Plunked (4 page)

I'm camped under a lazy fly ball in shallow left. It's totally routine, but really high. Jackson took a big cut and just got under it. It feels like I wait three minutes for it to come down, and I realize I'm nervous. Nervous for this can of corn! I don't think I've missed one of these since I was eight. That's how I know that the stakes are high.

It's the second half of practice on Tuesday, and we're having a little three-inning mini game. There's nothing unusual about that, except that our first game is Saturday. Coach is either setting the starting lineup or he already has. Obvious starters, like Manny, are playing for both teams.

I'm in left for one team, and Geoff is in left for the other. Everyone already knows one of us will start out here. When Jackson's pop-up smacks into the webbing of my glove for the third out, I cover it with my other hand. This isn't the time to take chances.

It isn't the time to pop out weakly to shallow left, either, but Jackson is safe as the starter at first. I smile a little on my way in for the top of the second inning. It has to be the first time in baseball history that someone is safe at first after popping out!

Anyway, I'm due up second, since Malfoy sat us down one, two, three in the first inning. I toss my glove to the ground, pick up the bat I like, and go straight to the on-deck circle. I take a few warm-up cuts.

It would be so sweet to get a big hit here, so sweet on so many levels. First of all, it would be off Malfoy, that smug-faced jerk-butt. Second, and a lot more important, it might give me a leg up on Geoff. He hasn't batted yet either. Coach has him batting fifth for his team, too. No one on their team has even sniffed a hit against our ace pitcher, J.P., but Geoff will get his chance in the bottom of the inning.

Dustin steps into the box. He's our catcher, and he has some pop, so he's batting cleanup. Malfoy fires in a first-pitch strike and pumps his fist as he waits to get the ball back. What a jerk: It's just one strike. I need to focus, though. In one more pitch, I could be up.

I start trying to time Malfoy's fastball. He has a pretty good one. Dustin works the count even at two balls and two strikes. On the fifth pitch, he laces one into left.

It's heading for Geoff but sinking fast. For a second, I think Geoff might run in and make some crazy diving
catch, which would be great for him, or a diving miss, which would be great for me. But he does the smart thing and plays it on one hop to hold Dustin to a single.

And just like that, I'm up with a runner on. Dustin isn't fast at all, so I have to worry about hitting into a double play. As I step into the batter's box, I can see that Malfoy is really upset on the mound. It was just a single, but he's stomping around and swearing under his breath. He's the only person on the team who doesn't realize how much better a pitcher J.P. is, so he probably still thinks he has a shot at being our ace.

I go through my routine, digging my foot in, taking my four quick mini swings. Malfoy is ready before I am. As soon as my bat goes back, he fires in his best heater. That's another sign of how mad he is: The pitch is definitely faster than any of the ones to Dustin.

I take a huge cut. I mean, remember, the last time I had a bat in my hands was in a batting cage. I can still feel the sensation of all of the solid, scorched liners I'd been hitting.

Basically, I'm swinging for the fences.

I'm too late on the fastball, of course, but I hit a long foul ball well to the right of right field. I think that makes Malfoy even madder, going up there and swinging out of my shoes like that. But what can he do? He's already shown me his best heater.

He can come inside. I don't know why I didn't think of
that! The pitch cuts in toward me, chest high. It's one of those pitches where you can just tell right away you're in trouble. The ball just seems to
follow
you. I lean back as far and as fast as I can, but it isn't going to be enough. I fall backward into the dirt just as the ball hisses past me and clangs against the backstop.

That snake!

I stay down for a second to straighten out my legs and make sure everything is still in working order. The sun disappears, and I look up to see Coach standing above me. He's behind the plate as the umpire.

“You OK?” he says.

“Yep,” I say, getting up. I'm not hurt, but my head is buzzing. There's something going on in my stomach, too. Butterflies, nerves, whatever you want to call it. Malfoy is a nasty dude with a nasty fastball, and man, that would've hurt. Now I have to get back in there.

“One and one,” Coach calls out, squatting back down. “Watch it out there, Meacham!”

“He was crowding the plate!” Malfoy's dad shouts. That's the kind of thing you'd expect a parent to yell from the stands, not a coach from third base. Tim's dad is an assistant coach, too, but if anything, he's harder on his son. So it's not like it's impossible to be fair. And anyway, there's no way I was crowding the plate. I have my routine. I'm
always
the right distance from the plate.

I try to glare out at Malfoy, but he's already glaring in twice as hard. It's like I'd thrown at him or something. Jerk-butt.

But here's the thing: It really was a good pitch. It was a good pitch because I'm completely spooked on the next pitch and can only manage a weak hack at it. Suddenly, I'm down 1–2 and still a little shaken up.

I ask for time from Coach. He gives it to me, and I pretend there's something wrong with my shoe. When I get back into the box, I still don't feel that comfortable. I think about bunting. It's stupid to bunt with two strikes. I'm as likely to foul out as advance the runner. Plus I'm afraid Malfoy will drill me in the teeth if I square around.

I just take the next pitch. I think it's a strike, but Coach calls it a ball. It's probably punishment for the brushback pitch.

“Come on, Edgar!” Malfoy's dad yells at Coach.

“Shut up, Sam,” Coach whispers behind the plate. But it's way too quiet for “Sam” to hear.

I sort of feel like I'm batting against Malfoy
and
his dad now, and I'm pretty sure Coach won't give me another charity call.

It's the fifth pitch of the at-bat, the same one Dustin lined to left. I should have the pitcher timed by now; I should be working the count. Instead, Malfoy is working me.

He drops in a slow changeup. Sneaky. After all of those fastballs, I'm about eight years ahead on the swing.

Strike three, take a seat, you suck.

We strand Dustin at third. The only good thing is that Geoff has to face J.P. in his half of the inning and goes down swinging.

“Chin music,” Chester says to me as we're waiting to get picked up after practice.

“I'm tone-deaf, anyway,” I say, but it's wishful thinking. I can still hear that pitch whizzing by me, clanging into the backstop. I can't quite get it out of my head.

I barely say anything on the ride home. Dad asks me if I want to get takeout from somewhere, and I just say, “Nah.”

“Not even McDonald's?”

I don't say anything, and he doesn't ask again.

All right, whatever. Shake it off, Jack.

I have a pretty good day in school on Wednesday. I mean, I don't humiliate myself in any major way, and it goes by quickly. Also, I talk to Katie Bowe. Kind of. I guess I'm sort of getting ahead of myself.

First period is blah, second period is bleh, and third period, well, you get the idea. But something cool happens in science class. We come in and take our seats and here comes Mr. Rommet, wearing safety goggles and some kind of heavy apron.

I don't mean the kind of apron your dad uses to cook at a barbecue with some dumb saying on it. I mean the kind you see in movies when people are messing around with uranium. Or the kind they put over you when you get X-rays at the dentist. Tim is sitting next to me, and I look over at him like, What the heck?

We all follow Rommet with our eyes as he heads up to the front of the room. That's when I notice the beaker set up on the big table. He's used it before. It's made out of that special science-class glass that you can heat up over a flame.

There's a thin metal strip in it, folded over a few times. It's like a silvery ribbon, and Mr. Rommet is carrying the sparker that he uses to light the Bunsen burner. I hear that in high school everyone gets their own Bunsen burner, and they do experiments. At Tall Pines Elementary, there is exactly one Bunsen burner, and Mr. Rommet is the only one who gets to use it. I look around at my classmates. That's probably a good call.

We know what the sparker is for, but we're wondering what he's going to light on fire with it. Meanwhile, our science teacher still hasn't said word one. He knows he has our attention in that get-up. He should have been a drama teacher.

So then he starts in: “Magnesium is a chemical element. Its symbol is Mg on the periodic table.”

He points to the chart on the wall with the sparker, then continues: “It is the ninth most common substance in the universe in terms of mass.” He breaks into a big smile. “And you would not beeeelieeeve how it burns! This is the stuff they use in flares.”

He puts on some kind of heavy-duty glove, stands back the full length of his arm from the beaker, and starts flicking the sparker over the magnesium strip.

“Don't look directly at it!” he says, which of course makes us all look directly at it. And
FOOOOOOOF!
A spark lands, and the thing instantly turns to bright white light. It's super intense and over as soon as it begins: so, so fast.

I blink a bunch of times and then look over at Tim, just to make a “Wow” expression with my face. I can still see the exact shape of the magnesium strip in my eyes. It's sort of like a bright white half-unfolded paper clip everywhere I look. How cool is that? In a few seconds, it starts to fade away.

Anyway, it's pretty awesome. It's definitely one of Mr. Rommet's finest moments, and he knows it. He stands up there smiling and blinking.

A little while later, I'm pushing my tray along the rails in the cafeteria. I have my chocolate milk, and I'm trying to decide if I really want an apple. I close my eyes to see if I can still see the magnesium strip at all, and someone bumps my tray with theirs.

“Move it along!”

It's a girl's voice. This is a little embarrassing, but I have this feeling of — I don't know what the word is —
dread
? There's nothing worse than those mean, popular girls. I figure it's Trina or Brie or one of them. I open my eyes, exhale, and look over. It's Katie, and she's smiling.

“Thank God,” I say. “I thought you were Brie.”

“Are you calling me cheesy?” she says, and I laugh a little.

“Good one,” I say.

“But seriously,” she says, and nods toward the growing gap between me and the next kid.

“Sorry,” I say, and push my tray along. I don't take an apple, and suddenly, I'm kind of nervous. It's just Katie, I tell myself, our shortstop. But I don't fool myself with that.

“That pitcher's back,” she says after a few seconds.

“For Haven?” I say. “The big one?”

“That's the one,” she says. “I guess he was only eleven last year!”

She says
eleven
like it's the craziest thing in the world, and it sort of is.

“No waaaaaaay!” I say. “That kid was huge. I want to see his birth certificate.”

“Seriously,” she says. “Maybe I'll bunt.”

It occurs to me as soon as she says
bunt
that Katie already knows she's going to start, that she's going to get at least two at-bats on Saturday. Almost everyone else is sweating it out for the announcements at practice tomorrow, but this cute girl behind me in line is already thinking strategy.

I feel her bump her tray into mine. Again. I'm being a total spaz! I move my tray and try to think of something funny to say, but I'm at the front of the line now. Mrs.
Flaneau is asking me which “entrée” I want. I look down at the options. I haven't even thought about it.

“I'll have the grilled cheese and Tots while he's making up his mind,” Katie says from behind me.

“See ya,” she says after she gets them.

“See ya,” I say. Focus, focus, focus, I tell myself. Think of something good to say. But it's too late, and I only have one thing left to focus on.

“I'll have the chicken nuggets and some Tots, please.”