid.
I held my breath when he rounded second base—and I think the whole stadium did too. But Marcus didn’t dance. He only raked and patted and dragged in a kind of businesslike manner. And it didn’t really matter if I watched Marcus or June or the army of Rockskippers, because my eyes blurred and burned anyway.
Back at the bullpen, June wrapped her arms around Marcus.
And then the Rockskippers put their caps back on, Miss Houston plunked an oops or two, and the game continued like it was just another hot Ridge Creek evening, the sun dropping over the James Edward Allen Gibbs Stadium.
Eleven
OPENING Day for the Rockskippers meant Opening Night for Garland’s Grill, so all of Ridge Creek tumbled out into our side of the parking lot for cheeseburgers and play-by-playing after the game. The Rockskippers had won, 4–1, which meant it’d be as crowded as the creek on a blazing day. Everyone had room for snacks and chatter when we were the champs. And even though I was happy about my fellow southpaw’s win, I was happier that I wouldn’t have to sneak him any free shutout sweet‑potato fries just yet.
Garland made Triple wash up real good and leave Peter in the Rambler, and even though I didn’t think he’d want to find Peter relaxing in the kitchenette’s sink, it was where that turtle was. Triple turned Twang back into an instrument, since Peter had a place to hang out for a while, and that’s when I remembered the blue rubber band.
“Here,” I said, and flicked it in his direction.
And because it was also in my pocket, I sweetened myself up a touch with the Christmas Nutmeg and splashed some water on my face before we left the Rambler.
“Hey!” Triple said. “Peter!”
“Easy, Triple. He’s probably used to being wet.”
The two of us walked to the Grill, which took about as much time as a bowling ball takes to split the pins. Triple did his acoustic act up and down the line and I ducked inside to help Garland. Even though Triple was a small thing, only two Clarks fit inside the Grill if you didn’t want an elbow in your side. I flung orders
and Garland flipped burgers, and while I stacked the baskets, he steamed the buns. All of his Aren’t we luckys vibrated real loud in my ears, and I tried not to sweat all over the sweet‑potato fries. We’d perfected this cramped choreography of the Grill long ago, so I stepped in time as best I could.
“Southpaw!”
Mr. Bell’s untied sneakers were the only thing I could see, so I bent down to catch a better picture through the tiny pickup window, grateful to suck in real Ridge Creek air instead of the steamy onion sauna of the Grill. And then I stuck out my left thumb.
“Real nice stuff out there, Mr. Bell! Bummer about that line drive Lump missed, or else I’d be fixing you a bunch of sweet‑potato fries, right?”
“Well, the season’s young, young’un!”
The way he pitched right back to me made Charlie laugh a little. She’d been hiding behind him like she was shy, even though Triple always made her sound bossy and too much like Betsy Plogger for her own good. I snuck a smile at her anyway.
“Three cheeseburgers and three sweet potato fries, and that’ll be all,” he said. “And does your banjo man out here take requests?”
“He’s a little light on variety, but you can try.” Talking about Triple like that turned Charlie’s shy to smug real quick, so maybe he wasn’t too far off about her after all.
But then the line shifted and I wished I hadn’t blamed Lump Emmett for wrecking the shutout. Because there was Marcus, right behind Charlie and her daddy that whole time.
He stared at me and I stared back, and my mouth kind of froze in the I want to say something way, but nothing came out. He didn’t call me a flycatcher or anything, so I bet he was just as stuck on words as I was. And Garland bumped my hip, reminding me that I had broken time in our tune.
Then Marcus laughed.
So did I.
And we were back.
“Hungry?” I asked, knowing the answer. “So, grounds crew? You should’ve told me.”
A Rambler Steals Home Page 3