Gabby Garcia's Ultimate Playbook #3

by Iva-Marie Palmer

  That “you know” meant “because you’re probably going to leave soon and we feel really sorry for you.” Pity Party Alert! I reached for a slice of pizza.

  “Yum,” I said, angling to bite down on a string of gooey cheese hanging from the end. Without a great Stay-in-Peach-Tree plan, all I had to work with was TOTAL DENIAL that anything was happening.

  Until . . .

  “Wait!” Katy said, snapping a picture of me sitting next to Johnny on her phone. I basically had my mouth open eight thousand degrees while Johnny smiled.

  “This might be your last Peace-a-Pizza,” Diego said. “We’re going to commemorate everything. I mean, I know we’ll still be friends, but we thought you might like it. Memories.”

  Here’s what was going through my head as he said that:

  Bob: Do you feel that, Judy?

  Judy: I do. Gabby is PEEVED.

  Bob: Let’s look at why this play on her friends’ part is not going to score them any points.

  Judy: It should be obvious to them. Gabby doesn’t want to go . . .

  Bob: But here they are, planning special events and a photo project!

  Judy: Commemorating, Bob! They’re acting like she’s almost gone.

  Bob: We know it comes from a better place than that.

  Judy: Yes. But they should know Gabby better!

  Bob: It’s like they think she’s not going to FIX THIS!

  I wanted to scream, “Why are you trying to get rid of me! I’m not going anywhere!!” Instead, I very calmly nibbled another corner of my pizza and then said into my friends’ kind, pizza-chewing faces: “Guys, just because it SEEMS like I’m moving, we don’t even know that it’s final. My dad applied for the job but there’s still a chance he won’t take it. Why would he? They don’t have pizza like this in Seattle . . .”

  And, as I said that . . .

  A lightbulb went off in my head. No, wait, everyone is saying that wrong: a lightbulb went ON in my head. A whole scoreboard’s worth of lightbulbs. They went on and then they got so bright, I was pretty sure my friends could see all the weird crevices of my brain right through my skull. That sounds disgusting but the inner workings of amazing things can’t all be beautiful.

  “THAT’S IT!” I said.

  “Did you burn your tongue?” Katy asked.

  I shook my head and said, more and more excited as my idea took shape, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Huh?” Diego said.

  “But your parents . . . ,” Katy said.

  “Isn’t it your dad’s dream job?” Johnny asked.

  “Those are all factors,” I said, and I felt so inspired that I got to my feet. Some little kids at the nature center actually turned away from the lily pad pond to stare at me. “Seattle has some pros. Or one pro. The job.”

  “But,” I went on, feeling so brilliant I might have been outshining the sun, “. . . the point of a pros-and-cons list is to see which option has the most pros.”

  “Sure,” Diego said. “But like Johnny said, it’s your dad’s dream job.”

  “But it’s in Seattle. Which has no other pros, and mostly CONS. What if I make my parents see there are only PROS to living in Peach Tree?”

  I’d been studying up on Seattle, but I had been looking at this all wrong. I didn’t have to make it a choice between me and Seattle. This was a competition between Seattle and Peach Tree. And that wasn’t even a contest.

  “If you can really fill up an all-pros column, then the math is good,” Johnny said, nodding to Katy and Diego. I could have kissed him. But not really, because we haven’t exactly kissed yet. Which is another reason I want to stay in Peach Tree. I can’t just jump states when I may be on the verge of my very first kiss, right?

  “Of course the math is good, because Peach Tree is where we belong,” I said. I took another bite of pizza to celebrate.

  “But don’t you think maybe your parents already did a pros-and-cons list? Or talked about it?” Katy said. I could see from the look on her face she thought I was getting carried away.

  “You’re right,” I said. “It can’t just be a list. I need EVIDENCE to prove it.” I didn’t say, “I need a play or two to prove it,” because you’re still super top secret, Playbook.

  I took a picture of my friends looking at me with definite awe in their faces. Now I had something worth commemorating: the moment when I FIGURED EVERYTHING OUT.

  And that, Playbook, is how I begin my next official Season of Gabby. The play will be called . . .

  The All-Pros Play!!!!!

  THE ALL-PROS PLAY!

  Goal: Make my parents see there are only pros to staying in Peach Tree, meaning it beats Seattle any day

  Action: In a multiphase SUPER PLAY, devise several scenarios to demonstrate Peach Tree’s pros, in a way my parents won’t even know it’s happening

  Post-Day Play Development Analysis:

  September 9 (cont’d)

  This is it. I can feel it. I won’t be moving to Seattle. Finally, I have the right mind-set: This isn’t about me versus Seattle or me versus my parents. It’s about Seattle versus Peach Tree. If anyone can make Peach Tree a winner, I can.

  Bob: Judy, I think we witnessed some Gabby history in the making when she stumbled on this play.

  Judy: Let’s take a look at that clip again.

  Bob: Gabby is doing some of her best work AND thinking with an injury.

  Judy: It is impressive, but I’m still curious: How can she do this?

  Judy doesn’t know me. Well, she does. She’s in my head and I more or less invented her, but Bob and Judy talk the most when I’m doubtful. And I shouldn’t be doubtful, right?

  Since the move was related more to my dad because he was the one going for the job, I started to make a list of everything my dad likes about Peach Tree. It wasn’t that Louie’s input didn’t count, but if she was willing to change around her life and her fancy job—which she loved—to support Dad in his new one in Seattle, then she was already mostly convinced. So the focus was on him. He needed to see that taking the job would mean leaving too much behind. If Dad started to worry about leaving Peach Tree, it was easy to imagine Louie saying, “We don’t have go, you know.” So here’s my short list of Peach Tree things Dad likes:

  The library, where he does some of his writing and volunteers as an English tutor.

  Walker Park—the biggest park in Peach Tree, where he jogs (weird, right, since it’s called Walker?) because the dirt trails are perfect on his knees. (Also, it has benches in the shade, and since he really doesn’t LIKE jogging, he loves those.)

  Grandma Garcia—Also known as Abuelita Salma, Dad’s mom, who technically lives in Florida but gets to visit us a lot. Seattle is not close enough to drive in for a weekend.

  Gus’s Butcher Shop, Sunshine Produce, Fay’s Market, the Peach Tree Farmers Market—I know Seattle has plenty of food, but for Dad, going shopping for ingredients is about the PEOPLE. He loves that everyone at these places knows him, and if you go with him when he shops it takes FOREVER.

  I know I need more, but this is a start. Let me think . . .

  (Pause for think break)

  EEK! IT’S SEPTEMBER 10!

  That think break went into extra innings—and there’s still no winner!

  Playbook, my thinking isn’t going well.

  I THOUGHT ALL NIGHT. (Or, the parts of the night before I fell asleep with no ideas.)

  But instead of ideas, all I could think of was everything I would lose if this play doesn’t work.

  My room: I can take all of the stuff in it with me, but there’s no guarantee that my Mo’Ne Davis poster will still be in a spot the sun hits each morning. And I won’t wake up with a view of my favorite tree, or the same curly shadows.

  My friends: I know I won’t LOSE them, but we’ll probably lose track of each other, at least a little. It was hard enough when Diego was in Costa Rica for a few months. I’d be gone FOR GOOD.

  My school: I was finally feeling settled in at
Piper Bell. Better than settled. I might be PRESIDENT. Piper Bell matters to me or I wouldn’t be running for president.

  My team: The Penguins—more than any team I’ve been on—feel like MY TEAM. We have rapport, or have it when I’m not benched. I thought rapport was silly when Coach Hollylighter first brought it up but I get it now.

  Remember how, when I first got transferred to Piper Bell, it was when I was on a life win streak? Well, moving to Seattle would be worse: It wouldn’t break up a win streak. It would break up MY LIFE.

  So here I am in Life Studies class, sneakily writing this while we watch a video on how to make a budget. (But, technically, the list I just made IS studying my life.)

  Life Studies is a class that’s always changing because, as Piper Bell once said, “as the world grows, so do we.” She wanted students to be well-rounded in every way, so Life Studies teaches all this boring grown-up stuff like how to be careful with money, how to have good basic manners (not frou-frou stuff with weird forks but like how to write a thank-you note when someone helps you with something), or how to create good habits or eat a balanced diet for energy blah blah blah. Everyone has to take it. Later in the year, we get to learn the Piper Bell Basics, a bunch of things every human should know how to cook. You make eggs three ways and an easy sheet cake and a protein bowl (vegetarian if you want) and other stuff.

  I had this whole vision of how it would be like being on a cooking show with my friends, and it’s another thing I might miss.

  “Psst.” Katy sits behind me and she’s poking me. “This might be your last Life Studies class.”

  “I’m not moving tomorrow.” Or ever, I wanted to add. But being idealess for the All-Pros Play was making me nervous.

  Johnny peered back at us and sneaked his phone out of his backpack. My phone vibrated in my bag with a message from him. Katy’s too. We both sneaked our phones out.

  Maybe your last Life Studies video about budgeting?

  I was about to make this the first Life Studies class where I ran screaming from the room.

  It was almost like they WANTED me to move.

  “Do I see phones out?” Our teacher, Mr. Bogado, was suddenly standing over my desk, looking from me to Johnny to Katy. “This is a warning. If I see them again, there will be an After-School Think-About-What-You-Did Session.”

  (Piper Bell is a progressive school, but that doesn’t mean progress like you can use a cellphone in class; it just means they don’t call detention Detention.)

  Height: Currently looming

  Build: Muscly (he used to play college football)

  Excels at: Fancy footwork. As a running back, he also took ballet classes.

  Favorite Athlete: Esther Williams, swimmer and swim-dancer in old movies. (He has a big picture of her at the front of the class.)

  Motto: “The wisdom acquired with the passage of time is a useless gift unless you share it.” —An Esther Williams quote he has above the whiteboard

  “It could be your last After-School Think-About-What-You-Did Session,” Katy said.

  “It would be my first,” I hissed to her. “And yours. And Johnny’s. I don’t think it’s something to aim for.”

  Mr. Bogado nodded at me. He gave us one long look before returning to his desk.

  It did occur to me that I could start getting in a lot of trouble and then my parents would have to put all their energy into reforming me. Or it could make them think I need a “fresh start,” with Seattle as the perfect spot for it. I wouldn’t make a good delinquent anyway.

  (Playbook brainstorm pause as I try to avoid a Think-About-What-You-Did Session)

  So, after a day of no ideas, I’m back in my room. A full twenty-four hours WASTED without any plans created. Playing baseball would help me think. That sounds weird, but when my brain is all musty and slow, playing ball is the way I clear out the cobwebs. But I can’t. I can’t throw. I can’t go to the batting cages. I can’t even put my mitt on because my left hand is trapped in a cast.

  Pacing! People pace when they’re thinking.

  (Pause to try pacing)

  Whoa.

  There I was, pacing my room like you see people do when they’re trying to SOLVE A HUGE PROBLEM.

  And, maybe I was muttering to myself.

  I was definitely muttering to myself. Maybe doing whatever’s louder than muttering. I was trying to think about the All-Pros Play like a baseball game.

  “What will make Peach Tree a sure winner? What’s my home-run move? Where is the SWEET SPOT?”

  There is a store called the Sweet Spot, and it does have the weird old candy Dad likes. (Not old as in sitting there but old as in what he ate when he was a child four million years ago. Personally, I think candy has come a long way, but maybe if you grew up liking weird spirals of black licorice, you can’t develop a better sense of taste later on.)

  Seattle probably has old candy, too. But, by sweet spot, I mean the baseball kind. The sweet spot is about your bat, and how to use it optimally.

  People have all kinds of takes on it, and there are even formulas and angles and equations to determine a bat’s sweet spot. Once you think you have the answer, you could still find a second sweet spot on the same bat!

  It can be the place where, when you hit the ball, the bat vibrates the least and your hands won’t sting when you THWACK a ball really hard.

  It can be the section of the bat where the maximum amount of force is transferred to the ball, and you make it go farther.

  It’s all very scientific, in a way, but like a lot of science things, it’s a little bit magic, too. (Rainbows, for example, have a totally scientific explanation but are also magical when you see them.) The way I think of sweet spots (and I pitch more than I bat, so in some ways, I would rather bats’ sweet spots remain mysterious and unknowable!) is: they are the points on the bat that will give a batter the maximum performance and/or the minimal sting.

  So, I need to find all the Peach Tree sweet spots: things that would go a long way toward convincing my dad and Louie to STAY PUT but that would leave them feeling NO REGRET for bailing on this Seattle talk. Maximum good vibrations, minimum sting! If I could find them, my dad would realize there’s no better bat—I mean town—for him. And us. Because, as he and Louie seemed to be forgetting, we are a family!!

  “Sweet spots. Peach Tree sweet spots,” I was saying as I paced. I was getting really good at pacing.

  Then, Peter walked in.

  PETER! WALKED! IN!

  He just barged in like he lived here. Okay, this is his house, too, but it’s MY ROOM. There’s a sign on the door that specifically says: YOU ARE CROSSING THE LINE INTO GABBY’S STRIKE ZONE. IF YOU ARE FOUL (PETER!!), YOU MUST KEEP YOUR MITTS OUT OF HERE.

  (From a baseball standpoint, the sign doesn’t make a ton of sense, I know.)

  “Go away,” I said. It’s a reflex for whenever I see Peter coming. Or hear him breathing.

  Peter raised his chin at me and said, “No.” He was dribbling a soccer ball between his feet, something he does often that seems to relax him. (It’s also something that is totally unfair because I’m not allowed to throw a ball in the house, which would relax ME.) “I can hear you talking to yourself, you know.”

  Oh, great. The last thing the All-Pros Play needed was Peter ratting me out to Dad and Louie. The plan working relied on them thinking I was okay with the move—Dad especially. My sweet spots had to surprise him and make him think HE was bonkers to want to leave Peach Tree. I needed to give him the kind of reminders that didn’t stick like a Post-it Note but lightly tapped him on the shoulder without letting him know I had ANYTHING to do with them.

  “Stop spying on me,” I said, and I closed you, Playbook, and kicked you under the bed (sorry for that).

  Peter rolled his eyes. “I’d rather ignore the sound of your voice. But I heard you. You’re trying to stop us from moving.”

  I shook my finger at him angrily. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. I almost adde
d, “One day, you’ll understand.”

  Because of course Peter didn’t understand NOW. Peter was fine with moving. He thought Seattle was so great and perfect and he had his dumb Space Needle snow globe front and center on his dresser like he couldn’t wait to stand under the real thing again.

  “You’re looking for a magic thing that will make Dad and Mom want to stay here.”

  “Pffftttttt,” I told him, trying not to deflate like a balloon. “Why would I even think I could do that?”

  Peter looked down and kicked the soccer ball from foot to foot.

  Taptaptaptaptaptaptap tappity-tap tappity-tap.

  The rhythm was soothing, and I was jealous. If my mitt could fit over this bulky cast, I’d be able to squeeze it open and closed and feel like I was thinking straight. Instead, I was thinking in zigzags and spirals and loops.

  Bob: Gabby is being caught out, right now . . .

  Judy: What will she do if Peter foils her play before she even starts it?

  Bob: Judy, I don’t want to think about it. How will we make it in Seattle?

  Judy: Our skills translate, Bob. But we both know you’re sentimental.

  Bob: So are you.

  Peter couldn’t screw up the All-Pros before I even gave it a shot! I was incredibly sad but also AGITATED (one of this week’s English Comp vocabulary words), and while Bob and Judy bawled, the little Gabbys angrily stomped around like they’d like to go head-to-head with Peter.

  It was too many feelings at once, and I was desperate to make Peter go away. “I can’t stop us from going to Seattle,” I said.

  Peter stopped the ball beneath his foot, and when he finally looked up, he didn’t have the expression of someone who was going to run off and tell on his sister. (I’d seen that look before.) He looked CONTRITE (another new vocab word, which can mean guilty or apologetic, but also sheepish—Peter might have been all three).