Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy (19 page)

Then I thought about the first game and about how maybe, with Marissa’s secret play and a little luck, we could pull it off again.

So I got down to business. I put on Brandon’s mitt. I pushed and flexed and tightened it until it felt really comfortable. And I guess I fell asleep working the mitt because when I woke up in the morning, I was still wearing it, only I was using it more like a Teddy bear than a softball glove.

And for once Grams didn’t have to beg me to get up. I knew it was time. Time to go to school. Time to look the beast square in the eye.

Time to play ball.

On the one day you’d expect Marissa to do the McKenze dance nonstop, she didn’t do it at all. Not once. And any time Dot or I would say something like, “Hey, maybe Emiko’ll come down with the flu,” or “I hope the field’s dried up some,” she’d say, “It doesn’t matter. Either way, we’re going to win.”

And if Dot or I would laugh and say, “Right, Marissa,” her eyes would pop open and she’d say, “Get this through your heads—
we are going to win!
” so that by the end of the day we weren’t wishing for a dry field or a sick pitcher, we were feeling kind of giddy. Like we were going to win.

Of course, that was before we were lacing up our cleats and Heather got her whole team to meow through a verse of “Where, Oh Where, Has My Little Dog Gone?”

Marissa whispers, “Ignore them, Sammy. They’re trying to psych you out.”

Now, I’m trying. But there they are, across the locker room, tossing their gloves in the air, meowing away,
laughing
. And it’s hard. Real hard.

Finally, Ms. Rothhammer comes out of her office and says, “What’s going on out here?” and you can tell from the way her hands are on her hips that she knows Mr. Vince’s team’s not just warming up for Cat Choir.

Everyone gets busy retying their cleats and pulling up their socks—everyone except Marissa. And she’s about to step forward and tell Ms. Rothhammer what’s been going on, but I grab her jersey and give her a shut-up-or-you’re-dead look, and after a minute Ms. Rothhammer says, “Well, get out there and do something useful. Go warm up.”

On the way out to the field Ms. Rothhammer corrals all of us away from Mr. Vince’s team. “Okay, girls, listen up. I’ve checked out Marissa’s play, the Fake, and she’s right—it
is
legal. The signal I’ll use when I want you to do it is this.” She crosses both arms over her chest with her fingers touching her collarbones.

Marissa says, “Great! This is going to work, guys. They won’t know what hit them.”

Now, Dot and I are excited, but the eighth graders just kind of grumble and start walking again. Marissa catches up to them and says, “Hey, you guys, come on. I know you don’t think we should be on your team, but—”

Before she can finish, Dawn Wilson says, “Darn right. You guys choked last game. If it wasn’t for you—”

I’m sure Dawn thought Ms. Rothhammer was far enough away that she couldn’t hear what was going on, but she was wrong. Ms. Rothhammer makes a beeline straight to Dawn and says, “I have had
enough
of this. If it weren’t for these three, you eighth graders would never have won the first game! They’re on this team because they’re good. They’re real good. And I’m tired of seeing the rest of you ostracize them just because they’re seventh graders!”

Becky Bork kind of mumbles under her breath, “If they’re so good, why’d we get slaughtered last game?”

Ms. Rothhammer leans in. “That’s in the past. Today is what matters, and where these three are concerned you’ve got nothing to worry about. Sammy’s got a good mitt, she’s focused; Marissa’s one of the best pitchers I’ve ever seen; and if Dot were any faster, they’d want to haul her off to do some bio testing.”

That makes everyone chuckle, and when we’re all done laughing, Ms. Rothhammer smiles and says, “Winning
isn’t
everything, but in this case I think it’s pretty important.” She glances over at Mr. Vince laughing it up with the girls on his team. “For a lot of reasons.” Then she says, “Look, you’re a team. Individual effort is important, but no one player can win or lose this game. It’s up to
all
of you. Now, get out there and warm those bodies up!”

So we start trotting around the field, the eighth graders in front and the three of us bringing up the rear. Marissa says, “Pick an eighth grader, any eighth grader.”

I say, “Why?”

“Just pick one.”

I say, “Okay—Jennifer.”

Dot says, “Kris.”

Marissa says, “I’ll take Xandi. Catch up and run with them. Talk about anything. Just be nice!”

Dot and I look at each other and shrug, and then put on the steam to catch up with our eighth graders. When Jennifer figures out that I’m running
with
her, she gives me a what-are-you-doing-weirdo? kind of look, and rolls her eyes at Cindy Salazar who’s beside her.

I just say, “Hi,” and keep on running alongside them. I mean, I don’t have any idea what to say to them—they’re snotty eighth graders. But as we round the first bend, I try, “I’m sorry about Wednesday’s game. I know I really blew it, but don’t worry. It’s not going to happen again.”

Jennifer kind of eyes me like, Right, but Cindy pops her head out a bit and calls over, “What happened, anyway? Everyone said you freaked out because you had to play with one of the school’s mitts. What’s the big deal?”

I say, “The mitt that got stolen was my dad’s.”

They both look at me like, So what? and since I don’t want to go into the whole thing about how I don’t even know who my dad is or where he is, I tell them something that’s almost the truth: “It’s the only thing of his I had. He’s dead.”

They both look at me like, Ohhhh, and when we round the second bend, Jennifer says, “Well, maybe you should tell everybody that. Maybe you’d get it back.”

I say, “She’s not going to give it back. She’d rather eat
worms
than give it back.”

Cindy laughs, then says, “You’re talking about Heather, right?”

“Yeah.”

“She doesn’t seem so bad. Why don’t you just—”

Jennifer cuts in, “Oh, Heather’s no saint. She kisses up to us, but she’s the one that Amber about killed for trying to steal Jared away, remember?”

Cindy says, “
Heather’s
the one that did that?”

Jennifer says, “Yeah. And Amber probably never would’ve known if they hadn’t played that tape over the PA system.”

We’re coming around the last bend and Jennifer says, “What I never figured out was, Who played the tape? Everyone kept telling me to look for a girl in green shoes, but I never saw her.” She looks at Cindy. “Do you know who it was?”

“I just know it was some seventh grader.”

Jennifer looks at me. “Do
you
know?”

Maybe I should’ve just lied, but I couldn’t help it, I nodded.

By now we’ve stopped running and we’re lining up for stretches. They both look at me like a couple of owls.
“Who?”

I reach for the sky with the rest of the team while Miss Pitt counts off. “It was me.”

“You?”

I nod, and the whole time we’re stretching they keep looking over at me, shaking their heads and grinning. And the minute we get to throw the balls around to warm our arms up, the two of them run off to Kris and Dawn and Becky to spread the juice.

And the funny thing is, by the time Ms. Rothhammer comes back with the news that we’re up first, we’re like a different group of people. Becky Bork makes me give her a high-five and says, “I can’t believe that was you!” Dawn says, “Yeah, and you couldn’t have done it to a better person—that Heather is such a snot. She thinks she’s the hottest shortstop in history.”

I laugh and say, “That’s what everyone says about
you
, Dawn,” which a week ago would’ve gotten me blacklisted for life. Instead, what happens is Xandi and Cindy start
laughing and say, “Yeah, Dawn, take it down a notch, would you?” and pretty soon we’re all laughing and calling each other names. And for the first time since we started playing together it doesn’t feel like I’m just a splinter on an eighth-grade bench. I feel like part of the team.

And when Miss Pitt rounds us up and puts her hand in the center, we all pile ours on top and yell, “Go! Fight! Win!” like we’re really going to.

When Dot gets up to bat and I’m on deck warming up, I can hear Babs heckling her with, “Easy out, eeeeeasy out,” and “It’s a swing and a trip!”

But Dot just steps out of the batter’s box, looks Babs straight in the eye and says, “Eat dirt, Filarski!”

Mr. Caan calls, “Girls! Girls! Come on, play ball!” so Dot steps up to the plate, taps it a few times, then wags the bat in the air, waiting.

And when Emiko windmills her a pitch, Dot nails it right between Gisa and Heather, out to left field.

Now, Anita fields the ball just fine, but instead of getting the ball into second, she tries to throw it all the way to first. The minute Miss Pitt sees what Anita’s doing, she starts jumping up and down, yipping at Dot to go to second base.

So Dot curves around, tagging the inside corner of first, and by the time Julie’s got the ball, Dot’s halfway to second.

Monet’s not standing to the side of second or even straddling the bag like she’s supposed to be. She’s planted right in front of the base, blocking it. And since Julie’s winding up for a throw from first, Dot has to slide to make it, and she needs to tag the base, not Monet.

I would’ve just knocked her over. Really I would’ve.
But Dot’s too nice for that. What she does instead is run a little bit to the side, and when she goes down for the slide, she sticks her foot out so it hooks around Monet and catches the bag.

The ball comes in right after, and while the crowd’s going crazy chanting, “Dot-Dot-Dot! Dot-Dot-Dot!” she’s slapping mud off her jersey, grinning away.

So it’s my turn to bat, and let me tell you, I’m ready to whack the stitches open on that ball. But I look over and there’s Ms. Rothhammer, with one arm across her stomach and the other one propped on it, rubbing an eye. In other words, I can’t go whacking any stitches off the ball. I’ve got to bunt.

And then floating through the air like gas from a sulfur pit comes, “Meeeeow! Meeeeow! Meeeeow!”

I try ignoring it, but pretty soon Babs is picking it up, saying, “Meeeeow, meeeeow, meeeeow!” through her mask, and it’s hard to concentrate.

So I step out of the box and look up at the sky, just trying to get my composure back. Then I look at the crowd, and there’s Grams, standing by Hudson, right up front. She waves and Hudson cups his mouth and calls, “Go get ’em, Sammy!”

So I step up to the plate. And the other team’s still meowing out there, but in my mind Grams’ voice blocks it out. It’s like she’s standing there, whispering in my ear, “Rise above Heather.… You’re a
winner
, Samantha. She is inconsequential in your life.” Then I can practically see that mischievous grin she’d given me, and I know what I have to do.

I look up, and there’s Miss Pitt out by first base with an arm across her body, scrubbing an eye like she’s trying to bury a contact lens. I smile and nod at her, and then step up to the plate.

The first two pitches are balls, so I let them go by, and then just to fake out Mr. Vince’s team, I take a high swing at the next pitch for my first strike.

Now, Miss Pitt doesn’t know I missed on purpose so she gets busy grinding away at her contact lens again. I nod, and when the next pitch comes in, I slide the bat sideways and bunt.

And I
almost
made it to first base. Trouble is, softball’s not horseshoes and before you know it I’m out and heading back to the bench. I didn’t mind, though. Dot was safe on third, and getting her there was the whole point of having me bunt.

Xandi was up next, and after every pitch she’d step out of the box. I don’t know if she did it on purpose or if she was just so bugged by Babs that she needed to count to ten between pitches, but for whatever reason, it wound up throwing
Emiko
off. She walked her, which is something I don’t think I’ve ever seen Emiko do before.

So Dot’s on third and Xandi’s on first, and it’s Becky Bork’s turn to bat. And I guess she was hoping for another change-up to slam into outer space, because she tucked that bottom lip in and waited. And waited and waited and waited. And when Mr. Caan finally calls out, “Steeerike three!” she just stands there for a minute wagging that bat like she’s still waiting for the perfect pitch.

That brings Marissa to bat. Two on and two out, and
Marissa knows that it’s up to her to bring Dot in. She takes the bat, taps the plate, and waits. And when the first pitch comes in she holds back and Mr. Caan calls, “Steeerike!” and puts up a finger. The next pitch it’s the same thing. Mr. Caan puts up two fingers, “Steeerike!” Marissa’s not tapping the plate. She’s not even blinking. She’s just staring Emiko down, waiting. And when Emiko finally zips her the next pitch, it’s dead center. Now, we’re all frozen on the bench, kind of holding our breath, because Dot’s already halfway home on her lead and Marissa looks like she’s just going to let the pitch go by.

Then all of a sudden she digs in and swings. And when she connects, half the school—plus a handful of eighth graders on our bench—jumps up and cheers. Marissa makes it to first and Dot scores our first run. None of us even cared that Kris Zilli got up next and struck out. We were too busy jumping up and down—we were
winning
.