The Rhino in Right Field

by Stacy DeKeyser

  I tossed her a few easy lobs, and she dropped the ball every time. She even threw the ball like a girl. Nothing like the rocket she’d thrown the other day. Which proves that the other day was a fluke.

  “Never mind,” she said after a couple minutes, awfully cheerful for someone who’d just looked ridiculous. “Thanks anyway.”

  And just like that, she handed back the mitt and marched off, with her cloud of hair flying and her socks bunched down around the tops of her saddle shoes.

  I watched her leave. To make sure she wasn’t coming back, that’s all.

  “What did Penny want?” called Ace from up high.

  “No idea.”

  “Maybe you shoulda recruited her as a spy,” he said as he scanned the zoo with his binoculars. “We could send her over to bug Pete and report back to us.”

  I snorted at him, but then I stopped. He didn’t know it, but Ace might’ve hit the nail on the head. Why would a girl turn up out of nowhere and ask to play catch? Maybe Penny was already a spy. For Pete.

  “Keep an eye out for that girl,” I called up to Ace. “I don’t trust her.”

  Ace laughed. “You’re nuts. She’s just a goofy girl, that’s all. What does she care about baseball and stuff?”

  Good question. “It’s just weird, that’s all. I‘d never seen her before the other day, and now she’s everywhere. Maybe Pete’s paying her or something.”

  Ace laughed again. “Not a chance. Pete’s a tightwad. He won’t ever chip in when we need to buy a new ball. Besides, you heard what she said the other day about the Fig Newtons. I don’t think she’s in a hurry to be friends with Pete.” He did a sweep with the binoculars, stopped all of a sudden, yelped, and scrambled down the mountain. “Zookeeper coming!” He slipped through the fence and kept going toward the ball field.

  I ran after him, wondering if the zookeeper had been tipped off by a tall, black-haired girl blowing bubbles.

  CHAPTER

  18

  SATURDAY. One week until the contest.

  At the shop, when I wasn’t shining shoes or sweeping floors, I did as many extra chores as I could, to make up for missing next Saturday.

  Ace steered clear all day. He said he didn’t want to distract me, but I think he just didn’t want Pop to grill him about next week’s “field trip.” Ace is the kind of guy who cracks under pressure, and we both know it.

  On Sunday during church I practiced in my head. I closed my eyes and imagined the ball sailing into my glove like a pin to a magnet. But Ma nudged me and whispered something about falling asleep in church, which I wasn’t doing at all. But I could see how it might look that way to somebody else, I guess.

  There sat Pete, across the aisle, between his ma (who doesn’t like me, for some reason) and his big sister Sophie (who wears too much perfume and lipstick). He kept giving me the stink-eye, which I hope is a sin if you do it in church. He even had the nerve to bring a baseball. He kept sneaking it out of his jacket pocket, just so I could catch a glimpse of it.

  Even in church, Pete’s a show-off.

  I started daydreaming about Pete dropping that baseball of his. I imagined it rolling up the aisle to the front of the church, bumping against the icon screen and sitting there, right at the feet of the priest, who’d pick it up, hitch up his robes, and hurl it all the way to the back pews. And then he’d banish Pete from church, and baseball, forever.

  It was a swell daydream.

  This time maybe I did doze off after all, because I jumped when Ma nudged me again. And then she gave me the stink-eye, which probably isn’t a sin if your mother does it, even in church.

  When the service was done and everyone was shuffling out, I hung back so I wouldn’t have to bump into Pete. But somehow I bumped into his sister instead, which was worse.

  “Hello there, Nicky,” she said to me, all sugary sweet. She had a smear of lipstick on her teeth.

  “Hey, Sophie.” I needed to get out of there. I’d already spent two hours in church. Not even God could expect me to hang around longer than that, especially talking to Pete’s smelly big sister.

  But Sophie tugged at my arm. “Where’s that uncle of yours? How come I haven’t seen him in church lately?”

  I happened to know that Uncle Spiro was a shameless heathen who avoided church religiously. Probably because it aggravated the heck out of Pop. But all I said to Sophie was, “Why don’t you ask him yourself sometime?” I pulled away from her greedy grip, trying not to shudder too much, since I was still in church.

  “I would, if I ever saw him around, silly!” She kept smiling, but her extra-red lips looked a little stiff. “Tell him hello, won’t you? Give him filaki for me!” And then she actually bent down and tried to kiss my cheek. Can you believe the nerve? Just because she wears lipstick and stockings and thinks she’s all grown up. No girl who’s not my mother is going to kiss me. I turned tail and got out of there, fast.

  Ma and Pop were already at the car. I climbed into the back seat, kicking aside the empty gum wrappers, cigarette packs, and custard spoons that littered the floor. Uncle Spiro was not the neatest guy in the world.

  “I see you talking to Sophia Costas in church,” said Ma from the front seat.

  “Not exactly.” I shifted on the seat. The gum wrappers crinkled under me. “She was talking to me.”

  “You be nice to Sophia,” said Ma, as if I’d just threatened to call the lipstick police or something. “Her mother is a very important woman at the church, you know. In charge of the Ladies’ Guild.”

  Ma said “in charge of the Ladies’ Guild” the way other people might say “the Queen of England.” The annual church festival was coming up soon, and Ma had been trying for months to get her koulouria accepted for the bake sale. Apparently the only thing standing in the way was Mrs. Costas. It’s an undisputed fact that Ma’s koulouria are the best cookies in the entire parish, so of course I wondered if Ma wasn’t getting anywhere with the Queen of England because of the fact that Her Majesty did not like me. For some reason.

  Pop made a grumbling noise. “Why Sophia Costas was talking to Nicky? It’s not ladylike, for the girl to approach the boy. And the rouge all over her face. She try too hard.”

  “What else she should do?” said Ma. “Almost twenty years old and not married yet. What she’s waiting for?”

  Apparently, she was waiting for Uncle Spiro.

  “Her father must tell her who she will marry,” said Pop. “What he is waiting for?” He swerved the Nash around a pothole.

  Ma made a tsking noise. “This is not the old country!” she said. “The young people, they want to make their own life. The arranged marriage is not for them.”

  “Why not?” hollered Pop. “It was good enough for us! Don’t we have a good life? Aren’t we happy?”

  “Sure we are happy!” Ma hollered back. “What does Sophia Costas know about making a good life with a good man? Nothing.” She crossed her arms, as if everything was settled and Sophie Costas was doomed. Which maybe she was, if she kept her sights trained on Uncle Spiro. I happened to know that he was just as terrified of her as I was.

  Ma turned toward the back seat. “Nicky,” she said, her voice melting. “Why not ask Taki Costas to come play at the house sometime? You go to school together, neh? You should be friends.”

  “Pete?” I jolted back in the seat as if we’d just hit another pothole.

  I should explain. In Greek, Pete’s name is Panagiotakis. Taki, for short. Pete hates that nickname (and who can blame him, but better him than me). One time, in second grade, he actually punched a kid for calling him Taki to his face.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Ma.”

  “Why not?” she said. “His mother is a very important woman at the church, you know.”

  “I know,” I muttered. “She’s the Queen of England.”

  CHAPTER

  19

  I MAY HAVE MENTIONED already that I’m not very good at writing in Greek, what with only twenty-fo
ur letters at my disposal. To be perfectly honest, I’m not all that great when all twenty-six letters are available either.

  I don’t exactly stink at writing. Not the way I stink at fielding, anyway. Let’s just say that if I could choose one skill at which the cards are stacked sky high against me (besides catching fly balls) it would be writing an essay. But once you’ve decided to forge your pop’s signature (in order to show up that bigmouthed, knuckleheaded Pete), you do what you gotta do.

  So there we sat on Monday after supper, me and Ace, on the floor of his bedroom, surrounded by pencils, erasers, and a zillion crumpled sheets of composition paper. Because not only is it hard to write a decent essay (even with all twenty-six letters of the alphabet), it’s even harder when you have to do it in a hundred words or less. Try it sometime.

  “Are you sure it didn’t say a hundred words or more?” said Ace.

  “A hundred words or less,” I told him. “I double checked.”

  “It’s impossible to explain how swell I am in only a hundred words,” he said. “That’s barely half a page. I’m already on page three, and I’m just gettin’ started.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m having the same problem.”

  He chewed his pencil for a while. “That does it,” he said finally. “I’m just makin’ a list.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not an essay. You don’t want to get disqualified on a technicality, do you?”

  “Why isn’t it an essay?”

  “Because an essay has . . . I dunno . . . sentences and stuff.”

  Ace stared at the sheet of paper in his hand. Then he sighed, crumpled it up, and started over.

  After about eighty years (okay, maybe twenty minutes) of pure torture, I put down my pencil and cleared my throat. “How does this sound?”

  “If I could be MUDPUPPY FOR A DAY, I’d never want anything else in my whole life. I would be best because I need this job. My Pop started a new life when he was 12 yrs old. Now I’m 12 years old and I want to start my own new life. My Pop says I work hard, and so I would work hard for the Mudpupies. I would be the best batboy. I hope you give me a chance to show you how I would be the best. I dont think a bat boy needs to catch fly balls. That would not be fare to the feilders. Besides, it is there job. Signed, Nick Spirakis.”

  “That’s swell,” said Ace, and I could tell he was impressed. “How many words?”

  I counted. “Dang. A hundred and sixteen.”

  “Does your name count?”

  “I dunno. The rules don’t say.”

  Ace chewed his pencil, thinking. “Don’t they know it’s you already? I mean, your name will be on the entry form, right?”

  He was right. I erased “Signed, Nick Spirakis.” “A hundred and thirteen words.”

  He chewed his pencil some more. He tapped the page. “You say ‘I would be the best’ in a bunch of different places,” he said. “Cross one out.”

  I crossed out and counted. “A hundred and eight.”

  “Isn’t that close enough?” said Ace.

  “I don’t think so.”

  He studied my paper again. After a minute he told me, “You say ‘I work hard’ in a bunch of places too. Get rid of one.”

  “But I do work hard. I really think they ought to know that.”

  Ace shrugged. “Just trying to help.”

  I scowled for a minute and stared at my essay. Then I crossed out some more words, and counted.

  “Ha!” I said. “Ninety-nine. Let’s hear yours.”

  But he pulled his paper to his chest. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  His ears went red. “It stinks. I’m not done. I got a long way to go.” Now his face was going red too. “I need a break. Wanna go toss the ball around?”

  And so we scooped up all the crumpled paper, chucked it into the wastebasket, grabbed our mitts, and headed outside.

  CHAPTER

  20

  YOU MIGHT BE WONDERING why me and Ace bothered to help each other, since only one person could be Mudpuppy for a Day.

  First of all, we’ve been best friends since kindergarten, and that’s what best friends do. I’m pretty sure that’s a rule (and if it’s not, it should be).

  Second, winning is more fun if you beat someone who’s top-notch. For example, I could beat my ma in a footrace, but it wouldn’t be as much fun as beating my Uncle Spiro.

  Third, me and Ace were united against a common enemy, and his name was Pete.

  So every day that week, right after school (except on Tuesday, on account of Greek school), me and Ace headed over to Mountain Goat Mountain.

  And every day, there sat Penny on the park bench, swinging her feet and watching us. I don’t mean casual watching either. I mean really watching. Every throw, every catch. Every missed catch too. She never made a peep, though. She just sat there, blowing bubbles and watching.

  I don’t mind saying, it made me nervous. And also very suspicious. Why would a girl be so interested in a couple of fellas playing baseball, unless she was up to something? She was new in town—for all I knew, she was in cahoots with Pete. That story of hers about Pete and the bubblegum in the Fig Newtons—the more I thought about it, the more I decided it was a bunch of malarkey. No one does something like that to Pete and gets away with it. Maybe she’d made up that whole story so she could come around every day to spy on us and then report our doings to Pete.

  I tried to forget about it. What could she report, anyway—that I was a lousy outfielder? Pete already knew that. And even after practicing all week, by Friday I was still a lousy outfielder.

  That was a problem.

  You might think it was because of that incident with the rhinoceros. But I’m not so sure it’s Tank’s fault. Sometimes I think I’d stink up the outfield even if Tank was replaced by a field full of bunnies. I mean, other fellas have had to climb into the rhino yard, and it hasn’t stopped them from being able to catch the ball. (Then again, I was the only one who ever got personally escorted out by Tank, so to speak.) Anyway, for whatever reason, it happens every time: I see a fly ball coming my way, and I freeze.

  So now it was Friday, the day before the contest. Me and Ace were practicing, as usual, when here comes Penny again, with her wild black hair blowing loose from her headband. But today she was carrying a beat-up leather pocketbook, and she was wearing overalls. Like she was Rosie the Riveter or something.

  “Hiya, Nick,” she said, plopping down on the bench just outside the fence, like she’d done almost every day that week.

  “Hiya. We’re kinda busy.”

  “Where’s Ace?”

  “Up there somewhere.” I pointed toward the top of Mountain Goat Mountain.

  Just then, a voice hollered “Incoming!” A second later, a baseball sailed over the top of the rocks. It hit its apex and hung there for a fraction of a second, like an eyeball that was looking for me. And then it found me, and came roaring down in my direction.

  The one thing I did not need right now was an audience.

  I held out my glove, but of course I missed the ball. It bounced on the ground next to me, bumped against the fence, and landed at my feet.

  My face burned. Because I knew she was watching.

  And then, for the first time all week, Penny piped up. I thought she was going to laugh, but she just said, “You’re not reading the ball.”

  I turned around and gave that girl the stink-eye. “What are ya talking about? You don’t read a baseball; you catch it.”

  “You don’t do either one,” she said.

  This girl was driving me crazy.

  “We’re kinda busy,” I told her again.

  She did not take the hint. In fact, she said, “I was wondering if I could play today.” She patted the hunk of beat-up leather on her lap, which was not a pocketbook after all. It was a baseball glove.

  “What’s that, your brother’s old mitt?” I said.

  Without batting an eye, she said, “My sister’s.” Deadpan humor, that’s w
hat Penny had.

  Why did she keep coming around here? Maybe I’d been right about her all along, and she really was a spy for Pete. I opened my mouth to chase her away for good.

  “Hiya, Penny!” It was Ace, up on the mountain. He climbed down while the mountain goats peeked at him from behind the rocks. “Hey, you brought a glove? Swell! You wanna help us practice?”

  What was he doing? I wanted to chuck something at him. We’d given her a chance already, when we’d let her borrow Ace’s glove, and she’d stunk it up pretty bad.

  “Why do you wanna play ball, anyway?” I said. “Shouldn’t you be playing dolls, or wearing pink stuff, or doing whatever girls do after school?”

  She didn’t take the bait. “That stuff’s boring,” she said. “I like to be outside. And I like you two guys okay. All those other boys are knuckleheads.”

  I scuffed the ground with my foot. Maybe I’d been too hard on her.

  “Yeah, okay, sure,” I said. “You can chase after the ones that get away.”

  So I showed her where to squeeze in through a gap in the fence, and promised her that the mountain goats wouldn’t bother her, and stationed her on the far side of the rocks.

  She just better not be spying for Pete.

  CHAPTER

  21

  I TOLD ACE TO COME DOWN off the rocks and pitch to me, because I needed some batting practice (and also a break from being embarrassed in front of a girl with my horrible fielding). I hit a few good ones too, and I have to admit: Penny did a pretty good job chasing them down. She even managed to catch a screaming line drive. She did way better than the day she’d borrowed Ace’s glove. It helps to have a glove you’re used to, I suppose.

  So as I was saying, Ace was pitching to me. But I was a little distracted, because something about Penny was bugging me. At first I thought it was the whole idea of playing with a girl, but that wasn’t it (especially because I practically forgot she was a girl, in those overalls). Then I thought maybe it was how good she was, for a girl. But that wasn’t it either. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, though.