“What I’ve learned in seventh grade is that there’s more than one way to be a snob. True, I’ve never been intentionally mean to anyone or started any rumors, or criticized the way someone was dressed”—I noticed several of my classmates looking down at their hands—“but I found my own ways to be a snob.
“Maybe I really don’t have much in common with many of my classmates,” he continued, glancing in our direction. “Or maybe I do and I just don’t know it because I haven’t given them the chance.
“One thing I’ve learned is that as much as I enjoy reading books, sometimes it’s time to stop reading somebody else’s story and start living my own. I’m going to put a little more effort into making friends…and into being a friend.” He caught my eye and smiled. I smiled back.
“What I’ve learned in seventh grade is that there’s more than one way to be smart. I’m pretty smart in some ways. I’m an idiot in others.” He shrugged. “I’m learning. We all are.”
He looked up from his paper and gazed at the audience.
“That’s what I’ve learned in seventh grade.”
TWENTY-FOUR
“A toast,” Dad said, “to our honor student.”
Dad, Grandma and I raised our glasses of iced tea and clinked them together. We were having our celebration lunch at a Mexican restaurant after the Honors Day ceremony.
I wrinkled my nose. “Thanks,” I said, “but all I got was one measly certificate for the A-B honor roll.”
“Well, that one little certificate suits me just fine,” Dad said, tousling my hair. “Actually, it was a relief when the principal backed off from his plan to have you skip eighth grade. The thought of enrolling you in medical school before you turned thirteen was a little overwhelming.”
I smiled. “Sorry I’m not brilliant like Mom was.”
Dad and Grandma exchanged glances. “Elsa, honey,” Grandma said softly, “your mom was brilliant in my eyes, but she was just a normal girl at your age.”
I shook my head. “No,” I said firmly. “Mom was lots of things, but normal wasn’t one of them.” I got a dreamy look in my eyes. “Mom was perfect.”
Dad propped his elbows on the table and leaned his chin on his folded hands. “Honey, it’s easy to idealize people after they’ve died,” he said gently, “but I think the best way we can honor Mom’s memory is to remember her the way she really was: perfect to us, but with her fair share of flaws, just like everybody else.”
I stared at my tea. “I don’t remember any flaws.”
Dad smiled. “You don’t remember how klutzy she was? Like the time she spilled a gallon of paint all over the kitchen floor? Or the time she pulled up too close to the drive-through menu and flattened it like a pancake? And she was always running late.”
Grandma chuckled. “Always. And always asking me if I knew where her shoes were. She could never find her shoes!”
My eyes were suddenly moist, but my heart felt light. “Just like me. When I was little, I was scared of monsters hiding under my bed, but Mom said a monster would never be able to fit with all the shoes I had stuffed underneath,” I said, laughing softly.
“Thank heaven she kept a pair of flip-flops on the garage steps for emergencies,” Dad said. “I think she ended up wearing those flip-flops to my office Christmas party one year.”
The ice clinked in our glasses as we laughed and sipped our tea.
I wrinkled my nose and smiled. “I wonder if she ever gossiped,” I said.
“I know she did!” Grandma replied cheerfully. “Once, when she was around your age, she got mad at her friend Cara and told everybody that she had six toes. In all!”
I giggled and bit into a tortilla chip.
After our laughter had died down, Grandma swallowed a sip of tea. “But your mother’s kindness always won out in the end,” she said. “She felt so bad about the six-toes rumor that she bought Cara three new pairs of sandals so everyone would know it wasn’t true.”
“Why didn’t she just lend Cara her emergency flip-flops?” Dad said, and we laughed some more.
Bright piñatas swayed ever so slightly throughout the restaurant, as if a light breeze had just buoyed them from below. My heart felt buoyed, too. I winked into the air, knowing that Mom was blending in.
“Hi, Mom,” I whispered to myself. “Thanks for watching out for me.”
TWENTY-FIVE
“Yerrrrr out!”
The umpire stuck out his thumb, and the Harbin Springs Middle School batter dropped his bat and trotted to the dugout.
No big deal. Our team was winning by six runs in the top of the ninth inning, so the game was basically in the bag. Even so, I was nervous. As I sat in the bleachers with a baseball cap shielding my face from the late-afternoon sun, all I could think about was Martin. He’d sat on the bench the whole game, just like every other game of the season. He insisted that he didn’t care…really, he was glad not to make a fool of himself, he assured me…but this was the last game of the season, and it wasn’t fair that Martin had never even had a chance to bat. He’d had such a great day, winning the essay contest. He had to bat at least once today. I didn’t care who won the game; I just wanted to see him play.
Fat chance. With two outs in the ninth inning, the Harbin Springs Middle School baseball team was minutes from wrapping up the season.
“Next up: Martin King.”
Martin King? The announcer’s voice boomed his name over the loudspeaker. I couldn’t believe it. The coach was going to let Martin bat!
“Go, Martin!” I shouted from the stands, jumping to my feet and clapping.
“Who’s that kid?” I heard a voice behind me ask.
“Some benchwarmer,” came the response. “The coach must figure he can’t lose at this point.”
Their remarks made me shout even louder. “Knock it out of the park, Martin!” I called, sticking my pinkies into the corners of my mouth and whistling for good measure.
Martin’s trip from the dugout to home plate seemed to last an hour. He kept glancing back at the dugout, like he was making sure the coach hadn’t made a mistake. The coach waved him on, but Martin looked like he wished the field would swallow him whole.
“You can do it, Martin!” I shouted. One way or another, you can do it.
The bat seemed to wobble as he hoisted it behind his shoulder.
“Choke up, kid!” the loudmouth from behind me yelled. Martin’s knuckles were white from his death grip on the bat.
“You’re doing great, Martin!” I called.
The pitcher threw the ball, but Martin didn’t move.
“Stirrr-ike one!” the umpire said.
The pitcher threw a second ball, and again, Martin didn’t move.
“Ball!” the umpire said.
Whew.
Then a third ball. Martin stood as still as a statue.
“Stirrr-ike two!”
I bit the fingernails of one hand while I dug the other set into my thigh. Come on, Martin!
The fourth ball whizzed by, and Martin didn’t move a muscle.
“Stirrr-ike three! Yerrrr out!”
Omigod….
I rubbed my locket. “Do-over!”
The last ten seconds of the game rewound…pretty cool watching a ball whiz back to the pitcher…and the umpire repeated, “Stirrr-ike two!”
“Martin, swing!” I shouted from the bleachers. “Choke up and swing! I’ll get you through this!”
He turned slightly and caught my eye for a second. I smiled and he smiled back. He knew what I meant.
This time, when the ball sailed toward him, Martin swung with all his might…and missed. But at least he swung.
I rubbed my locket. “Do-over!”
Ten-second rewind. “I’ll get you through this!” I repeated, and he smiled at me.
The pitcher threw the ball, and again, Martin swung as hard as he could.
And missed.
I rolled my eyes. Nothing was easy with Martin. “Do-over.”
&nb
sp; Ten-second rewind.
“I’ll get you through this!”
Martin let the bat fall by his side for a moment while he shook his shoulders to relax. When he hoisted the bat again, his body language was different. He seemed…confident.
I whistled again, bouncing in the stands with excitement.
The pitcher threw the ball. Not a great pitch…it veered far enough to the right of the bat that the umpire would probably call it a strike…except that Martin hit it.
Slammed it, even. Leaning to the right to follow the arc of the ball, Martin dipped into the swing, then leaned into his right knee and smacked the ball so hard that the crack of the bat made me jump.
And I wasn’t the only one. As the ball soared high over the pitcher’s head and arced toward the outfield, every person in the bleachers was suddenly on his feet. There was a second of stunned silence, then a low appreciative whistle from the bigmouth behind me. (I was starting to like that guy.)
Martin didn’t move at first…just stood there with his jaw dropped, like the rest of us…but as the outfielders lifted their gloves and followed the ball’s path, he dropped the bat and started running. As he rounded first base, the ball sailed out of the center fielder’s reach and plunked to the ground. The crowd screamed more loudly. Martin rounded second and was headed for third by the time the center fielder caught up to the ball and threw it to second base. The second baseman spun it off to the third baseman…who dropped it.
The coach was frantically waving Martin home. With his arms pumping, Martin ran until he was a few feet from the base, then slid into home.
“Safe!”
A home run! The crowd roared.
Martin’s teammates rushed from the dugout to slap him on the back as he pumped his arms in the air victoriously. Martin King, cocky? I guess anything was possible.
Our eyes locked as he walked back to the dugout, and I gave him a thumbs-up. The look in his eyes said it all: Thanks, Elsa.
But I hadn’t hit the ball. He had. He just needed to believe he could do it.
Now he did.
TWENTY-SIX
Do-Over Day Thirty-one
“Hi, sweetie.”
I gasped. My eyelids had been fluttering as I drifted on the verge of sleep, but now I was wide awake. Mom was back.
“Mom!” I turned in my bed to face her, then buried my face in her lavender-scented nightgown. “You came back!”
“Well, I couldn’t exactly let you turn thirteen without wishing you a happy birthday, now, could I?”
I laughed and cried at the same time. “I want one of your vanilla pound cakes with green frosting,” I said. “I refuse to have a birthday without my green birthday cake.” I pouted.
Mom winked at me. “I don’t think you’ll have to,” she said. “I was in the kitchen blending in while you were out today, and Grandma was up to her elbows in flour. She might just have a surprise for you in the morning.”
I smiled. “It won’t be the same.”
Mom sighed in mock exasperation. “Come on, now!” she said. “Who do you think taught me how to bake?”
Good point.
I peered into Mom’s eyes. “I’m sorry I screwed up, Mom,” I said sleepily. “I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes the past few weeks. If only I’d listened to your advice to be true to myself.”
“You were true to yourself, honey,” she said, laying her cool palm on my cheek. “Sure, you took a couple of spills along the way, but you found your footing. I knew you would. I’m proud of you.”
The tips of Mom’s hair brushed against my face. “So,” I said, “I guess my powers end at midnight.”
“Officially at four twenty-six a.m.,” she corrected me. “That’s what time you were born.” Her eyes sparkled even in the dark. “Do you think you’re ready to make it on your own now, minus the do-overs?”
I nodded. “The funny thing is that I think I was ready before. I just didn’t know I was.” Sometimes perfectly horrible is perfectly fine and you don’t know it yet.
She ran her fingers through my hair. “You really are learning!”
I smiled. “Should I give you back the locket?” I asked.
Mom looked like she was thinking it over. “Nah,” she finally said. “After tonight, it’ll just be…well, frankly, a pretty tacky piece of jewelry. So wear it as much as you want. Just don’t blame me for turning you into a fashion disaster.”
“It’s funny,” I said, rubbing the locket. “Grandma never came right out and told me, but it seemed like she knew something was up.”
Mom nodded. “She’s the one who gave the locket to me, you know. I think she had her own experience with it. I don’t think it packed quite the punch for either of us that it did for you, but there’s definitely something special about it. And it seems to keep getting passed down from one generation to the next…which means when your daughter’s thirteenth birthday gets close…watch out!”
We laughed, but my heart was feeling heavy. I gazed at Mom’s face. “Will you come back again, after tonight?”
Mom shrugged. “I’m such a pain that they keep making exceptions for me,” she said, making me laugh. “So who knows? Maybe I’ll be back.”
“Are you scared, Mom? Is it really weird where you are?”
“Nah. Don’t be scared of death, baby,” she said softly. “It’s a piece of cake…no pun intended.”
I smiled.
“And,” she continued, “don’t be scared of life. Give it all you’ve got, kiddo.”
I took a long, deep sniff of her skin. “I miss you, Mom. I love you.”
“I love you more. One day, you’ll know how much, when you have your own daughter.”
“No,” I said, “I already know.”
I gave her a kiss, and she disappeared.
Well…blended in.
About the Author
Christine Hurley Deriso began her career in newspaper journalism and has written for numerous national magazines. She is the publications editor at the Medical College of Georgia. Her first book, Dreams to Grow On, received the 2003 Independent Publisher Book Award in the category “Most Inspirational to Youth.” She and her husband, Graham, live with their children, Gregory and Julianne, in North Augusta, South Carolina.
OTHER YEARLING BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY
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LUCY ROSE: HERE’S THE THING ABOUT ME, Katy Kelly
SAMMY KEYES AND THE HOLLYWOOD MUMMY, Wendelin Van Draanen
GIRLS RULE!, Phyllis Reynolds Naylor
KEY TO THE TREASURE, Peggy Parrish
MACARONI BOY, Katherine Ayres
TROUT AND ME, Susan Shreve
ALIDA’S SONG, Gary Paulsen
SONG OF SAMPO LAKE, William Durbin
THE TRUE PRINCE, J. B. Cheaney
Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York
Text copyright © 2006 by Christine Hurley Deriso
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
For information address Delacorte Press.
Yearling and the jumping horse design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/kids
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eISBN: 978-0-375-89091-8
Reprinted by arrangement with Delacorte Press
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