“Starving. All they’ve got in the bullpen is pistachios and chewing tobacco, and that stuff will rust up your teeth.”
“And your mom would have a fit, right?” I wrote up a ticket for Marcus’s favorite—two hamburgers with extra mustard, extra pickles, and stuffed with onion rings—and reached it over to Garland.
Garland swung around. “No way this order belongs to anyone besides my man Marcus Emmett!”
“Hey, Garland,” Marcus said. “Welcome back.”
“How’s your mother?”
“Real good. She’s real good. Says she’s been perfecting a new pie recipe for the Rally, if you’ll be there.”
“Well, of course,” Garland said. “The best kind of food is the dessert kind, right?”
He never said anything about the Rally being fun, but he was real into the food. That’s probably because the Rally had every kind of pie anyone could ever imagine, and Garland was pretty good at imagining. The best-tasting baked thing won a ribbon and bragging rights for the whole next year, and the Ridge Creek ladies thought that was better than any kind of pennant. Last year Estelle Hooch’s chocolate chip cookies beat out every single one of the pies, including Candy Plogger’s Famous Apple. Candy didn’t take that too well, but those cookies were even better than June’s.
All the Rockskippers skipped warm-ups and batting practice on Rally Day and let kids try to knock them into the dunk tank or smack water balloons into the backs of their jerseys, right in the numbers. It was a way for all of Ridge Creek to feel like a Rockskipper for a day, and the players were real good sports about it, even if they didn’t play too well later on account of all those pies.
Garland couldn’t wait for the pies, and Triple was even more excited, since the Rally was when the turtle race happened. The whole day was kind of like a church potluck, but without the church and with a lot more reptiles. It was mostly in the stadium parking lot, but some parts stretched to the inside, like the race-around-the-bases and the kids’ softball game. With an actual game later, it was a real busy day for the grounds crew, who’d always been a crew of just one.
“The Rally. Big day for you now,” I said down to Marcus once Garland twirled back around to the burgers.
“I know.” And then Marcus bent down and picked up a penny.
“This year?” I strained to see if it was shiny in his palm. Marcus looked up at me and smiled, which was a loud and clear yes.
“See you there,” I said. I handed Marcus his two hamburgers with extra mustard, extra pickles, and stuffed with onion rings, and off he went.
Remembering Marcus on Franklin’s cart was like catching the faintest glimpse of myself. I wondered if I would help at the box office if it were June who was gone—and what about the rest of the year? Had anyone sat with her on the porch eating oatmeal raisin cookies since Christmastime? My gut sank lower, right to the spot where sadness goes.
It struck my brain then that I didn’t really know much about June Mattingly through the other seasons. She’d been here for me, summer after summer after summer, but I’d only ever offered her endless burgers and fries in return.
“Derby? Hello? A milkshake?” And as quick and quiet as those thoughts had come, they floated away like the swirls of a just-blown-out candle, because Betsy was next in line.
“Sure. A nice vegetarian option, of course,” I said.
With a Triple and Twang tune in my head—something about racing turtles and turtledoves—the rest of the short night in the Grill seemed like it was exactly what Garland loved: food, family, and fun. But my heart jumped along with the grease splatters when I thought about the Aren’t we lucky part.
I didn’t think we were very lucky at all. Lucky is having one good girl cousin and vegetarian french fries. All we were was tired and sad and smelling like onions.
Twelve
LATER that night, Garland was at our teensy kitchen table, scattering cookie crumbs and sipping his nightly chamomile tea in his favorite mug—the one with a picture of Santa Claus chopping down a snowy Christmas tree. He and Triple always fought over it, because Santa Claus’s pants were ripped and you could see right through to his snowflake-patterned underpants.
Peter was traipsing around on the floorboards, which startled me a notch, and so when I fell onto the bench alongside Garland, I almost spilled Santa Claus and his unmentionables.
“Triple—” I said, catching my breath and the mug. And then I saw the dollar bills stacked in neat piles, all across the table.
“Derby Christmas Clark, it’s the sweet‑potato fries! That must be what people love, the sweet‑potato fries—” Garland sputtered on like a mad scientist admiring his monster. “I don’t think we’ve ever been tipped this good on an Opening Night!”
“Here’s a tip,” said Triple, crawling around behind Peter. “Don’t feed your turtle something he might mix up with a finger.” Triple had Band-Aids on about three of his, so he must have been speaking from experience.
“At least that’s not your strumming hand,” I said.
Garland hummed something mumble-like and Triple did too, and I was the only rambler without a song.
“When you said to turn those tubers into fries, I really didn’t believe you, Derby. I mean, vegetables other than onions? At Garland’s Grill? Seems like it would work for Triple or Charlie Bell or someone who is still learning the ropes in this world, but grown people? Fried-up vegetables?”
Garland kissed my head, but it felt a little like he used my hair as a napkin for his crumbs. And then he paced away, up toward the driver’s seat, his hands each clutching a fistful of dollars. Right behind the reclining part was the safe where we kept important things—things like our money, the papers that let us operate the Grill, and Twang’s new just-in-case strings. Garland would rip out recipes from magazines we found at truck stops along the way and stick them in too, just in case he ever felt like making rotisserie chicken and zucchini frittatas and roasted peaches with caramel sauce.
He never did.
I’d known the code since long ago, the summer everything changed for us. Garland said as the lady of the place I’d get to know the important things, and the code was one of them. It was 0621, the last day my mama was a rambler, and that became the key to everything we kept safe. Maybe she meant to make the longest day of the year her last day with us, so that every June 21 after, some extra daylight meant more time we couldn’t see her.
I really hoped she hadn’t, but it’s what I wonder every single year.
When the night was ending and the boys in the Rambler were about to count sheep, I got ready to finish the last thing of my first day back in Ridge Creek. It was easy to forgive Marcus for skipping out on batting practice, because of the fifth inning and all, but he knew I’d spit on his onion rings if he missed meeting at the marquee.
But first I stuck Peter back into the sink so Garland wouldn’t step on him. Triple had sunk into the sticky plastic sofa, a matted mess of sweat and sunscreen, not even making it to his bunk. He was in that fuzzy place between sleep and serious, Twang in his hands.
“Night, Derby,” he said, full of sweet. “Teach me a high-five soon?”
“Tomorrow. First thing.” It was a whisper and a promise. “Rockskipper high-five and turtle training.”
A quick change and a little Christmas Nutmeg later, I headed out to the stadium. I didn’t need to worry about being too quiet—both Triple and Garland sawed logs in their sleep.
I think it reminded them of the Christmas trees.
Thirteen
MARCUS beat me to the marquee.
There he was, sitting right under it and shaking the last ice cubes in his soda cup from the Grill. I didn’t say anything—not because I was trying to creep up on him, but because I didn’t have the right words anyway.
Instead, I grabbed his other hand, pulled him up, and started our favorite Rockskipper high-five whether he wanted to or not. By the time we got to the shoulder-tap part, we’d
both found some words.
“What’s up with the lipstick?” Marcus asked, and even though I wished he’d found something different to say, it sounded nicer than what he’d said about my face at the creek.
“June gave it to me.” I pressed my lips together, not entirely sure if I thought I was fixing the Christmas Nutmeg or hiding it.
“Is she gonna give you a hairbrush one of these days?”
I could see all over his face that he was teasing, but since he didn’t understand a single thing about being glamorous, I shoved him on the last shoulder I’d tapped.
“Help! Please! My raking arm—” He taunted right back with a real pathetic fake groan. The combination of me trying not to let him see me laugh and his fake stumbles sent us both into fits. And when Marcus collapsed once more underneath those marquee letters, I sat down right next to him on the concrete steps.
“Ferdie already changed the sign.” Marcus looked down.
“Oh.” I made myself look up, and tried to hide the shake in my own voice. “‘Sunglasses Tuesday! Sport Rockskipper Shades!’”
Marcus took a big sip of nothing from his empty cup.
“That’s—real important,” I said. “You know, with how dangerous the sun is these days and all.”
I couldn’t figure out the look Marcus gave me. But then, quiet as a whisper with laryngitis, he said: Franklin.
I knew then that his look was a kind of flood wall, holding back the choppy waters of sorrow and hope and boys-don’t-cry. So I put my hand on top of his. It took a while for his shoulders to stop shaking, and when they did, his face was still red-hot with leftover tears.
“You’re his Sugar Sue?” As soon as I asked that question, I knew it sounded ridiculous, but I was still so startled by his storm.
“I’m his Skipper. He calls me that. Well, called me. This year, while you were out rambling.”
I studied his face, threw time in reverse, and tried to see what I had missed. “So, the grounds crew? That’s why you couldn’t watch batting practice with me like always? You’d rather dig around in the dirt than watch the boys knock homers on it?”
“Derby, I don’t want to play that old ball. You know how my dad’s been forever and always—thinking I’m some mini-Lump, ready to drop in and take over left field the second he gets a head full of grays.”
“You love baseball,” I said, trying to understand.
“Yeah, yeah, I do. But I figured out that I don’t want to play it. Goose and Scooter probably aren’t having those same conversations my dad is with me, because Betsy and Lollie are just girls. I mean, not that I wish I was one of them, but at least they can’t play ball. For me, it’s like there’s not even a choice.”
Marcus’s unwinding threw me a bit off-balance, but that girl part still stung. He kept on. “What would Garland say if you told him you hate Christmas trees and flipping burgers? Wouldn’t he leave you right on the side of the road?” Marcus threw his cup to the ground, and it rolled back and forth before it settled down.
After that, it was quiet. But since friends know the different kinds of quiets, I waited for him. I didn’t think he was actually expecting an answer to that last question anyway, seeing as that was pretty much what my mama had done.
“Sorry about the girl thing. And the side-of-the-road thing,” Marcus said. “I didn’t mean it.”
“I know.”
“Ferdie caught me after Franklin was gone, Lefty,” Marcus said, riding a wave of relief. “Poking around in the bullpen. At first I thought he was afraid I was gonna raid the fertilizer stash or something, but then I figured him out a little.”
Marcus said it with all the seriousness of Miss Houston’s organ-playing hopes, but I couldn’t suck the chuckle in fast enough. “Marcus Emmett: The Baseline Lime Looter!”
He shot me a look that would freeze an August creek, but I knew he thought it was funny. “Ferdie’s not so strange, you know. Stood next to June at Franklin’s service. Patted her shoulder and handed her tissues every once in a while.”
“I’ve never seen him that friendly with anyone,” I said, looking up at the marquee. Those letters tonight seemed so silly for someone with such a quiet way about him.
“I know. And so he told me that Franklin wouldn’t have wanted me just poking around, and he gave me the keys to the mower. Haven’t lost them yet.” Marcus patted his pocket and it gave a little jingle. “He’s even paying me a little bit of money, but I’d have done it anyway.”
“For Franklin,” I said.
“For Franklin,” he echoed.
It wasn’t like I didn’t know and love Franklin Mattingly like the rest of Ridge Creek did, but I didn’t remember him and Marcus having much of anything in common besides the Rockskippers. Maybe my friendship with June had gotten in the way of realizing other people might be looking for someone to share lemonades with.
“It started over Thanksgiving,” Marcus continued, as if he’d heard me wondering. “My dad and I went over to the stadium with Goose and Scooter. We had to throw balls and run off some pie, and my dad thought that was why I was all weird.”
“Weird?”
“Yeah, like I’d had one too many pieces of chocolate chiffon and the sugar had made me grumpy or something.”
Turns out, the grumping was because Marcus didn’t want to play that old ball. Not one bit. And he let his dad know.
Marcus said Lump was so mad that he left his best glove right there in the outfield. And Marcus said he was so mad that he just stayed there, with Lump’s best glove. When the sun dropped and the chill rose, Marcus moved to the bullpen and fell asleep under Franklin Mattingly’s tarp.
“How did you make it under there, sleeping in the cold all night?” I knew Ridge Creek never got to be Wisconsin cold, but I never would have thought Marcus’s stubbornness would be bigger than his comfort. It made me awful sad, though—the thought of only that tarp protecting Marcus, as if he were just plain old dirt and grass.
“I mean, I was mad, but my dad was right about having one too many pieces of chocolate chiffon,” he said. “That sugar knocked me out cold as the weather.”
Bright and early the next morning, when Thanksgiving had barely turned into a regular old day, Franklin had found him.
“Ah, the Skipper awakes,” Franklin had said.
Marcus said he was a jumble of apologies and embarrassment and the shivers, but Franklin didn’t seem to see any of that. It was like he’d been waiting for him, for who knows how long.
And from then on, Marcus was just the Skipper, wrapped up into Franklin’s fold. Neither one of them would know they’d only have a month together.
“Hey,” Marcus said. “We almost forgot.”
He dug into his pocket, the one that jingled with the groundskeeper’s keys, and pulled out the penny from earlier. I inspected the date to make sure our luck might work, and we placed the coin right between our thumbs. When we were little, Lump had told us that if you found a penny that matched the year, you could make a wish that would come true by the close of summer. He said the James Edward Allen Gibbs Stadium was as good as any old pool of water, and so each year after that, we’d wished on as many new pennies as we found, thinking Lump was as reliable as the heat. As we got older, I figured we were just leaving pennies in the bleachers for Ferdie to have to clean up, but maybe he needed a little bit of luck too.
Garland never did like me digging through the tip jars, so it was a good thing that Marcus had found this one on the ground. I don’t know if we broke the rules by sharing a penny and not our wishes, but it was the way it was.
After the wishing, Marcus and I sat under the shouts of SUNGLASSES TUESDAY! until I was pretty sure we saw the stars shift. We crossed the parking lot once more, me toward the Rambler and him toward home.
I didn’t tell Marcus, but I’d wished on June herself. Why had she wanted me to meet her at the box office and not her front porch? If Marcus could keep a secret, then I could too. Except this secret was jus
t a whole bunch of I don’t know yet.
June 8
Fourteen
EVEN without a lot of luxurious sleep in my queen room, I woke up in the morning fit as a fiddle. Or in my particular case, sharp as a shoebox banjo.
I remembered the night before with Marcus, when our loud and laughing minutes had outnumbered our quiet ones, and even though I was still a teensy bit annoyed at him for spoiling my first day by ditching me at the creek, it almost felt like the summer could start fresh.
Except it couldn’t.
Franklin was still gone, June was still alone, and those troubles were bigger than wishes could solve.
Triple must have already been down at the creek with Peter, and Garland was busying himself at the Grill with his chalkboard art and checking the Christmas lightbulbs. I was alone in the Rambler. I grabbed a mug from the sink—not the Santa Claus one—and hoped Peter hadn’t crawled all over it in the night. Just to be safe I gave it a good rinse, and poured myself the rest of the cold coffee Garland had left. And then I got dressed and put on my Christmas Nutmeg, and off I went.
I ran quick past the Grill in case Garland decided he needed help right then with the tinsel, and ran straight to June’s box office. It was early still, so I figured she wouldn’t be there just yet. But the thing was, I needed her to be. And I needed to wait for her unseen, still as a pitcher right before the windup. So I crouched behind that box office somewhere by the 1981 pennants and away from the watchful eye of Ferdie.
It didn’t take too long before I heard her singing, breaking up the morning’s haze with pretty drops of song. “Morning, Ferdie,” she called to somewhere above her, and I hoped he hadn’t noticed me.
“Miss June” was the only response to her call, and I pictured tissue-sharing and sadness-bearing.
But I pushed that all aside, and once I heard the box‑office door shut, I took off. Marcus said that I was the only one who ever got invited over to where the Mattinglys lived, even though I’d never been past the porch. As long as Lump had been a Rockskipper, no one knew what their real place was like. Their most-of-the-time place was the James Edward Allen Gibbs Stadium, and that was okay with the people who called Ridge Creek home. Maybe it was a perk of being a rambler on the road, but whatever it was, being invited to a porch swing to sort of call your own was something special.
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