Same Planet - Different World PREVIEW EDITION (The First 12 Chapters)

by Ben Clabaugh

CHAPTER 5

  The next Saturday morning the phone rang three or four times. Each time David’s dad answered, and David heard him reassure either Mr. or Mrs. Skievaski that, “Yes we were still going,” that “No, he didn’t think the slight threat of showers early this evening would cancel the game,” that “Yes, it would be a good idea for Shelton to wear a hat, but that since the temperatures were likely to be in the 90's, and we would be home before dark, a jacket was not necessary,” and “No, there was food served at the stadium, so it was not necessary for Mrs. Skievaski to pack a basket,” and finally that “No, a tie was definitely not necessary. Shorts and a tee shirt were actually more appropriate.” He hung up after the last call with a “Whew,” wagged his eyebrows at David and checked his watch.

  “All right,” he said clapping his hands together. “Time to go. Let’s git before that phone rings again.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm toward the door to the garage, like he was the bowler, and David was the bowling ball. “Got your glove this time?”

  They both grinned at the memory of a White Sox game two years before when they had been visiting Chicago. Their seats had been a couple of rows up from the fence in the right-center field bleachers. It was David’s first game ever, and he had not known that every kid, and some adults, brought their ball gloves to the game. In the top of the 3rd inning he found out why. The Sox were playing the evil New York Yankees. He was seated as comfortably as the wooden benches would allow, a chocolate frosted malt slowly turning to soup as he tried, somewhat successfully, to spoon the mush into his mouth with the flat wooden spoon that came stuck to the side of the carton, when he heard the crack of a bat. He felt and heard everyone around him stand. No one was seated in front of him, so he had an unobstructed view of the ball screaming directly at him. The air was so clear, and the ball seemed so big as it approached, David could see the red stitches as the ball rotated. He froze.

  Reliving the incident later on the ride home, David imagined that he had his glove, that he had leapt to his feet, stood on the bleacher, stretched to his full height and snared the ball with the effortless, athletic grace of a natural center fielder. He imagined that after the game, a scout from the Sox stood outside the gate as the fans issued out, on his toes, head bobbing and weaving, looking for him—the next Rookie-of-the-Year.

  What really happened was David’s dad and two guys behind him collided going for the ball. They missed, the ball slammed into the empty bleacher seat in front of him, and his frosty malt ended up all over David’s shirt. He spent the rest of the game in a sticky puddle getting crusty.

  David remembered getting home from the game and telling his mom and Janie about the incident. Janie had reached out to touch the dark stains on his shirt then put the finger to her mouth. “Hmmmm,” she had said, licking her lips. “Chocolate.” She had insisted on going to the next game so she could have a ‘frosty mutt,’ too.

  The memory made his throat ache. He suddenly didn’t feel much like going to the game—especially with Shelton. He turned away from his dad, walked silently through the garage.

  David walked across the lawn toward Shelton’s house, trying to regain some of his initial excitement about the game. His dad drove past and honked before pulling into Shelton’s driveway. David looked up, waved, and frowned as he spotted the black SUV parked down the street, exactly where it had been the other day when he was on his bike. From the silhouette of the figure in the driver’s seat, David could not tell if it was the same guy. But it sure looked like the same car.

  David drew in breath to say something to his dad about the car when the Skievaski’s front door opened, and Shelton walked out flanked by both parents. His dad blinked in the bright sunlight while his mom fussed over him. David took one look at Shelton and almost laughed out loud.

  “Be nice, now,” his dad cautioned quietly, the smile clearly audible in his voice.

  David coughed and covered his mouth.

  “Are you all right, David?” Mrs. Skievaski asked wrapping a protective arm around her son.

  David took a deep breath. “Yes, Mrs. Skievaski. Something just went down the wrong pipe.”

  “Hey Shelton, ready to go?” David’s dad asked, clapping his hands together enthusiastically. Mrs. Skievaski looked David and his father up and down, comparing the shorts and T-shirts they wore to the slacks, black leather shoes, and oxford Shelton wore.

  “Oh dear,” she muttered and hustled Shelton back into the house.

  “Well,” Mr. Skievaski said, rocking on his heels. “Who’s playing?”

  “The Royals and the Yankees,” his dad replied, the smile still sounding in his voice. David wondered how he could manage to keep a straight face.

  “Should be a good, uh, match, then, hmmm?”

  “Yes, it should.” David’s father rocked on his heels, staring skyward, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively.

  An awkward silence settled over the front porch. Looking upward, trying to avoid glancing at Mr. Skievaski, David noticed a mud dauber building a nest in the upper corner of the porch ceiling. He had been stung once before, right in the webbing between the first two fingers of his left hand. It had felt as if someone had driven an ice pick through his hand. He ducked, pointing upward.

  “You’ve got wasps, Mr. Skievaski,” he said.

  “Good God, where?!” he gasped and began whirling his hands in front of his face and around his head. He hopped off the porch, coming to rest facing the house in a half crouch, hands up ready to strike.

  David stuffed his fist into his mouth and coughed, trying to cover his laughter. His dad plunged his hands into this pockets, cleared his throat loudly a few times, and stared up the street, pretending he had not seen anything out of the ordinary.

  Mr. Skievaski straightened out of his crouch and straightened his shirt collar. “Allergic,” he mumbled.

  David’s father made an “Oh” with his lips and nodded, knowingly. He winked at David. David turned quickly, pressed his hands against his stomach, walked quickly to the car, and got in to wait.

  Shelton and his mother reappeared with Shelton wearing baggy shorts, a T-shirt that looked like it was probably his dad’s, and a cap with an overlarge bill that made David think of Elmer Fudd.

  “Great,” David’s dad exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get going.”

  Shelton climbed into the backseat next to David, and they all waved as they pulled out of the driveway. Mr. and Mrs. Skievaski waved back, standing shoulder to shoulder, watching as they drove away.