There it is, representing a gazillion different levels of wrong and, worse, the number-one reason I didn’t want to come here. It’s not fair that the shack is what I see from my window, when all I hoped was to see something that reminded me of home.
Dad comes in with my luggage, and I want to take it back to the car.
“Laura Eboni?”
I stick my head out of the room. It’s Mom, signaling for me to come back in the kitchen. I try to eyeball everything in Grandma’s kitchen except Mrs. Jacobs as Mom talks.
“We need to leave, but I want you to take a walk with me before I go.”
I shrug and fight the urge to cry. “Sure, Mom.”
Dad’s coming down the hall and I think he’s going to stop, but he doesn’t. Instead, he touches my shoulder, walks out the door, and closes it.
Mrs. Jacobs stands, takes her purse off of the table, and hugs Grandma. “Well, Laura Lee, I know you’ve got a big-time baseball game to go to, so I’m going to leave. I’ve got to go over my lesson plan for the week. Bye, everybody! And Laura, I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
Mom holds the door open for Mrs. Jacobs, then turns to me.
“Let’s go.”
We walk toward the woods, not far from the house. Mom puts her arm around my shoulder. Suddenly she stops and stands in front of me. Oh, no. If she starts crying then I will, too. I cross my arms over my stomach. Mom blinks a thousand times before smoothing my hair.
“Don’t forget to put conditioner in your hair once a week.”
I nod. “I’ll remember.”
Her hand slides from my hair down the side of my face to my eyebrows.
“Keep your room tidy, and help your grandma when she asks you.”
“I will.”
“And don’t forget the baby powder after you shower and dry off. That helps . . .”
“. . . to keep me from misting. I know, Mom.”
And then she surprises me. “The ride to school is about twenty-five minutes. But the walk to the mailbox should only take you fifteen, max. It’s actually a nice little workout.”
My head snaps to the left where she’s standing. “Walk to the mailbox? Workout? What are you talking about?”
She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “That’s where the school bus will pick you up—at the mailbox. Now, you’re all set.”
I plant my hands on my hips. “You never said anything about me walking to a school bus!” I look down the hill. There’s millions of rocks on that gravel road. That’s going to ruin my Sketchers. And how far is it from here to the mailbox? Five miles?
Mom smiles. “From your grandma’s house to the mailbox is less than a mile, Laura. And it’s a beautiful walk, especially this time of the year. Snakes are still hibernating and . . .”
My hands clinch my chest. “Snakes! What the what? Oh heck to the double no! The deal is off! I can’t do this.”
Mom pulls one of my hands close to her. “Yes, you can! Now listen, you promised. And walking is great exercise. By Wednesday, you’ll be looking forward to that walk.”
“But I’ll be dead by Tuesday!”
“Calm down, Laura. I know it’s a lot different from what you’re used to, but I bet by the time your dad and I get back, you’ll be in love with this place.” Mom looks around and breathes in big air. “I know I am. I miss living out here.”
I breathe deep too, just to get over the belly bombs exploding inside. But then I notice we’re moving closer to the shack. I’m misting more than ever. Sweat is running down my back and making my blouse stick to my skin. I nudge Mom.
“You’re not trying to ease me in there, are you?”
Mom looks straight ahead. “No, no, not at all. It’s just that the shack brings back memories for me. You know, I did my first science experiment in there. Test tubes and everything.”
I look the other way, except now I’m watching Mrs. Jacobs back her Jeep up. I can’t take it. I wipe the mist beading on my face.
“Mom, I’m freaking out. I mean, I walk into Grandma’s house and my history teacher is all cozy at the kitchen table. And she’s swinging a shiny black Jeep Cherokee like somebody in a rap video. Then you give me this ‘Oh, by the way, you’ve got a new workout plan. It’s called walk until you die,’ and I’m supposed to be okay with it?”
Dad’s voice startles me. “Okay with what?”
I turn to him. “Did you know I have to walk twenty miles to the bus stop?”
His eyebrows move close together. “Stop exaggerating, Laura. It’s a short walk. And if we were still at home, you’d be walking from the house to the bus. Here it’s just a little farther. Anyway, come with me. I’ve got something to show you.”
Mom and I follow Dad into a wooded area away from the house and the shack. The trees are tall, with lots of room between them. I’m watching everywhere, just to be sure there are no sleepless snakes around. But soon, I get a glimpse at where we’re going and my walking slows on its own.
In the middle of the woods is a tree that stands away from the others. Nailed to it is a huge board with a white square in the center. Just barely above the white square is Dad’s glove, opened and ready for a pitch. He walks toward the target, and I follow him as he talks.
“This felt like a good spot for home plate.”
My walk’s mechanical as I take in what Dad has done. I try to listen while I look.
“I’ve given this a lot of thought, Laura. So instead of nailing my glove to the tree for you to use as a target, I decided to rig it so it can slide left and right above home plate. This way you can practice all of your pitches, not just the ones that come straight down the middle. You like it? I even made you a mound. It’s just a couple bags of dirt with an old piece of tarp over it, so be careful.”
A pitcher’s mound! I rush to it and examine my view from there. Behind me are lots of trees. They’re tall, just like I’d want my teammates to look like on defense. I turn back to the lone tree where Dad nailed home plate. Behind that one tree is a long fence of chopped wood.
On the other side of the chopped wood are more trees, all different sizes. Some of the tree trunks are big, some skinny. Others are short with lots of branches and leaves, while a few are bare. The trees look like they’re watching me. Not in a creepy way, but the same way people watch a baseball game. I want to tell Dad exactly what this means to me, but I don’t think the words I’m looking for are in a dictionary.
It’s like Christmas in December collided with my birthday in August and gave me this megavalentine from February . . . in April.
Sweet Brother of Baseball. Dad built me my very own stadium.
“This is crazy! I can’t believe you made this just for me. I absolutely love it.”
He grabs a bucket from behind the tree and sets it down at my feet. Inside the bucket are baseballs and my glove. Before he can say a word, I wrap my arms around him, close my eyes, and think about how lucky I am to have parents who understand me. Then he whispers.
“Laura Eboni, whenever things get too hard or you have trouble figuring something out, come here and throw until it makes sense, okay?”
I grab my glove from the bucket and smile.
Tears make their way down Mom’s face. She pulls me to her and holds tight.
“I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss you, too, Mom. Don’t worry about me and Grandma. You concentrate on what you’re doing, okay?”
Dad kisses my cheek as Mom holds me. “I love you. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Then he reaches for Mom’s arm. “Come on, honey, we’ve got to get on the road.”
Watching my parents leave is much harder than I’d imagined. Even with Grandma standing next to me, I feel alone and scared. Once they turn onto the gravel road and their car disappears, the farm seems to double in size. Grandma takes my hand.
“And we’ve got a ball game to catch. Meet me at the car. I’ll get my keys.”
“Gran
dma, how much do you know about baseball?”
She wrinkles her face as if she tasted something she didn’t like.
“Not much, but as long as I can get a cup of coffee in between the action, I’ll be fine. Maybe you can teach me. Yeah! I want to learn everything about baseball.”
A spark of energy hits me. “I can totally teach you!”
She turns back to me. “Perfect! I’ve made some pork chop sandwiches for us, in case we get hungry.”
I frown. “You can’t bring food or drinks from home into the ballpark, Grandma. Security will check your purse.”
Her eyes widen. “That’s nonsense! I’ll figure out something.”
As I beat my fist inside my glove, the excitement builds, knowing I’m on my way to Minute Maid Park to see my Astros play. And even though Dad’s not going, Grandma did say she wanted to learn about the game. I rub the inside of my glove, then pound it some more.
This is a good game for me to teach her. I can’t help but grin thinking about today’s pitching matchup. And I get to watch it live and in person!
I wish Dad was coming, because I know this game is going to be unforgettable.
Chapter Seven
When we arrive at Minute Maid Park, the place is crawling with baseball fans. Soon, we’re at the front of the line and give our tickets to the man at the gate.
“Please step over to the table so Security can check your purse.”
Grandma clutches her purse to her stomach. “Check my purse for what?”
He shrugs. “We don’t allow any weapons, video equipment, or outside food or drinks inside the stadium. It’s standard procedure, ma’am.”
Grandma sighs. “That sure seems like an invasion of my privacy.”
I close my eyes, cross my fingers, and don’t say a word as the security guard puts both hands inside Grandma’s purse and moves stuff to the left and then to the right.
He smiles, then points inside the stadium. “Enjoy the game.”
I exhale. “Come on—we have to find our seats. I don’t want to miss the first pitch.”
We’ve got great seats in the mezzanine section, which is close enough to maybe snag a foul ball. As the stadium starts to fill up, I can’t sit still. There’s a man selling pink and blue cotton candy. One lady carries flags with ASTROS written on the front. Another man with a box strapped to his shoulders shouts, “Cold drinks! Get your cold drinks here!”
I turn to Grandma. “This is going to be so fun.”
We stand for “The Star-Spangled Banner” and watch fireworks light up the sky when they get to the part about the rockets’ red glare and bombs bursting in air. Once the song’s over, the announcer introduces the starting lineups. I clap for every Astro he mentions, and Grandma claps, too. Then I point at the field.
“How about I explain things as they happen? It’ll be easier that way.”
She nods. “Good idea.”
The first inning gets underway, and I explain everything, even the pitches. “Did you see how that pitch started off kind of high and then it just died, like the bottom fell out of it? That’s called a sinker.”
“Okay, a sinker. That makes sense.”
When the Astros come to bat, I do the same thing, except when a low curveball gets called a strike, I lose it and let the umpire know.
“Come on, Blue! That pitch was outside the strike zone! It was a ball!”
Grandma tugs on my jersey. “Why’d you call him Blue?”
I keep watching the game. “His uniform color.”
“Oh. I’ll just sit and watch for a while. Maybe I’ll pick up a few things on my own.”
Grandma falls asleep during the second inning and snores until the seventh. I’ve had a blast watching one of the best pitching matchups ever. But it’s time for Grandma to wake up.
I nudge her. “Grandma, it’s time for the seventh inning stretch, and somebody’s going to sing ‘God Bless America.’ Look down on the field, Grandma. There’s a real person getting ready to lead the singing, not some piped-in organ music blaring through the speakers.”
As everybody sings “God Bless America,” I think about my parents and hope they’re safe. But after the song is over, everything goes south.
Grandma’s sneezing, sniffling, and blowing her nose so loudly that it sounds like a bullhorn. “Grandma, are you okay?”
She grabs a small container of hand sanitizer from her purse.
“Allergies. Something in here is setting them off.” She leans toward me and whispers, “Hungry?”
I see the hot dog man coming our way. “I’m starving! Can I have . . .”
It seems to happen in slow motion as I watch Grandma reach inside her top and pull out two pork chop sandwiches in Ziplock bags. She hands one to me.
“I’m so glad I didn’t put these in my purse. Mmmm, and they’re still warm, too.”
I’m scared to take that bag, but the sandwich looks so good. As I reach for it, she says something that has me even more worried.
“Thirsty?”
Oh, heck to the triple no! Where is she hiding drinks? Wherever they are, I bet they’re not cold.
“No, I’m not thirsty.”
Grandma breaks off a piece of her sandwich. “Baby Girl, you’re going to love my pork chops. I let them bake in the oven all morning.”
I free my sandwich from that bag, and just as I open my mouth to take a bite, a very tall, thin man in a red jacket, with a walkie-talkie hooked to his pants, makes his way over to us.
“Excuse me, ladies, personal food is not allowed in the ballpark. Please dispose of it.”
Grandma’s eyes widened. “You mean throw it away? Young man, do you know how much a pound of pork chops costs these days?”
The attendant frowns. “Look, ma’am, those are the rules. Either throw the sandwiches away or you’ll have to leave the park.”
I frown to match his. “You don’t have to be so mean to her! I’m sure she’s going to . . .”
Before I could finish my sentence, Grandma says the unthinkable.
“Fine. We’ll just leave. Let’s go, Baby Girl.”
“But Grandma . . .”
I point at the field, then back at the scoreless scoreboard, but she’s still going off.
“I’m not throwing away two perfectly good sandwiches. And besides, I think that dirt on the field is irritating my allergies. Why do people like this game? It’s just a bunch of grown men running around like kids and getting dirty.”
I follow her, trying not to step on people’s feet as we walk sideways to get out into the aisle.
“But Grandma, the game’s not over.”
“For us it is.”
I’ve never left a game before it ended, even when my team was getting slaughtered. Reluctantly, I climb in the car, close my door, and try to make sense of what just happened. It takes a moment before I realize Grandma hasn’t started the car. I turn to face her. She’s staring at me.
“Laura Eboni, what’s wrong? You wanted to stay?”
I glance back at Minute Maid Park, and even through my rolled up window, I can hear the cheers. I turn back to Grandma.
“That wasn’t an invasion of your privacy at the security check, Grandma. That was for our safety. Then something in the park upset your allergies. Do you have allergy medicine that you’re supposed to take? And then you refused to throw away the pork chop sandwiches when we were wrong for bringing them in. But to me, the worst is making fun of the ballplayers and how they play the game, because I love baseball.”
We’re quiet in the car again. Grandma sneezes a few times, but all I’m thinking is that I’ve missed the eighth inning and am going to miss the ninth, too. She reaches over and rubs my shoulder. She’s got that spaced-out look on her face that I’ve seen so many times when she’s talking about the shack or the Laura Line. I’m thinking she’s going to say something crazy, but instead, she apologizes.
“I was wrong and I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how much you loved baseball. I
guess I don’t know doodly-squat about you.”
I frown, wondering what a doodly-squat is, but the more she talks, the more I get it.
“But that’s going to change. And next time, I’ll take my allergy medicine, because there will be other games, Baby Girl. I promise.”
I think about Dad, because this wasn’t just any game. This was his gift to me. If he had come, we would have been the last two people to leave the ballpark. As angry as I want to be, I think of Mom and how I promised her that I’d do my best. So I exhale, take a bite of my sandwich, and lie.
“It’s no big deal, Grandma. Really.”
After we get home, I stay dressed in my Astros jersey since I’m sure the game’s still going on. If I took it off, it’d be as if I chose to leave early.
Later, after Grandma’s gone to bed, I stand in my new bedroom, looking out the window at the slave shack. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen it at night, and it’s got a whole new layer of creepy on it.
Goose bumps cover me, and I close the curtain until there’s only a slice of an opening left for me to peek through. I look behind me and all around the room. I think I’ll turn on my lamp.
Wait. Maybe I shouldn’t, because . . .
What if the shack has night creatures in it, or worse, the soul of every dead slave who’s ever lived in there awakens when the sun goes down and the moon comes up? What if at night, slave zombies open up the front door and come searching for food? I change my mind about turning that lamp on. I don’t want them to see me and think . . . Mmm, Kentucky fried Laura.
Heck to the double no.
And those six crosses behind it, lit up by the moon, make that whole area crazy scary right now. Even though I know the crosses represent each Laura in my ancestry who’s dead, it’s still spooky to me. The Laura Line. What a silly name for a graveyard.
BZZZZZ. BZZZZZZZZZZZ.
Aack! It’s the slave zombies! I run around the room, slapping at my jeans pocket, trying to get whatever’s buzzing my leg off me! Oh. Wait. I reach into my pocket, pull out my phone, and read the highlighted words ANSWER or IGNORE. It’s Dad.
The Laura Line Page 4