“I’ve been picking a new bunch of this every day,” June said. “Once she gets yanked out of the ground she’s a rebellious kind of flower, wilting into white strands like spider webs in July’s snow boots.”
“Why?”
“She doesn’t like to leave her roots. You, though,” June said, “you’re more like a dandelion, blown around by the wind and brightening up any kind of place, anywhere you land.”
Maybe June was right. All of that rambling made for a string of pretty good traditions, ones that I was good at. Ones that Garland and Triple and I made together.
And after all, dandelions are as good for wishing as pennies.
Later That Summer, When Days Were Shorter and Roots Were Longer
Thirty-Three
WE didn’t see much of Ferdie for a while after the big night, but we’d still hear from his letters. Sometime in July, the marquee said FOR YOUR DOLLARS AND TICKETS! STICK THIS IN YOUR BACK POCKET! The first year the Rockskippers had given out wallets, Lump told us that some of them came with twenty-dollar bills stuffed inside. Marcus and I had lined up at June’s box office that day, hours before batting practice.
They didn’t.
But since Ferdie had faded back into the letters, Marcus and I still used that space between FILLING and BELLIES, and that was better anyway. Closer to the bullpen, part of the magic.
Triple decided that crawfish were far superior to turtles because one had scuttled by so fast that he couldn’t even scoop it up before it was gone. He let Charlie keep Peter, because even though she said she was abandoning the sport, we didn’t believe it. And it was a good thing he’d moved on to popcorn-bucket drums, because those things were waterproof on the inside and crawfish needed a little bit of the creek with them all the time.
A little bit of their home.
With her sassy new haircut and Heavens to Betsy, that Plogger became second-in-command to her Aunt Candy, plotting and planning the next great event at the Heritage Inn, which was somebody’s retirement party. I knew she still bossed Lollie around some, but since Lollie had become the go-to nail painter for all the Ridge Creek ladies that would attend that retirement party, I didn’t think she minded. Betsy had moved on to painting doors, anyway.
Betsy also became the third-best thing about the grease‑splatters part of the year. Or maybe she tied with June for second. Marcus would always be first.
And he was the one who kept up the traditions of turf management all summer long. On some nights, when the electricity in the air was just right, he’d take a spin with June right past second base. He’d started wearing a Rockskippers jersey too, the one Lump got him, the one that had The Skipper spelled across the back.
I watched the two of them, Marcus and June, from behind the dugout with the girls on the odd days, and from the nosebleeds with Garland and Triple on the evens. We Clarks were rambling souls, planting roots in the James Edward Allen Gibbs Stadium, digging into its dirt and traditions. We’d made a home there, even though we would hit the road again with the last snap of a Rockskipper’s glove. We’d do it together.
And wasn’t I lucky?
Acknowledgments
The first thing that showed up in my heart was Garland’s Grill. It didn’t budge for a while, thanks to some busted wheels. But then there were some sparkling Christmas lights. There was a stadium, a turtle, and a Rambler. And then there was a girl.
All of these things make up a story. A lot of people make up mine.
Thank you, forever and always, to my mom and dad, Mary Ellen and Don Higgins. I’m so glad I was on the honor roll once upon a time and that the prize was tickets to see the Richmond Braves. That stuck. You did too. I love you.
This book is also for you, Sallie. You are a real true home with a real true heart, and isn’t Edward lucky? You’ve filled his home with books and his heart with hope. I love you both.
To Julie Falatko, Elizabeth Stevens Omlor, and Jess Keating: You’ve each given me gifts of storytelling, story-keeping, and story-seeking, and in a way, that’s like sharing souls, right? You take such good care of mine.
It is an honor to be a part of the literary legacy that is Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Books for Young Readers. Thank you to everyone who has loved Derby and welcomed her into your world. Special thanks to Sharismar Rodriguez and Brandon Dorman for picturing Derby more perfectly than my heart had done before.
To my editor, Jeannette Larson, thank you for looking at a lump of words and phrases and broken parts and spinning it into something beautiful. You understand both me and Derby in a magical sort of way, and I’m so very grateful.
And to my agent, Rubin Pfeffer: I’m so proud that this is our first book together. I can’t read about Betsy Plogger popping her bubblegum without remembering how you knew what this story was about before I did. Thank you for your endless wisdom and love.
To everyone who reads this book, thank you for spending your time in Ridge Creek.
And to you, Alex. We’ll always have baseball.
MiddleGradeMania.com
About the Author
Author photograph by Katrina Marcinowski
CARTER HIGGINS is a school librarian, book blogger, and graphic designer. A Rambler Steals Home is her first novel. A native of Virginia, she now lives in Southern California.
Learn more at www.carterhiggins.com
A Rambler Steals Home Page 11