Kristy and the Dirty Diapers

by Ann M. Martin

  Lunch flew by. We invited the twins to join us after school in the front hall, where we could chat some more.

  You know what the best part was? Afterward, I didn’t have the usual looooong, super-boring ride home alone. Now I had company. Okay, so Anna was too quiet and Abby was too loud. Still, it felt great.

  A big box was waiting for me when I arrived home from school that day. On it was the Davis Diapers logo, which looked like this:

  “All riiiiiight!” I cried.

  After Saturday’s game, Mr. Davis had said the uniforms would arrive in a week. They were two days early.

  David Michael wandered in, his mouth full of some snack. He stared at the label on the box for a moment, then said, “Emily Michelle gets diapers in the mail now?”

  “These are uniforms,” I said, ripping the box open.

  “Emily Michelle wears uniforms?”

  “No! Uniforms for the Krushers!” I reached inside and pulled out one of the shirts.

  What a difference. Before this, our “uniforms” had been caps and T-shirts with the team name in iron-on letters. But this shirt was gleaming white. It was soft. It had that great, new-clothes smell.

  And it had the Davis Diapers logo printed on it.

  That was it. Just two words and the drawing.

  Nowhere did it say Kristy’s Krushers.

  Claudia’s words came back to haunt me: “No ‘Kristy’ on the uniform? You’d hate it!”

  She was right. Part of me wanted to stuff the shirt back in and return the box. How could I stand seeing my team wear these? How could I wear a uniform like this?

  Kristy, you’re a big girl, I chided myself. I had told Claudia I wanted what was best for the team. I had meant it, too. These were real uniforms — sturdy and professional-looking. I was sure our new equipment would be, too.

  I vowed to keep my big mouth shut.

  I turned to David Michael. He was gaping.

  “Those are for us?” he asked.

  “Yup,” I replied. “What do you think?”

  “The shirts have diapers on them!”

  “They’re kind of …” I had a hard time thinking of the appropriate word. “Cute.”

  “What about the pants?” David Michael asked.

  I took out a pair of pants and a cap. The logo was on both.

  “Is that our name now?” David Michael asked. “The Davis Diapers?”

  “I guess.”

  David Michael looked mortified. “But I’m a Krusher! I’m not a … a Diaper. I’m not!”

  He stormed away.

  I was a little numb. For some reason, stupid radio announcements started popping into my head:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, here they are, yo-o-ourrr Diaperrrrrs!”

  “The Diapers are trailing, folks …”

  “And here comes the Diaper clean-up batter!”

  “Now the coach is changing the pitcher’s diaper — er, the Diapers’ pitcher …”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  I put the uniform back in the box and checked the living room clock. Practice was scheduled to begin in less than half an hour.

  The box of uniforms was too heavy to carry by myself. Mom was still at work, and Charlie wasn’t around to drive me.

  I decided to borrow Emily Michelle’s red wagon. I ran through the house and told Nannie what I was up to. Then I went outside to the garage, loaded the equipment bag in the wagon, and rolled it around to the front of the house.

  David Michael was slumping across the lawn. “We’re taking a toy wagon to practice?”

  “Well, you could carry the box on your head,” I said.

  “Very funny.”

  The wagon squeaked as we walked to the field. David Michael said hardly a word.

  When we arrived, Bobby Gianelli was already there. So were Buddy and Suzi Barrett.

  I didn’t want to open the box until the whole team had arrived. So I left it, and the wagon, by a tree.

  Within about ten minutes, the field was swarming with players, sitters, parents, and younger siblings.

  I looked around for some help. Mal was there, but she was busy putting a Band-Aid on Claire’s knee. Mary Anne, who was sitting for the Newtons, was feeding Jamie’s baby sister, Lucy.

  I was on my own. I lifted my trusty referee’s whistle and blew.

  Phweeeeeeet!

  The field fell silent. “Okay, guys,” I said, being careful not to address them as Krushers. “I have some good news. We, the future champions of the World Series, will soon have all new equipment — bats, balls, a tee, even bases.”

  Half the team cheered. The other half gave me this What was wrong with the old equipment? look.

  “A really nice man, whose name is Mr. Davis, has decided to be our team sponsor.” I held the box chest-high. “These are the brand-new uniforms he sent us.”

  “YAAAAAAAAAAY!” No doubt about that reaction.

  The team gathered around me, pushing and shoving. (Except for David Michael. He was standing, arms folded, against the backstop.)

  I held my breath. I pulled out a team shirt, making sure the back faced me.

  The first face I noticed was Linny’s. He turned pale. “I’m not wearing that!” he protested.

  “Dye … a … Purse?” Patsy Kuhn said.

  I turned the shirt around. This is what the front looked like:

  Of course, now the back of the shirt was facing the team, complete with the drawing of the diaper.

  “What’s it say?” Claire asked.

  “Davis Diapers,” Nicky replied.

  “Dirty diapers?” Patsy said.

  “Eeeeeeew!” Margo shrieked, dissolving into giggles.

  Nina Marshall looked ashen. “We have to wear diapers?”

  “Can we send them back?” Linny asked. “Or tell him to put ‘Krushers’ on them?”

  “Well, no,” I said. “That’s his company name. The whole idea is to advertise the company.”

  “Why didn’t you ask us first?” Jake demanded angrily. “You always say teammates should communicate.”

  “Well, yeah,” I replied, “but I guess … I don’t know, I figured we needed the new stuff, that’s all.”

  Glowering, Jake and Linny stalked away.

  I felt like a fool. They were right. I should have called a team meeting and proposed the idea. The way I would have introduced a new idea in the BSC. What kind of leader was I, anyway?

  I quickly found a shirt my size. “Look, guys,” I said, putting it on over my T-shirt. “I would never ask you to do something I didn’t have to do.”

  For a moment, everyone sulked and grumbled. Then Jackie asked, “Kristy, can I have my uniform?”

  “You want it?” Buddy said.

  Jackie shrugged. “Sure. They’re okay.”

  I found Jackie’s uniform, and he put it on over his clothes. Margo, Claire, Matt, Myriah, and Andrew decided to wear one or both pieces.

  It was a start. I hoped the rest of the team would become used to the idea.

  About ten minutes into practice, I gave up hope. The kids were so focused on the uniforms that they couldn’t concentrate. They were bobbling the ball, wandering around the field, looking as if they’d run out of gas.

  Mary Anne and Mal tried to help out, but it was no use.

  I distributed the rest of the uniforms at the end of practice, mostly to parents and caregivers.

  Then came the long walk home with David Michael, the Great Grump of Stoneybrook.

  As I turned onto our driveway, he kept walking.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To Abby’s,” he snapped.

  “Abby’s? Why?”

  “She’s going to give me another pitching lesson.”

  “Another —?”

  But he was gone.

  I wheeled the wagon into the garage. I stayed there for awhile, until I heard Abby’s and David Michael’s voices in the distance.

  Then I crept to the fence and tried to
see into the Stevensons’ yard.

  “Okay, now remember the signals,” Abby was saying. “One finger means fast, two fingers means faster, three means recite the Boy Scout pledge —”

  “Hey!” David Michael protested.

  “Four fingers,” Abby barged on, “means scratch your left armpit, five means burp at the shortstop, and a closed fist means ohhhh, what a tummyache I have.”

  David Michael was laughing so hard, I don’t know how he managed to pitch the ball.

  Abby was very funny. I have to admit that. But to joke around like that while you’re teaching fundamentals?

  Really, there’s a time and place for everything.

  “Can we go to Krushers’ practice? I want to join.”

  Mary Anne could not believe the words were being spoken by Druscilla. She had read the entries about Dru in the BSC notebook. She had asked me for details, and I had told her everything I knew.

  Mary Anne is great with shy, confused kids. She had a plan of approach for Druscilla, sort of like a flowchart.

  It turned out she didn’t need it.

  “Well, uh, are you sure?” Mary Anne asked. “The Krushers are a softball team.”

  “Kristy invited me,” Dru said firmly. “You can call and ask.”

  “That’s all right, I don’t need to. I’d be happy to take you.”

  Mary Anne was thrilled. As they left the house, she asked Dru, “Do you have a glove?”

  “No.” Dru suddenly looked concerned. “Am I supposed to?”

  “I don’t think so,” Mary Anne quickly reassured her. “I’m sure Kristy has extras.”

  “Are the kids really good?”

  Mary Anne laughed. “No. But don’t tell anyone I said so. How about you?”

  “I stink.”

  “But I guess you enjoy it.”

  Dru didn’t answer. She started kicking a stone down the sidewalk.

  * * *

  At the school playground, practice was in full-swing. Actually, half-swing was more like it.

  I had called that morning to remind each team member to wear the uniform. Out of twenty kids, only twelve did.

  I was cool about it. I didn’t make a big deal. I allowed them to express themselves.

  But I told them if they didn’t wear the uniforms to the next day’s game, they couldn’t play.

  I know, it sounds harsh. And believe me, I still felt bad about arranging the sponsorship behind their backs. But I made sure to apologize to them. I also explained that a deal is a deal, and that I was responsible for living up to it.

  I made sure to wear my own uniform, as dumb as it looked.

  “Okay, guys, let’s have a practice game!” (I still could not bring myself to call them the Diapers.) “The A team in the field, the B team batting.”

  Grumble, grumble, shuffle, shuffle.

  “That’s it. Way to go. Looking good. Woo, woo, woo.” (That was a cheer.) “Hey, big game tomorrow.”

  Ugh. I sounded pathetic.

  You know who I was thinking about then? Dawn Schafer. I really wished she were there. Not that she was a great athlete or anything. She wasn’t. But she had the most incredible energy. Her dad’s nickname for her was Sunshine, and it fit. She’d know how to cheer up the team. She’d say just the right things.

  Me, I muddled along the best I could.

  As Mary Anne and Dru approached, we were in the second inning of our game. How were we doing? Well, let’s put it this way. If it were possible for both sides to lose, they would have.

  I waved to Mary Anne. I assumed she and Dru were on their way somewhere else.

  “Jake, play closer to the bag!” I yelled as Matt Braddock’s ground ball skipped by him. (Actually, what I wanted to say was, “Wake up!” Jake hadn’t even been looking at the ball.)

  Next thing I knew, Mary Anne and Dru were at my side.

  “Guess what? Dru wants to play,” Mary Anne announced.

  I couldn’t believe it. I should have been thrilled, but I wasn’t. Now that we were in the middle of a championship, now that half the team was on the verge of mutiny — now Druscilla wanted to join.

  Easy, Kristy, I told myself. Don’t be a grouch.

  I smiled at Dru. I thought back to our conversation. She was breaking out of her shell, showing interest. I knew how important that was.

  I reached into the equipment bag. “Righty or lefty?”

  “Righty,” Dru replied.

  “Here’s a glove. Do you have a position you especially like?”

  Dru shrugged.

  “Okay, let’s try you out in short left field.”

  “Where’s that?” Dru asked.

  I pointed. “Over there, behind Buddy.”

  Dru walked grimly toward left field. She looked as if she were on her way to a math exam.

  She was also struggling to put her glove on her right hand.

  “Other hand, Dru!” I called out cheerfully. “You catch with your left, throw with your right.”

  Well, she did neither. She stood grimly in left field and kind of waved at the only ball that came near her.

  At her batting turn, we had to set up the tee (above age five or six, we usually use pitchers). She managed to knock the ball off, but that was about it.

  I wanted to give Dru personal attention, but with twenty other gloomy players to manage, it wasn’t easy. (I love Mary Anne dearly, but she was no help. She still thinks you score touchdowns in baseball.)

  I have to say, Dru was not a quitter. She stuck it out to the end.

  She even had a chance to play in front of Mr. Davis himself.

  Yes, he showed up during the last inning. I could hear his voice shouting, “Hey, Coach, nice uniforms!”

  I was horrified. “Hi!” I said.

  “I see you haven’t distributed all of them yet.” He chuckled. “Everyone charged up to bash the Bashers tomorrow?”

  “Yup.”

  At that moment, Myriah hit a slow ground ball that went under the legs of Buddy, Hannie, and Karen.

  “Whoops,” Mr. Davis said. “You must be working them too hard, Coach.”

  Boy, was I happy when practice was over.

  As Mr. Davis bent my ear about the delivery schedule for the new equipment (and almost made me late for the BSC meeting), Mary Anne walked Druscilla home.

  “You did great,” Mary Anne said.

  “No, I didn’t,” Dru replied.

  “Well, did you have fun at least?”

  Dru shook her head. “Not really.”

  “Ohhhhh, I’m sorry.”

  After that, Dru didn’t talk much. She seemed kind of thoughtful and withdrawn.

  Then, in front of Mrs. Porter’s house, Dru suddenly said, “You know, I’m taking flute lessons at school. And this new neighbor, Anna? She helps me at home.”

  “That’s great, Dru —”

  “I know a boy who plays drums and a girl who plays trumpet. Maybe we could make a band. You know, for the Krushers.”

  That one caught Mary Anne by surprise. “A band?”

  “They have cheerleaders, don’t they?”

  “Well, yes, but —”

  “Then they should have a band!” Dru raced inside. “I’m going upstairs to practice!”

  Mrs. Porter appeared at the door, looking a little befuddled. “How did Druscilla like playing softball?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Mary Anne replied.

  She imagined Druscilla tootling away in the on-deck circle, then stepping to bat with her flute.

  A band. Druscilla had quite an imagination.

  “He did what to it?”

  I couldn’t have been hearing right.

  It was Saturday morning, an hour before the start of World Series Game Number Two. Linny Papadakis was on the phone. He’d called to inform me he couldn’t wear his uniform. It seemed that Noodle, the Papadakises’ poodle, had just — well, let’s put it this way, the uniform needed to be laundered, probably more than once.

  “Can I wear m
y old Krushers uniform?” he asked.

  I exhaled with frustration. “Some regular sweats will be fine.”

  “Yyyyyes! Thanks, Kristy!”

  Click.

  I know, I know. I told them they couldn’t play without uniforms. But what could I do? This was an emergency.

  When Buddy called a few minutes later, to say that his baby sister Marnie had barfed on his uniform (shirt, pants, and cap), I became suspicious.

  Then Nicky Pike called to say his uniform gave him a rash. That was the last straw.

  “Have you been talking to Buddy or Linny?” I asked.

  “No,” Nicky said.

  “Well, wear the uniform to the game. Bring a change in case it bothers you.”

  “But that’s no fair! Linny doesn’t have to wear his!”

  Aha.

  You get the picture. The Diaper Rebellion had begun.

  I was firm with Nicky. Wear it or else.

  I hung up and then made a quick phone call to Mr. Davis. I left a request for Dru’s uniform on his answering machine.

  Now I really had to run. I wolfed down breakfast, brushed my teeth, and ran for the back door.

  “Time to go, David Michael!” I called.

  “He’s at Abby and Anna’s,” Mom replied from the kitchen.

  I’d been so busy that I hadn’t even noticed he was gone.

  I stopped and turned around. “What’s he doing there?” I asked.

  “A little pre-practice practice with Abby,” Watson said. “He was supposed to be back by now.”

  Pre-practice practice? What was that supposed to mean?

  “I’ll get him,” I said, running out the door.

  I jogged up McLelland. In the distance I could hear Dru practicing the flute. The sound didn’t seem to be coming from Mrs. Porter’s house, though.

  As I approached the Stevensons’ house, I saw that a little game was underway on the lawn. David Michael was pitching, Abby was catching, Hannie was batting, and Linny was fielding. (Everyone was in uniform except Linny.) Now I was really miffed. What was Abby doing? Athletes don’t play before a big game. They conserve their energy. They work on mental preparation. She was going to wear them out.

  “Okay, David Michael, throw me the knuckleball,” Abby was saying. She crouched into a catcher’s position.