Gabby Garcia's Ultimate Playbook

by Iva-Marie Palmer

  “Well, on a junior high level, I’m Mike Trout–caliber, so it’s the same to me. It’s a win streak thing.”

  “Okay, I’m not going to argue with you. I get enough flak from the monkeys,” Diego said, and then told me how a spider monkey took a banana right out of his hand as he was eating breakfast that morning. It was a very Diego thing to have happen.

  So, even though Diego didn’t quite get it, I had my cookies and I had hope when I walked into the cafeteria.

  Bob: It’s a beautiful day for making things happen, isn’t it, Judy?

  Judy: Well, Bob, I agree. This should be a day when nothing goes wrong. Gabby’s got cookies to share. If she’s not on the team with everyone at this table as a future BFF by the end of the period, well, I’ll be very confused.

  Bob: Yes, she and Devon should hit it off no matter what.

  Judy: Mario Salamida is a factor.

  Bob: Eh, who’s worried about him? If Gabby can get the rest of the team, that’s all she needs to take her spot on the roster and get back to winning.

  Judy: Let’s go to the table, see how these cookies are working.

  So it was me, Devon, Mario, Ryder, and a few other kids who I guessed were on the baseball team. Devon was complaining about a pop quiz in her English class, and most of them were chewing and nodding sympathetically.

  “Seriously, guys, pop quizzes should be outlawed,” she said. Everyone agreed and then I just plunged in.

  “Pop quizzes are the worst,” I said. “But you know what isn’t? These cookies I brought. My dad made a bunch and they’re really good.”

  It was crazy how fast everyone stopped talking and turned toward me when I said “cookies.” But to growing kids, cookies are essential.

  “Sweet,” Ryder said. “My mom’s been baking with kale, so I could use some sugar.”

  “I wish anyone at my house baked,” Devon said, using chopsticks to lift a piece of sushi from her bento box. “It’s takeout central for us.”

  And now they were eagerly waiting for me to produce the cookies.

  But there was a problem.

  Also in my lunch was a wrap. A wrap that was filled, it looked like, with the French beef stew my dad made for dinner last night. No one ate it because stew should not be eaten when you live in Georgia and it’s April and 80 degrees outside. Well, my dad ate it. (See—he LOVES stew!)

  More importantly, stew shouldn’t be in a lunch bag with cookies.

  It was really WITH the cookies, too, as in just everywhere inside the bag.

  It didn’t look good. If possible, it looked worse than when we didn’t eat it for dinner the first time.

  It looked like maybe an animal had used my lunch bag as a toilet.

  Bob: Oh no, this looks ugly.

  Bob was really right. I was about to say I’d forgotten the cookies when Mario actually pulled my lunch sack away from me and snapped, “Well, are there cookies or not?”

  I pulled back and the lunch sack launched into the air. Cookies and goo went everywhere. Mostly goo. Goo travels faster, I guess.

  And it was EVERYWHERE.

  Stew goo splattered the lunch table and a corner of Ryder’s algebra book and the napkin dispenser.

  Judy: Bob, I can’t look.

  Bob: Oh, you’re right, Judy.

  But Bob and Judy were just imaginary voices in my head. With my very real eyes, I could see the goo land on Mario.

  Splat!

  “What the . . .” Mario looked down at his stew-goo-covered shirt and his face turned green.

  Bob: Mario’s getting up. He’s running to the garbage can.

  Judy: His face is halfway in the garbage can. Yes! Mario Salamida just hurled!

  Bob: The entire cafeteria had to have heard that retching.

  Everyone was watching Mario. At least they weren’t looking at my gross lunch.

  Then Mario looked up and glared at me, like I was the bad guy on one of the courtroom shows Louie watches. “This isn’t over, Gaggy Garcia!”

  I didn’t know anything had even started.

  Devon looked at Mario and then looked at me and then looked at the goo-covered cookies.

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  My appetite was totally gone because I could definitely chalk up the day as another loss. One more and my winning streak would officially be a losing streak.

  WINS: 0

  LOSSES: 2 (plus stew)

  INSPIRING THINGS ATHLETES HAVE SAID ABOUT LOSING

  •“Show me a good loser, and I’ll show you a loser.” —Vince Lombardi

  •“I hate to lose more than I like to win.” —Larry Bird

  •“Nobody remembers who finished second but the guy who finished second.” —Bobby Unser

  •“I could never stand losing. Second place didn’t interest me. I had a fire in my belly.” —Ty Cobb

  •“You wouldn’t have won if we’d beaten you.” —Yogi Berra

  THE SCOPE, DITCH, AND SWITCH

  Goal: Undo some of the damage of the day before by bringing a normal (not-Gaggy) lunch.

  Action: It’s as simple as it sounds: 1. I scope my lunch. 2. If it’s gross, I ditch my lunch. 3. Then I switch the ditched lunch for something normal.

  Post-Day Analysis:

  April 17

  The day of the goo had been another day of answering my dad’s inquiries about school with “fine.” Because nothing had been fine about it. Everyone at Piper Bell had seen or heard about the stew goo, and the worst part was, I felt as if the baseball team—the exact people I wanted to impress—were the ones who probably disliked me the most.

  So no one said that, but it’s not like I stuck around to take a survey of what they thought of me.

  I had to regroup. Again. Regrouping alone was hard. I probably wouldn’t hear from Diego for at least a few days, and I really didn’t have anyone else I wanted to share my colossal failures with.

  So, okay, I know I COULD have mentioned the bad lunch thing to my dad, but after all the help he gave me with the cookies, I didn’t want to. When I have a few bad games, my usual way to deal is not to dwell on defeat. I usually think positive and figure out my next moves. Besides, it was all so busy around our house with Louie working on a big project and Peter being annoying. I liked to be the low-maintenance kid with the big talent.

  Also, my dad loves to cook. The problem was, the things he makes might be fine to eat at home, but not so much as leftovers in my lunch. Luther had a cafeteria (oh, what I would give for those extra french fries now)—but Piper Bell has students bring their lunches “to ensure adherence to our families’ preferred dietary needs.” (From the handbook, and I think it just means that because Piper Bell is fancier and progressive, a cafeteria here couldn’t just serve pizza sticks and call it a day. At Luther, we called it Pizza Stick Wednesday. Some of the kids at Piper Bell had personal pizzas made by their at-home chefs—not smushed leftovers from their dads—or sandwiches on bread with lots of healthy seeds. No pizza sticks in sight.)

  So I had the Scope, Ditch, and Switch. But, yes, I went to bed hoping some kind of daughter-father ESP might allow me to transmit a message to Dad in his sleep: a message that said, Do not pack last night’s ceviche in my lunch.

  Ceviche is delicious: it’s a refreshing fish salad with lime and cilantro, and my dad’s ceviche is way better than his stew. But day-old ceviche in my lunch would be NOT REALLY GOOD. Fish has a way of telling people it’s there, and the stew kind of already did that.

  So this morning, I scoped my lunch and saw ceviche was exactly what Dad had packed me.

  It was time to ditch the fish.

  The ditch part of my plan was maybe the most complicated. To do it, I needed to rely on timing and wits and our next-door neighbors’ dog, Dumpster.

  Dumpster is a hyperactive mutt with a bucket-shaped body and the energy of several puppies.

  Also, Dumpster eats ANYTHING.

  Most dogs will eat anything, but if Dumpster could, he’d hop the fence and learn
to use a fork and knife and sit down to dinner at our house, after eating dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Dumpster next door. (Not their real name.) Dumpster would eat a meal at every house in our cul-de-sac and take home doggy bags if he could. (But he wouldn’t have anything left to put in the bags.)

  So, with Louie already at work early prepping her team for a huge upcoming board meeting, and my dad in the shower, and Peter busy thinking Peter thoughts about how to be irritating in new and different ways, I ran the play:

  First, I ran outside with the thermos of ceviche, hoping to hear Dumpster.

  I couldn’t just dump fish in the neighbors’ yard.

  No noise.

  Maybe the dog was inside.

  Then, like magic, I heard Dumpster barking.

  He could smell the food.

  Or maybe Dumpster and I had ESP.

  I ran to the hole in the fence. It was the exact right size for getting rid of an unwanted lunch. Dumpster’s nose was already sticking through. I scooped out the ceviche and tried not to hurl as I heard the dog slurping it up.

  Then I dashed back inside and raided the fridge for regular stuff to make a regular sandwich. There’s plenty of regular stuff because Peter is a “picky eater,” which just means he demands a different, annoying food no matter what we’re eating.

  I was trying to unscrew the cap from the mayo when my dad shouted from upstairs.

  “Gabby, have you seen my phone?”

  “Oh yeah . . . Dad was shouting for you, Gabby,” Peter said without looking up.

  Oh no. “What did you tell him?”

  “I thought you were in the bathroom.”

  “Gabby, you out of the bathroom?? Can you see if my phone is down there?”

  My hands got sweaty.

  “Why didn’t he ask you to look for the phone?” I muttered to Peter as I struggled with the mayo.

  “He did; I didn’t see it.” Peter pointed to the mayo. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s . . . for my hair.” I saw that on TV once.

  “That stick-uppy thing? Good luck, Freako.” Peter shook his head.

  Still trying to take the cap off the mayo, I peered around frantically for my dad’s phone. I couldn’t open the mayo.

  “Never mind, I’ll come down.”

  “No!” I yelled, slapping turkey onto bread as I heard my dad’s footsteps. I threw the mayo back in the fridge and slammed it shut. I spun and crammed the sandwich into my lunch sack. Dad came into the kitchen, where I leaned against the counter, my body blocking the bag as if Dad could see through things.

  “And what is this?” Dad said as he reached behind my back.

  I almost wet my pants.

  He held up his phone and looked at Peter and me. “Oh, kids, your powers of detection are weak.”

  I breathed again.

  Close one.

  But I made it.

  The Scope, Ditch, and Switch was a success!

  WINS: 1 (because I didn’t get caught!)

  LOSSES: 2

  MAJOR LEAGUE BALLPARK FOODS THAT NEED TO GET IN MY BELLY

  •Dodger Dog at Dodgers Stadium (Los Angeles Dodgers)—It’s simple but a classic.

  •Victory Knot Pretzel at Guaranteed Rate Field (Chicago White Sox)—You know what’s better than a normal-sized hot pretzel from the mall that you eat on a bench somewhere while watching people shop? A pretzel bigger than your whole face that you eat while watching a baseball game!

  •Nachos on a Stick at Miller Park (Milwaukee Brewers)—Diego says I’ll eat any food if you put it on a stick. I say, why wouldn’t I?

  •Carne Asada Fries at Petco Park (San Diego Padres)—My dad had these once and has not stopped talking about them. So I need to try them.

  •Fried Green Tomatoes at SunTrust Park (Atlanta Braves)—My home team, and a perfect Atlanta food.

  •Ice Cream Sundaes served in tiny helmets (all ballparks, that I know of)—Ice cream is already great but you put it in a mini baseball helmet and it’s even better. Someday, I will have a helmet from every field.

  Post-Day Analysis:

  April 18, afternoon recap

  Sigh. Sigh. Sigh. And not just little “oh well” sighs. Sighs of DEEP FAILURE. Sighs of agony. Sighs of someone who JUST. CAN’T. WIN. I’m writing this in the bathroom just so no one bothers me. No one writes in the bathroom if things are going right.

  Two days of new, normal lunches do not seem to matter. So, fine, I’ve avoided bringing anything gross and weird, but no one was exactly running up to me and saying, “Wow, what a great sandwich you have! Be our friend. Come to the baseball team, we know how great you are!”

  And let’s face it, in order for my BEST YEAR EVER to remain intact I can’t be FRIENDLESS. Or BASEBALL TEAM-LESS. Especially that one.

  So even though the Scope, Ditch, and Switch was technically a successful play and one I’ll keep doing to maintain a normal lunch, I have to take away the win I gave myself. Because it hasn’t paid off at school.

  It seems like my time limit for making an impression is running out after only three days. No one cares that much about a new kid, and three days in, they’re kind of over me. Even the Luther Polluter stuff has died down.

  I’m just sort of THERE.

  OTHER THINGS THAT ARE JUST THERE

  •Oatmeal without cinnamon

  •The color beige

  •The jigsaw puzzle Peter and I started two years ago that remains unfinished in our basement (it’s of a kind of brown landscape that makes me yawn when I look the box, so why finish?)

  •Goldfish, the most frequently overlooked pet

  It’s like I don’t exist. Or just half exist. I’m Piper Bell’s goldfish. They’ll feed me enough so I don’t die but they’re not going to take me out to play with.

  Apologies to all the goldfish out there, but half existing is sort of like losing.

  I didn’t really think about how to be the new kid beyond instantly being a baseball star, just like I was at Luther.

  And the baseball team hasn’t asked me to join. I even wandered by the field after school yesterday, probably hoping that, by ESP, they’d look up and see me and say, “Oh my gosh! How are you not on the team yet?”

  But that didn’t happen. They didn’t even see me. I really have zero ESP skills.

  Besides breaking my win streak, racking up all these losses is making it hard to know how to get my win. I just want to play baseball and have friends and not feel like a goldfish. Is that too much to ask?

  Could I scope, ditch, and switch my whole existence?

  Someone’s knocking.

  Louie . . .

  Okay, so I’m writing this in my room, at my desk, not in the bathroom. I feel a little better. Louie wanted to make sure I was feeling okay—I was in the bathroom a long time, I guess—and I told her in the most parent-worry-free way possible that I was kind of sort of hoping that by now the baseball team would have recruited me.

  And she said that a lot of times, people don’t know what we want because they’re so caught up in their own thoughts and wishes and wants. And then she said, if there’s not a way to come right out and say what you want, is there a way to show it?

  And there just happens to be one.

  WINS: 0

  LOSSES: 3 (but on the verge of correction!)

  THE HOME RUN

  Goal: Remind the baseball team they have a star in their midst.

  Action: If you can’t TELL them how great you are, you must SHOW them. Even though I strongly believe the team should have approached ME, I’m giving them the benefit of the doubt. So, while I don’t want to ASK to be on the team, I DO want to demonstrate to them what they’re missing. In a big way! Today, I’m going to have a movie moment.

  Post-Day Analysis:

  April 22

  Okay, fine, I thought coming to Piper Bell was going to be different. I mean, usually when a superstar gets traded to a new team, that team is really excited to have them. That was what I expected. Instant recognition. I�
��d been on a win streak after all.

  But, hey, it was probably the media.

  I had what’s called a perception problem.

  Being a new kid when the school year was almost over probably wasn’t helping—the team’s season was well under way (and they had zero losses, so it wasn’t like they were desperate for help). And then, I’d had the uniform thing, the stew goo, the Luther Polluter rep. What’s more, the Penguins had a full roster. AND maybe they were intimidated by ME. What if I said no, I didn’t want to be on their team, because I had a team? These were all possibilities.

  Or maybe no one cared. But I was going to make sure they did.

  I gave myself the weekend to recharge. I watched a lot of baseball with my dad. It was the right move, because I saw teams that had looked horrible in spring training starting to win. A lot of times, it turns out, pre-season doesn’t matter once the real stuff starts.

  So I decided to look at my first week at Piper Bell as a sort of “pre-season.” I didn’t have to play my best because it didn’t count. I’d just been testing stuff out. I knew that wasn’t exactly true, but I told myself it was.

  This week, I had to make it count. For that, I couldn’t count on anyone but myself. No uniform, no cookies, just me.

  And when I told Diego my movie-moment plan during a choppy, noisy Skype session—He wasn’t kidding about the monkeys! They are loud!—he said he wished he could see it in action. Diego wouldn’t say that if he didn’t mean it.

  So, after school, I headed over to the field where the team practiced and took a seat on the bleachers, just past the first-base dugout. This boy Johnny Madden sat a few rows up from me. I waved at him as he gave me a quizzical look. He was in my algebra class and he was also the student who’d helped me up that first day when I’d landed in the spilled recycling. He must have been the team stats-keeper because he had a big logbook opened on his lap.

  JOHNNY MADDEN

  Height: Definitely taller than me

  Build: Suitable for tie wearing and clipboard carrying, apparently