Gabby Garcia's Ultimate Playbook #3

by Iva-Marie Palmer

  I needed to make the joke so that I wouldn’t cry. Dad has always said it’s fine to cry but it’s also great to laugh when you do.

  We printed everything out and walked to the mailbox.

  When we dropped it in, I looked at Peter and said, “We need to high-five.”

  “Isn’t this more like a fingers-crossed kind of thing?”

  I shook my head.

  “No, it’s definitely a time for a serious high five. Like one that’s really important,” I said. “You stand there and I’ll face you. We have to take three zen breaths in and out and then high-five slowly, so we barely make a sound. Only the universe can hear it.”

  Peter gave me a really skeptical look. “This doesn’t sound like a thing people do.”

  “It’s what we do. This has to work.” I didn’t need him questioning my moves right now, so I held up my hand.

  “Okay,” Peter said. He held up his right hand in high-five position.

  “Three zen breaths,” I said. “Visualize our victory.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “I guess close your eyes and imagine still living here when you’re twelve or something.”

  “Ah, okay.”

  We closed our eyes and the picture in my mind was me, taller and a teenager, with my equipment bag and a uniform for Peach Tree High School, walking into the dugout at the high school field. I waved to my parents in the stands, and even to an older version of Peter, who looked much more supportive than I’d ever seen him look at one of my games.

  “Gabby!” real-life Peter hissed at me.

  “What,” I said, opening my eyes. I sort of wanted to see where that visualization had been going.

  “Stop your breathing. We need to high-five!”

  The Serious High Five only took us a few seconds, but I knew it was the most important high five of my entire life.

  So now it’s time for bed, Playbook, and I know you’re technically just a notebook that I’ve made a key to my life but in case your powers are as strong as I think, can I just ask that you put all your energy toward keeping me in Peach Tree?

  THIS HAS TO WORK

  I don’t want an A for effort,

  I don’t want a “Nice try, kid!”

  ’Cause this new plan has to work

  Or what’s the point of all we did?

  This is the big game, THE SHOW,

  This is the one that counts

  If bringing our best doesn’t work

  Then we’ve no other plans to mount.

  I’m sure Seattle is fine for someone

  Its sights to others bring joy

  But Peach Tree is my place in the world

  Staying here’s the cause for this ploy.

  To lose this place, my home, my friends,

  It’s not a loss I can just shirk.

  So universe, I’m begging you . . .

  This has to, it has to, it has to . . .

  Pretty please, it for sure has to work.

  GIVE ME A SIGN

  Goal: Get the universe to cooperate

  Action: Wish really hard for magic to happen

  Post-Day Analysis:

  September 23

  When people talk about pitchers, they talk about our “stuff.” It’s a very unspecific way of talking about a very specific thing. A pitcher’s “stuff” is all the throws he or she is able to do. Some pitchers aren’t that crafty with their pitches but can just throw consistently fast. Some pitchers have a pitch that ONLY THEY can throw. Devon is working on a knuckleball that is so slow and unpredictable that a batter might get tired of waiting for it to get to the plate (and swing too early). My slider—which I’ve already decided to name the Gabby Gotcha—is one that looks like you can hit it dead-on but “escapes” the strike zone just as the batter swings.

  I was happy with the application Peter and I had sent in for Dad to win the Peach Tree Citizen of the Year Award, but I was worried it didn’t have that zing of being really good STUFF. It was strong, but it wasn’t INGENIOUS.

  Piper Bell was moving on in the tournament, and I was sick and tired of being in the dugout. I was jealous that all I had to do was make a deeper butt print in the bench.

  As the team clattered into its mitts and tied cleats and chattered around me, I clenched my teeth and tried to think of something big—the Gabby Gotcha plan to stay in Peach Tree—that would save the day.

  “Are you okay?” Nolan asked as he sat on the bench next to me. Devon was pitching.

  “Not really,” I said. “I’m worried I’m going to move.” I’d been trying this whole time not to tell anyone that I was afraid the move would really happen, but knowing Nolan had his own family things to deal with made it easier to be honest with him. Plus, sometimes it was easier to tell someone you barely knew the things that bothered you.

  “Have you thought about telling your parents you hate the idea?”

  “Sure, but it’s kind of like you and baseball,” I said. “I want to SHOW them we should stay here, not tell them.”

  Nolan nodded. “Now that my parents are watching these games, they’ve started to understand why I like playing baseball so much,” he said. “They still wish I loved tennis, but they like that I’m happy.”

  On the field, Devon had a batter on first taking a big leadoff, and she snapped around to make the throw before the runner could see her. She got him out as he tried to get back to his base.

  “No one should ever steal anything from Devon,” Nolan said.

  “I know, right?”

  It was nice, for once, to watch a game with a friend. I relaxed and leaned back with my head against the dugout wall. For about two seconds.

  Until Madeleine huffed in and tossed her backpack under the bench. Madeleine has never quite liked me, because the first time we met was by me smashing into her in the outfield and giving her a bloody nose.

  “I need to talk to Gabby,” she announced in a gruff voice, sending the team members who weren’t on the field scattering. Then she plopped on the bench next to me. “I need your advice.”

  “What?” I almost jumped.

  “Yeah, you helped Nolan and Mario and maybe you can help me.”

  I wondered if this were a trick. But then Madeleine started talking.

  “The problem is, I’m trying to do everything and it’s not fair,” she said.

  “Uhhh . . .” My brain was trying to make me sound insightful but my mouth was stuck. “Can you . . . do less?”

  “No!” she said, like I’d asked the world’s worst question. “I need good grades but I want to play baseball and I take all the hardest classes but those take away from me ever getting to be as good as someone who can work at their sport.”

  This still felt like at trick. “And you can’t be in two places at once.”

  “No!” Everything Madeleine said sounded urgent. “It shouldn’t have to be so hard!” I’d known what to say to Mario and Nolan, but Madeleine didn’t have the yips. She was plain angry. I sort of understood because under all the planning and scheming and playmaking, I was a little angry, too. I didn’t want to have to do so much work to keep my life the same. I also didn’t know what to tell Madeleine. I looked around to see if one of our teammates could help, but everyone had moved to the other end of the dugout.

  “I wish everyone knew what it was like to have the same pressures as me, on the field and off, but that’s just not possible . . .”

  “Maybe you just want someone to tell you you’re doing a good job?” I smiled at her. “You’re doing a good job.” I patted her shoulder, wondering if this was the start of a great friendship.

  Madeleine rolled her eyes. Nope. “It would be nicer to level the playing field and have everyone have to deal with all the stuff I have to. There’s a science fair project due the same day as the last tournament game!”

  What had she said?

  Level the playing field.

  Level. The. Playing. Field.

  Level the playing field!

&nb
sp; That was it. If I couldn’t make Peach Tree beat out Seattle with its own merits, couldn’t I just make Peach Tree have the SAME THINGS Seattle was offering?

  “You’re a genius,” I told Madeleine. The universe must have heard me wishing for a great idea and sent an answer in the form of someone who didn’t really like me!

  “At least someone thinks so,” she muttered.

  I couldn’t stay for the rest of the game. I had a plan and I had to act on it immediately.

  When you’ve got the stuff, you’ve gotta use it.

  If Dad could have the same job in Peach Tree (or at least close by, like Atlanta) as he would in Seattle, there was no way we’d move.

  THIS was it.

  I jumped up and hugged Madeleine. It was very awkward because of my cast, and because she definitely did not want to be hugged.

  “Just pay more attention when you’re on the field,” I told Madeleine. “You’re always thinking about the other things you have to do and it’s not helping.” It was rushed but honest. You had to be in the game to have a good game.

  Then I told Coach Hollylighter I had to leave. “But if this works, I’ll be starting next season!” I booked it out of the dugout to go home. The HOME I was never leaving.

  Judy: Bob, I have to say I’m proud of Gabby. For the last few weeks, her plans to stay in Peach Tree have been minor league. And now with this idea . . .

  Bob: She’s playing in a major league kind of way!

  Judy: Righto. The question is, does she have enough time to make this work?

  Bob: Gabby is always up for a ninth-inning save.

  Peach Tree: 1

  Seattle: 4 . . .

  But everything is about to change . . . right?

  THE LEVEL THE PLAYING FIELD

  Goal: Make staying in Peach Tree as enticing if not better than moving to Seattle

  Action: Show Atlanta papers what they’re missing, and get them to hire one Juan Garcia

  Post-Day Analysis:

  September 24

  At first, Peter was a little nervous about my idea. “We’re going to apply for a job for Dad at the Atlanta Herald?” He made a strange face, like this:

  “Yes, it’s perfect.”

  “We’re thirteen and nine. That adds up to twenty-two. That’s barely old enough to apply for a job that requires EXPERIENCE. Dad’s like a million.”

  I waved him off. “But we have expertise. We KNOW Dad. And we have the internet!”

  I had my browser open to a page about putting together a writing portfolio and composing a letter to potential employers.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Shouldn’t we just stick to the original plan?”

  I told him that—as brilliant as the original plan was—this wasn’t about making Peach Tree seem better than Seattle but about evening things out.

  “So, this way, Dad gets his dream job here and we get to stay and nobody is disappointed about missing out on ANYTHING.”

  “Ahh,” he said. He got it.

  And, after years of not getting along, we somehow wrote a letter that made me think the Atlanta Herald should hire US for a job.

  Dear Ms. Klemson,

  I’m a longtime reader of your fine paper, the Atlanta Herald, in particular your excellent sports section. The only thing better than reading it, in fact, would be writing for it. As a writer, an editor, and someone who’s lived in the area as a devoted sports fan, I feel I can bring something excellent to your pages: my voice, full time. My writing has been featured in your pages a number of times, from columns about the best place to get a coffee and good conversation (Sweeten the Pot is my favorite) to profiles of citizens who contribute in ways that sometimes go unnoticed (the peanut vendor at Braves games who also treats families who’ve never been to a game to free seats) and myriad other topics of interest to area readers.

  The thing is, my work for the Atlanta Herald might come to a sad end. I’m in the running for a position at the Seattle Gazette, as a full-time sports reporter. It’s definitely a win, personally, but I’m hoping to score a win-win for my family. They’d hate to leave our home here, and I feel the same. I’ve been in this area for more than twenty years, and the connections I’ve made with the community have been great for my work. Reporting with heart is easier when your heart is in the right place.

  I hope you will consider my application, and I hope to hear from you soon. I’ve included samples from my portfolio as well as a list of books I’ve contributed to or edited.

  Sincerely,

  Juan Garcia

  (Myriad was one of my vocabulary words this week, by the way, meaning “many.” But it sounded like the word choice of someone who could have any job he wanted!)

  For working in an office with papers and books piled up everywhere (unlike the pantry, Dad didn’t seem in a hurry to empty this room out), Dad’s files were surprisingly organized on his computer, and we were able to print out a lot of his best work.

  We put everything in a big yellow envelope and wrote the address as neatly as we could on the front.

  “How will he get a job somewhere that’s not advertising the job?” Peter asked.

  “I don’t know, maybe because if you can get a great player, you don’t want to lose them to someone else,” I said. “And, Dad always says you’ll never know unless you try.”

  “Yeah, his vocal cords have dents in the shape of those words.”

  “I think Grandma says it, so maybe it’s hereditary.”

  “Let’s get to the mailbox,” Peter said. “We need to do another serious high five.”

  Peach Tree: 1

  Seattle: 4 (but about to be thrown out of the game!)

  THE KEEP IT UNDER YOUR HAT

  Goal: Don’t jinx the plan by talking about it

  Action: Contain myself during yet another (unneeded) memory-making session

  Post-Day Analysis:

  September 25

  For the first time since the possible Seattle move had been announced, I felt calm. Good, even. When Diego texted to invite me to yet another memory-making farewell get-together—watching movies at his house, with his mom’s excellent cheddar popcorn—I didn’t get prickly.

  In fact, I was so excited about everything working out that I didn’t want to potentially ruin the surprise. That’s why people like sports so much: no spoilers. Even the best predictors in the world didn’t get every game outcome correct. My and Peter’s plan HAD to work, and I was confident it would, but it was better not to give any details away.

  “Gabby, it’s so good to see you,” Mrs. Parker said, greeting me at the door. “How have you been doing with . . . everything?” Before she became a florist, Mrs. Parker had studied to be a guidance counselor. Sometimes she still slipped into that mode. It probably explained why Diego was so well-adjusted. She was never pushy about wanting to give advice, but you could always tell when she thought you could use a talk.

  Height: Makes it clear where Diego gets it from

  Build: Narrow but strong

  Sport: Competitive flower arranging

  Excels at: Making bouquets, sniffing out kids who need to talk

  Favorite Athlete: Whoever is getting her fantasy baseball team the most points that season

  Motto: “The power of finding beauty in the humblest things makes home happy and life lovely.”—Louisa May Alcott

  I panicked for a second. I was actually GREAT! But what kid who potentially was moving away from her school and friends was great?

  Bob: Gabby needs to be very careful with this.

  Judy: You’re right, Bob! If she plays it too sad, Mrs. Parker might get so concerned she tells Gabby’s parents—who don’t know quite how upset she was about the move.

  Bob: But if she gives any kind of tip-off that she’s not worried about moving because she has the situation under control, that’s also a red flag.

  “I’m, um, trying to make the best of everything,” I said. This was 100 percent true!

  It worked. “Oh, hon
ey.” Ms. Parker put her arm around my good arm and squeezed lightly. “It will all work out for the best.”

  “I hope so,” I said, thinking of the job application we’d sent, and how happy Dad would be if it actually worked.

  “The kids are in the TV room,” she said. “They’ll be so glad to see you.”

  Johnny, Diego, and Katy were already there . . . sitting on pillows around the Parkers’ coffee table . . .

  Or I thought they were . . . it was so loaded with snacks I could barely see my friends’ faces!

  It was a buffet of treats: the cheddar popcorn but also a zoo’s worth of gummies (not just bears, but also worms, monkeys, and sharks!), Milk Duds, red licorice, and even my favorite hate-to-love-them candy, Sour Patch Kids.

  They also had made a sign with the movie choices for the night.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “We couldn’t find any other movies about Seattle precisely, but we thought we could watch that one and make fun of Seattle,” Johnny said. “To cheer you up.”

  “We know you’re gonna be awesome there,” Katy said. “But we still don’t think that city deserves you.”

  “Or, we could just watch The Sandlot if you’d rather do that,” Diego said. “We should have let you pick the movies.”

  “No, this is great,” I said, even though a week ago I might not have felt this way. The fact that Peter and I had two good Stay in Peach Tree plays in motion made my friends’ sympathy easier to take. “Thanks, guys. Let’s watch the Seattle one.”

  Diego clicked on the remote but Katy stopped him. “Before we start, should we do our Gabby Lists?”

  Diego slapped his forehead. “Oh, yeah! Gabby Lists.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” I asked.

  Katy was already standing in front of the TV and had pulled a set of index cards from her pocket.

  “We made lists,” she said. “Or, like, notes, about you. And what we will miss about you. IF you go.”

  She’d called it an IF! “It’s a big IF,” I said, bursting to tell them about what I’d done. But Katy was already clearing her throat.