Lost Boy (24 page)

When Ryder woke the next morning, sunlight was already punching through the cracks in the curtains. He sprang up and looked over at Mr. Starr, who lay wide-eyed on the other bed.

“Figured I'd let you get caught up on your sleep, but we should get some breakfast.”

Ryder helped Mr. Starr out of bed and into his chair.

“Hopefully we can wrap this up today,” Mr. Starr said with a grunt as he sat down in his wheelchair.

“Do you think?” Ryder's frame already trembled at the thought of meeting his father and—if things went as planned—saving his mother.

“When you show him that ball and he realizes you're his son,” Mr. Starr said, “I think he'll be happy to help. He'll want to keep this thing quiet, they always do, and we'll be on our
way back to New York with a big check . . . or the promise of one, anyway.”

Ryder frowned. “Why do they always want to keep it quiet?”

“I told you before. He's got his life, you've got yours. He's probably going to want to keep it that way.”

“But . . . you never had kids, Mr. Starr. Maybe he'll want to stay in touch.”

“Maybe.” Mr. Starr's eyes looked dead, but then they brightened. “Let's get you cleaned up and dressed and call that Braves PR person, what's his name?”

“Ethan Kupec.”

“Right. Shower, breakfast, then Ethan Kupec to confirm where to go.”

Ryder got cleaned up. He put on fresh jeans and a clean blue T-shirt and wheeled Mr. Starr to breakfast. Ryder helped Mr. Starr eat his eggs, then scarfed down a plate of eggs and bacon. They returned to the room so Mr. Starr could make the call.

“Hello? Ethan Kupec?” Mr. Starr flicked a crooked hand at Ryder, telling him to raise the phone up higher. “Rick Bernard got in touch with you yesterday. Ryder Strong and RJ Leonardo won the Baseball World batboy contest, and they are going to share the opportunity. I wanted to follow up and make sure he's all set to be batboy for the first game, and RJ will come in for the second game. It says here he just goes to the media gate at noon.”

Mr. Starr listened and Ryder could hear the buzz of the man's voice.

“Yes, he's got all the release paperwork signed by his parents,”
Mr. Starr said. “You'll see him at noon right there. Thank you. His name is Ryder, Ryder Strong . . .

“Yes, it is an unusual name, and he's an unusual young man, as you'll see. He's very excited. Yes. Thank you.”

Ryder took the phone away and hung it up on the table between the beds. “I don't have anything signed.”

“I can sign that if you put the pen in my hand. Adults don't read signatures. And you'll be going into the park yourself. I can't. Not after two days ago.”

Ryder nodded. He hadn't ever considered that he'd have to do this thing all by himself, but of course he would. Mr. Starr would stand out like a flashing light and they'd be apt to get bounced right out again, contest or no contest.

“Oh, don't look like that,” Mr. Starr said. “You can handle this. You'll be fine.”

“For some reason me and baseball stadiums don't seem to mix.” Ryder thought of being caught in Yankee Stadium. It seemed so long ago that he had to really think about it to make it seem real.

“All that changes in about an hour, right?”

“Yes,” Ryder said. “You're right. Maybe we should call Doyle? I'd like to talk to him, not email.”

“You want to check on your mom?” Mr. Starr backed his chair up and buzzed over toward the window that looked out over the city of Atlanta with its golden-domed capitol building. “I think that's a good idea. Get yourself focused on what this is all about. Go ahead.”

Ryder dialed Doyle, who answered on the first ring.

“Hey, partner. Your ears must've been ringing.” Doyle was
out of breath. “Did you talk to your dad?”

“Not yet,” Ryder said.

“Well,” Doyle said, “I just got some great news.”

“About my mom?” Ryder's heart soared.

“Well,” Doyle said, still excited, “it's kind of about her. I mean, there's been no change, but it's about FDNY. I got it, buddy! I got the logo! I can start fund-raising with it. Isn't that awesome?”

“Yeah.” Ryder was a bit confused. “I mean, does this mean I don't have to ask my dad for the money?”

“Well, no.” Doyle cleared his throat. “I think you still should. It's just that, I don't know . . . I can help, you know.”

“Oh. Sure.” Part of Ryder was disappointed, but another part was relieved because he
wanted
to meet his father. He wanted Thomas Trent to know he was
alive.
“Well, that's great, Doyle. I appreciate that.”

“Happy to help. You know that.” Doyle's smile was easy to imagine through the phone. “So, you didn't meet him? When I read your email about it being a big day and I didn't hear from you, I thought maybe . . .”

“No, but hopefully later. Um, how's my mom? Is she talking?” Ryder asked.

“She's still pretty foggy because of all of the pain medication, buddy, but she looks good. Strong, like you. Positive thoughts, remember?”

“Honestly, I don't feel so strong.” Ryder flicked his eyes at Mr. Starr, but of course Mr. Starr didn't move or give any indication that he'd even heard.

“Well, you are. Look at you, down in Atlanta and you think you're going to meet your dad?”

Ryder looked at the clock and his heart began galloping again. “In about a half hour, maybe.”

“You don't know for sure?”

“They had this batting contest at a place called Baseball World,” Ryder explained. “The winner got to be an honorary batboy for the Braves today. I guess it's a big deal because batboys are supposed to be fourteen, but they made an exception for this contest so there were tons of kids.”

“And you won? That a boy! See what positive thinking does?”

“That's the funny thing. I didn't win. This kid, RJ Leonardo was his name.
He
won, beat me in a playoff, but there's a doubleheader game today, so we're splitting the prize.”

“That's an awesome story, buddy.” Doyle chuckled. “Seems like luck is on your side.”

Ryder picked the signed baseball up off the table between the beds. “Yeah, seems like it.”

Mr. Starr's wheelchair began to hum as he backed away from the window. “Do you really have to give him all the details? I thought you didn't have a lot of minutes on that thing.”

Ryder nodded. “Okay, Doyle. I gotta go.”

“I heard that old grump grouching at you,” Doyle said. “Tell him I said to put a sock in it.”

Ryder smiled. “Okay, I'll tell him. Gotta go. Kiss my mom for me. Bye.”

Ryder hung up and could tell by the look of Mr. Starr's eyes that he was disgusted.

Mr. Starr gave a snort. “Do you realize you just told that buffoon to kiss your mother?”

“I said, you know, from me.”

Mr. Starr huffed. “All right. Let's get you going. You ready?”

“I'll be early,” Ryder said.

“Early bird gets the worm. Don't they teach you kids anything anymore? It'll take you time to get there, and if the media gate is half as incompetent as the security crew, they'll need extra time to figure out who and what you are.”

“I've got this pass, though, and Mr. Kupec's waiting for me.” Ryder took the special media pass from the envelope RJ had given him. “You've got to sign this, though.”

Ryder set the ball down. He helped Mr. Starr fit a pen into his right hand and placed the liability waiver on the desk where he scrawled out a squiggle that Ryder supposed could pass as a signature.

“You going to wait right here?” Ryder asked.

“Better that they don't see me, you know that.”

Ryder took a deep breath and looked around. There was nothing more to be done. He turned and put his hand on the doorknob.

“Ryder!” Mr. Starr's bark startled him.

“What?”

Mr. Starr snorted at him. “The ball. You forgot the lucky ball.”

“Oh.” Ryder felt his face heat up. “Thanks.”

“Can you imagine going in there without it? ‘Hi, I'm Ryder, remember Ruby?' Come on. Be sharp.” Mr. Starr glared. “He needs to
see
that ball.”

Ryder retrieved the ball and left the hotel room in a daze. He stumbled through the lobby and out the automatic doors into the sunlight. The smells of game day hit him—hot dogs, beer, and bus exhaust—turning his stomach. He crossed the nearly empty street and headed down through the gallery of whispering trees. Fans were few and far between and only a few police officers talked over paper cups of coffee in the shade.

Ryder saw the media gate and walked right up to the black metal bars. It was locked. He turned to go when he saw a man with a laptop computer case wearing shorts and a flouncy polo shirt swing open a small door cut into the bars in the far corner of the big gate. Ryder started toward him and the man stopped and held the door for him.

Ryder lifted his media pass in the air and the man nodded as he let him through. “
Sports Illustrated for Kids
or something?”

“Batboy for the day,” Ryder said. “I won a contest.”

“Another contest. I wish we could hit as well as we run contests,” the man said. “If we did, we'd sweep the pennant this year. Come on. You probably need to see Ethan Kupec, right?”

“Yes,” Ryder said.

“You can follow me.” The man stopped and looked at Ryder's hand. “Wait. What's that?”

“Just . . .” Ryder gripped the ball tight. “A baseball.”

“To get signed?” the man asked.

“Yes.” Ryder's voice was a whisper.

The man shook his head, scowling. “No way. They'll never let you in with that thing. You're a batboy, not some autograph hound. The rules are very strict. Here, you can give it to me and I'll hang on to it for you.”

The man held out his hand and Ryder swallowed hard.

The man suddenly burst out laughing. “Ha! Got you. Come on, kid. You're fine.”

The man mussed Ryder's hair and tugged him by the arm through the gate.

“Just kidding.” The man grinned at him. “You should've seen your face.”

Ryder followed the man into the stadium. They passed two guards who glanced at their passes and then continued across a small courtyard and through a glass door with the Braves logo plastered across it. The air-conditioning hit Ryder hard, but his armpits continued to sweat, even harder. They walked past a set of elevators and through another door where desks sat in clusters throughout a big room. In one corner was an office partitioned off by glass. Its windows looked out onto the playing field. Behind the desk sat a thin man of about thirty years
old with spiky blond hair and a serious face.

“Hey, Ethan, got someone for you,” the writer said, pushing the office door open and letting Ryder in before he disappeared.

“Ah, you're early,” Ethan Kupec said, rising from his desk and extending a hand.

Ryder shook the hand and then gave the PR man his paperwork.

He glanced at it and put it on his desk. “No adult supervision for you, huh?”

“I got dropped off,” Ryder said. “By my friend's dad.”

His face grew a look of concern. “What about your parents?”

Ryder shrugged. “My mom's in the hospital. It's just me and her.”

“Well, this is a nice thing to be doing, right? And you must have some super friends to give you the chance to be batboy for a day. Kids would kill for this.” He pointed at the computer on his desk. “We get over a thousand applications every season, and only four positions. They get filled by people on the inside. That's between us, not that it's national news. The contest—I thought, anyway—was a nice way to give just anyone a chance, and here you are.”

“Here I am.” Ryder shifted on his feet.

“Well, let's go get you a uniform.”