Thwack! He hit a sharp ground ball to my left. Way to my left. I lunged for it and did a bellyflop onto the field.
The ball bounced past me.
“Whoa, what a try!” Bart yelled. “The official scorer calls it a hit!”
In case you don’t know, that was supposed to be a compliment. By saying it was a hit, Bart was also saying it wasn’t an error. In other words, it wasn’t my fault the ball went past me. (Okay, you sports-challenged types, you can wake up now.)
It was Tuesday, after school. The sun was out, and the air was warm enough for me to wear just a down vest and sweater. Bart and I were on one of the ballfields, fine-tuning our skills.
I chased after the ball and threw it back. “Aim it, batter,” I said.
“Pop fly,” Bart replied.
This time he hit the ball much more accurately. Unfortunately, the sun was setting just behind the path of the ball.
The ball plopped to the ground behind me.
“Now you’re looking like a Krusher!” Bart exclaimed.
That was not a compliment.
“You’re asking for it, Taylor!” I said.
Bart grinned. “Oh, yeah? Asking for what?”
“Another horrible, humiliating defeat in the World Series.”
“Ha! We were just being nice. Next time we won’t give it to you.”
That did it. I ran for him. Bart dropped his bat and sprinted away. “Come on, show that blazing Krusher speed!”
Hooting and laughing, he zigzagged across the field. I managed to corner him by the back-stop and I wrestled him to the ground.
“Stop! Truce!” he pleaded, still laughing.
“Take it back,” I commanded.
“What, the truth?” Bart replied.
I unleashed my ultimate weapon. I dug my fingers into his armpits. “Take it back!”
“Hoooo ha ha ha!” (Bart is very ticklish.) “Okay, okay, I take it back!”
I stopped the torture. We both sat up, still out of breath from the chase.
Bart looked down at me with a big, warm smile. He reached over and stroked my hair.
I think he wanted to kiss me again. But my hair was kind of sweaty and his fingers yanked against a knot.
“Yeeow!” I said.
Bart quickly took his hand away. His face was turning red. “Sorry.”
I tried my best to smile. “Trying to put me on the disabled list, huh? Just like a Basher — you can’t win fair and square.”
“Ooooh, that was low, Kristy.” Bart leaped to his feet. “Hit me a couple. I’ll show you how a pro fields the ball.”
(A pro? That’s what I like about Bart. His modesty.)
We played a little while longer, until it started becoming dark. Then we walked back toward our neighborhood together. Bart carried the bat in his right hand. He put his left arm around me. For some reason, I noticed his fingers dangling off my shoulders, like a bunch of mini-bananas. I wanted to make a joke about them, but that would have been too rude.
“Want to do something Friday night?” he asked. “You know, pizza or a movie?”
“I can’t,” I said. “I have to baby-sit at home.”
“Auughh, another sitting job!” Bart laughed. “My parents should book you at my house. Then I’d see you more often.”
“Very funny,” I said. “You could join the BSC, you know.”
“I’m a guy.”
“So? Logan’s a member,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, but that’s because his girlfriend’s in it,” Bart said.
“He also happens to like baby-sitting,” I replied. “Plus he’s very good at it. Anyway, how about Friday after school?”
“Huh?”
“After school and before the BSC meeting. I’m supposed to go with Mary Anne and Logan to the Argo for a snack. Want to meet us there?”
“Sure.”
Bart walked me to my house. We said a cheerful good-bye, and I stayed in a pretty good mood for a while. I made a salad and chopped up ingredients for Watson’s homemade tacos. But as I was setting the table, I started thinking about what Bart had said.
That’s because his girlfriend’s in it. That was how Bart saw Logan’s BSC membership.
The remark bothered me, but I couldn’t figure out why. I mean, it’s sort of true. And Logan’s free to have whatever reason he wants.
But Logan wasn’t the point. Bart was. Why had he said that? To explain why he wasn’t joining the BSC. Why he and Logan were different.
Logan, after all, had a girlfriend.
So what did that make me? A buddy? An acquaintance? What were all those kisses in the movie theater about?
Why was Bart sending me mixed signals?
Chill, Kristy, I told myself. It wasn’t a big deal. I mean, Mary Anne and Logan were in deep LUV. Bart and I were in advanced LIKE.
When you thought about it, Bart was just telling the truth.
Still, the statement bugged me.
* * *
After school that Friday, Mary Anne, Logan, and I walked to downtown Stoneybrook. We chatted the whole way.
I don’t know what we talked about. For some reason, I can only remember my hands. I couldn’t figure out what to do with them.
Mary Anne was talking with hers, gesturing and making graceful shapes. Whenever she finished, I noticed Logan would immediately hold her hand. Not grab it. Not plop his arm on her shoulder and let his fingers dangle.
It looked so natural. Neither of them seemed even to think about it. As if they were made to walk hand-in-hand.
They looked so happy and comfortable.
I shoved my hands in my pockets and kept them there the rest of the way to the diner.
The Argo has old-fashioned booths with carefully taped-up vinyl seats and old, yellowing travel photos on the walls. It’s kind of funky, but the food is great.
As we were looking at the menu, Bart approached the table. “You would, perhaps, enjoy the baked lizard snot omelette?” he asked in a weird accent. “Or may I interest you in motor oil coffee?”
Logan laughed. The people at the table next to us looked as if they were about to lose their lunch.
As Bart sat next to me, he kissed me on the cheek.
“Awwww,” Logan said with a sly grin.
“Lo-gan!” Mary Anne nudged him in the ribs.
I don’t know who was blushing more, Bart or Mary Anne.
Puh-leeze.
Keeping my dignity, I scanned the menu.
“May I help you?” asked a waiter.
I wasn’t very hungry, for some reason. “Just a green salad,” I answered. “With some crackers. And a club soda.”
Bart made a face. “Bird food. Uh, I’ll have a cheeseburger, fries, and cream soda.”
When the waiter looked away, I crossed my eyes at Bart.
Across the table, Mary Anne and Logan were sharing a menu, busily discussing what to order.
“We’d like to share the taco salad,” Logan finally said, “no olives, please.”
“And a side order of fries,” Mary Anne added, “a Diet Slice, and a root beer.”
“Thanks for ordering the fries,” Logan said as the waiter left. “I forgot.”
Mary Anne smiled. “I knew you’d want them. And the root beer.”
“Awww,” Bart teased.
Logan pretended to throw a roll at him. Then he said, “Kristy, you really started something with this world-record stuff. Last night, my brother and sister made a total mess of the kitchen trying to throw popcorn in the air and catch it.”
“Mallory’s brothers did that, too, with cereal,” I said.
“Does that count as the same record?” Bart asked.
I thought about it a moment. “Well, they are two different materials.”
“Maybe you can bring them together,” Logan suggested. “Like a face-off.”
“They can team up,” Bart said. “You know, one person throws the stuff into the teammate’s mouth.”
“I don’t know
…” I said.
“If a lot of kids are joining in, it would be fun for them to show their events to each other,” Mary Anne said.
“Or demonstrate them to the public,” I suggested. “After the book is done. By that time the weather will be nicer. We can charge admission. Maybe offer some baby-sitting hours as a door prize.”
“And a trip to Las Vegas in your new minivan!” Logan blasted, in a TV announcer’s voice.
Everyone laughed. I kicked Logan under the table.
“If the weather’s nice, we can have it in my yard,” Mary Anne reassured me. “On a day Logan doesn’t have track practice.”
We talked about plans until it was time for the meeting. Afterward, Bart walked with us part of the way, then veered off to go home.
Logan decided to attend the meeting. I tagged along behind him and Mary Anne.
I couldn’t help but notice how comfortable they seemed. At the Argo, it was as if they could read each other’s minds. They knew each other’s schedules. They worked together.
Bart and I were not like that at all.
I had this funny feeling all the way to Claud’s. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it felt familiar.
It felt like jealousy.
“I know an old lady who swallowed a crocodile …” sang Andrew in his bedroom.
“With a great big smile, she swallowed the crocodile …” answered David Michael from his bedroom.
From her room, Karen chimed in, “She swallowed the crocodile to catch the yak, she swallowed the yak to catch the platypus —”
“No!” Andrew shouted. “Gnu!”
“No gnus is good news!” David Michael called out.
They all howled at David Michael’s joke. I could hear even little Emily Michelle giggling.
I glanced at my watch. Eight thirty-five. I had given them “lights-out” twenty minutes earlier. I was in the kitchen, trying to raid the fridge.
Instead, I trudged up the stairs. “Guys,” I called out. “No more talking, please.”
“But we have to set the record!” Karen protested.
The record, in case you haven’t guessed, was the world’s longest version of “I Know an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly.”
“Continue tomorrow at breakfast,” I said.
“But we won’t remember what we thought up!” David Michael complained.
“You should have written it down,” I replied.
“How could we? It’s lights-out,” Karen reminded me.
Touché. I retrieved my Record Wreckers book from my bedroom. I patiently wrote down about a hundred animals they’d managed to shove down that poor old lady’s throat. Then I firmly said good night.
Record Fever had set in at the Brewer house, big-time. It had begun the moment I returned home from the day’s BSC meeting. Here were some highlights:
Karen and David Michael tossed and caught an egg thirty-one times without dropping it. When it finally fell on the floor, we discovered for the first time that the egg was not hard-boiled.
Andrew set a spaghetti-sucking record (twenty-seven strands). For about a half hour afterward, his jaw was so sore he could barely talk.
Even Emily entered the book. She stroked Shannon fifty-three times with a brush before losing interest.
And those were just the records set before dinner. Which I had to serve, alone. Mom and Watson were at a dinner party, Sam and Charlie were at a high-school basketball game, and Nannie was playing in a bowling tournament.
After dinner I watched the building of the World’s Highest Lego Tower and judged the World’s Most Realistic Fake Sneeze. Those were fun. But soon the records degenerated.
Most Soap Bubbles Blown into an Open Toilet, Longest Burp, Most Grapes in a Mouth, the Best Mirror Toothpaste Mural …
When I saw Andrew and David Michael flinging boogers, I knew it was bedtime.
“… Her hair was curled, ‘cause she swallowed the world …” Karen’s voice wafted down from the second floor.
“HARRRRRRRUMPH!” I bellowed.
Giggles, then silence.
I was totally exhausted. And you know what? I had to do the same thing the next day. I had planned a record-setting tournament in our yard, with all the neighborhood kids. Abby had agreed to help.
It was going to be a long weekend.
I took a box of pretzels from the kitchen, went into the den, and turned on the TV. I was in luck. A Mets spring-training exhibition game had just begun.
I threw myself on the sofa.
“Ahhhhh …” I murmured. Peace at last. Some down time for good old me.
With two outs in the bottom of the first, the doorbell rang.
That was strange. It was only 8:55. Mom and Watson weren’t supposed to be home until eleven. Sam and Charlie’s game was probably at halftime. And Nannie always goes out with her friends after bowling.
Besides, none of them ever rang the bell. They all had keys.
Ding-dong!
I ran into the living room and looked out the bay windows.
Bart was standing at the front door. He saw me and waved.
I went to the door and opened it. “Hi! What are you doing here?”
Bart shrugged. “I was bored. Dad and Mom want to watch some dumb history show. I figured I’d come over and watch the game.”
“Oh. Okay. It’s on.”
Don’t get me wrong. I was happy to see him. But I would have been happier if I’d known he was going to visit. I had adjusted very nicely to being alone for a while.
“I know, I know, I should have called,” Bart said, walking toward the kitchen, “but you said you had to sit for all the kids tonight, and I figured you were busy putting them to bed. So I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“It’s okay,” I replied.
In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of cola. “You’re mad.”
“No, Bart, I’m not!”
“Because I just like to be with you, that’s all. It’s my favorite thing to do, you know.”
Leave it to Bart. One minute you want to strangle him, the next you want to hug him.
I couldn’t help but smile. “Come on, the Mets are down, one to nothing.”
I took two glasses and followed him into the den. We sank into the sofa, munching pretzels and drinking soda.
In the top of the second, the Mets rallied. We cheered and high-fived a lot.
By the commercial, Bart had shrunk. At least it looked that way. He was sitting in the middle of the sofa, right in the crack between the two seat cushions. His arm was around the back of the couch, behind me. Which seemed really awkward.
“Aren’t you uncomfortable?” I asked.
“A little, I guess.” He slid out of the crack. Closer to me.
Now we were both sharing my little sofa cushion. “That’s better,” Bart said.
I took a sip from my soda glass. Bart slipped his arm off the sofa and around my shoulder.
When I put the glass down, Bart’s face was about an inch from mine.
I glanced at the TV. Another commercial was blasting away. Bart’s eyes were starting to close.
I closed mine, too. We kissed, to the music of Weed Wipeout lawn care products.
Bart kind of cradled my face with his hands. That felt nice. And he wasn’t bruising my face, the way he did at the movie. His lips were cool and sweet from the soda. But I was beginning to run out of breath, so I pulled away.
We both laughed a little, gulping for air.
Now a car commercial was on. Bo-ring.
Kissing was much more fun. We started again. I hugged Bart, which turned my upper body toward his, so my neck didn’t feel so strained. My back, however, felt all twisted. I swung my legs underneath me so I could turn all the way to the right.
“Oh! Uh … hmph.”
A voice. By the door.
Not mine. Not Bart’s.
Watson! my brain screamed.
I snapped backward, away from Bart.
Watson
was standing in the doorway. Glaring. With an expression I’d never seen before. As if he had just stumbled onto a murder scene, with the killer still there.
I was mortified. I felt as if a dam in my neck had opened and blood was rushing upward to my face. I could barely breathe.
“Hi.”
Ugh. The word sounded so weak and stupid. More like a mouse squeak. I wanted to swallow it right back down.
Why hadn’t I heard the front door open? Or the footsteps across the living room carpet?
“IN THE BOTTOM OF THE SECOND, THE LEFT FIELDER LEADS OFF …”
Drowned out by the TV. That was it. Of course. I should have turned the volume down.
Should have turned the volume down? I couldn’t believe I had thought that. As if I had planned this. As if this kissing was such a terrible, dark secret.
“Whuck —” My throat choked off the word, so I cleared it. “What are you doing here?”
“Funny, I was going to ask the same question,” Watson replied, “of Bart.”
“Well, uh, we were watching the game and,” Bart stammered, “um, you know —”
My mom appeared behind Watson. She had a big, friendly smile on her face. I felt as if a warm spring breeze had suddenly blown into the room.
The breeze lasted about a nanosecond. When she saw Bart her face fell, and I was back in the Siberian tundra again.
“Kristy, I — I’m not sure I believe what I’m seeing,” Watson said. “You know we have a house rule about this.”
I groped for words. “But — but —”
“I have said this time and again to your brothers, Kristin Amanda,” my mom said, “and they’ve been very good about it. I never expected you’d be the one to —”
She cut herself off, taking a deep breath. “Watson, why don’t you drive Bart home? Kristy and I have a great deal to talk about.”
“Okay,” Bart said sheepishly. He slunk out of the den behind Watson without saying good-bye.
Me? I felt as if I’d just been kicked in the stomach by a Tyrannosaurus rex.
The Charlie and Sam rule. That’s what she was talking about! The no-girlfriends-in-the-house-without-parents-present rule.
I had never thought about it. Never thought it could possibly have anything to do with me.
How stupid I was. Of course it did. If it applied to girlfriends, it applied to boyfriends, too. And no matter how I thought of Bart, boyfriend was the definition that fit this situation.
Kristy + Bart = ? Page 4