And I eyed the spot for the bounce, and rounded my arm, and bowled the ball about as fast as you can bowl a cricket ball, and I delivered it longer than any I’d delivered before, and this time, straight to Krebs’s off stump—no spin, right at his feet.
A yorker.
A real yorker.
Let’s just say that when his bails went flying, I sprinted back toward my wicket, slid across the grass on my knees, ripped off my shirt, pumped my arms, and hollered like we’d just won the World Cup of Cricket.
And guess what. That’s what all the slips and covers did too.
Every single one.
Hollering with our shirts off, pumping our arms—and it was cold, so this was a big deal.
And Carson Krebs stood at his wicket, holding the bails, leaning on his bat, smiling. “When you guys are all done,” he said, “we can get back to work. It looks like we’ve finally found our other bowler.”
* * *
After three days of unfurling in long waves, the flag of India was taken down late one night.
Principal Swieteck never investigated. She had her flagpole back, and besides, it wasn’t hard to figure out who had taken it down. Or put it up.
But Vice Principal DelBanco still wasn’t walking around happy, and I don’t think it was because of the flag of India. I think he was getting more than a little annoyed with cricket, mostly because the only thing anyone was talking about was the match between Team Britannia and Team India. At Longfellow Middle School, in the last weeks of October, the only thing anyone was supposed to be talking about was Minutemen football. And no one was talking about Minutemen football.
Like in Mrs. Harknet’s homeroom, when Vice Principal DelBanco proclaimed during morning announcements that this Saturday the Minutemen would be playing football against the Seton Badgers.
“So, are you going to bowl the whole time?” asked Patty Trowbridge.
“This will be the fourteenth meeting of these two rivals,” said Vice Principal DelBanco over the PA.
“The whole match,” I said. “Chall and I bowl every other over.”
“Currently, Seton holds an eight to six advantage over the Minutemen,” said Vice Principal DelBanco.
“Over?” said Patty Trowbridge, like a stupid sixth grader.
“Six balls,” I said.
“But this year, our offense has averaged twenty-four points per game,” said Vice Principal DelBanco.
“What position is Krebs batting?” said Jennifer Washburn.
“The second highest in our conference,” said Vice Principal DelBanco.
“He hasn’t decided, but probably third,” I said.
“And we have every confidence that the Minutemen will score big against their archrivals.”
“If he’s the best player, shouldn’t he be batting fourth?” said Mrs. Harknet.
“So come out to cheer your team on. Ten o’clock for the kickoff!”
“Number three is the most important,” I said. “By fourth, the bowlers are getting tired, and the third is the guy responsible for tiring them out.”
“So who’s up first?” said Jennifer Washburn.
“Come support your team!”
“Krebs hasn’t told us who the opening batsmen are. Maybe Chall at number one, Briggs at number two.”
“Bring your family!”
“This Saturday?” said Mrs. Harknet.
“This Saturday!” said Vice Principal DelBanco. “Ten o’clock. Don’t forget!”
“This Saturday,” I said. “Eight o’clock.”
“Go Minutemen!” said Vice Principal DelBanco.
“I’ll be there,” said Mrs. Harknet.
She would probably be the only one in the bleachers on Saturday morning at eight o’clock. But still, it’s nice to know your homeroom teacher is going to show up.
I guess that’s about decorum too.
· 21 ·
The Fly SlIp
The fly slip is a position in the outfield beyond the slip, designed to catch deep hits and so prevent multiple runs.
On the wednesday before the match, the Butler drove me home in the Eggplant after practice. And it had been a pretty hard practice, with me bowling half the time, Chall the other half, and batting and sprinting between wickets and fielding as a slip when I wasn’t bowling. I was about as tired as a cricketer on Team India can get, and I wasn’t exactly looking forward to walking Ned around the block. So when we pulled in to the driveway and Annie was already on the stoop with Ned on a leash, I figured that maybe there was justice in the world.
But the Butler didn’t agree.
“Young Master Carter will escort Ned,” said the Butler when we got out.
“I don’t mind,” said Annie.
I looked at the Butler. “It’s okay,” I said.
“I can walk him,” said Annie.
“She can walk him,” I said.
“In general, Miss Anne, young ladies do not—”
Annie put her hands on her hips, and she gave That Look. No kidding. “We’re in America, Mr. Bowles-Fitzpatrick.”
He looked at her. He looked at me. He looked at her again. “So we are,” he said finally. “We shall accompany you.”
Which wasn’t exactly what I wanted to do.
But we did.
It probably looked kind of ridiculous, three people walking a dachshund past the Ketchums’ green and browning azaleas, the Briggses’ green and browning rhododendrons, the Rockcastles’ green holly hedge with its red berries, and the Koertges’ dead petunias, until we got to Billy Colt’s driveway and we all waited while Ned pooped, and then we all waited by the day lilies—that were looking sort of yellow now, probably because it was late October—while Ned did what he had to do.
And while Ned was doing what he had to do, Annie looked at me and said, “Daddy isn’t coming home, is he?”
I thought I was going to throw up—like a dachshund.
“Did Mom talk to you about it?” I said.
“Is he?” she said.
“You should talk to Mom,” I said.
“Young Master Carter,” said the Butler—and he said it in a voice like the kind you hear in quiet dreams—“Miss Anne is asking her older brother a question.”
I looked at the Butler. “Blabber.”
“She is asking her older brother to tell her the truth,” he said.
Ned finished with the day lilies.
In the Blue Mountains of Australia, you wouldn’t even notice day lilies like the ones at the end of Billy Colt’s driveway. All the plants in the Blue Mountains of Australia have these huge leaves, and they’re all overlapping, and they’re always dripping from the thunderstorms, and they’re so thick you can hardly get through them when you try to. They’re so thick you mostly can’t see the ground.
In the Blue Mountains of Australia, Ned would get lost right away, the moment he stepped off the path. And who knows what kind of snake would be slithering in the low grass, waiting for him? In the Blue Mountains of Australia, the snakes waiting for you if you step off the path are mostly poisonous. If you get bitten, you’re not going to make it back to any ranger station. You’re just not.
You have to pay attention, because in the Blue Mountains of Australia, there’s stuff you can’t see. There’s stuff you don’t even want to see. Or want to talk about.
“Is he?” said Annie.
“No,” I said. “He’s not.”
The Butler took Ned’s leash from Annie, and Annie put her arms around me, and she put her head against my chest, and she cried.
And cried.
We stood there a long time—so long that Ned decided to use the day lilies again.
And when he was about to use them a third time—that’s how long we stood there—Annie looked up at me, and she said, “Was it something we did?”
I looked at the Butler.
“Miss Anne wants you to tell her the truth,” he said.
I held Annie’s head against me
, and I said, “Not something you did.”
Then we all walked back.
* * *
Once home, the Butler told me to get cleaned up, and I stood under the shower that pelted me like an Australian tropical thunderstorm, and when I came downstairs again, Annie and Charlie and Emily and my mother were on the couch together, and they were all crying. I sat next to them—it was sort of crowded—and Emily did something she hadn’t done for a long time: she climbed onto my lap and put her arms around my neck and hung on like everything in the whole world depended on it. I didn’t think she was ever going to let go. And you know what? I didn’t think I was ever going to let go either.
* * *
That night, my mother suggested pizza for supper, even though the Butler said, “Madam, permit me to protest.”
“Let’s make it easy this one time,” my mother said.
He looked at her. “Pizza is Italian,” he said.
“The children all like it,” she said.
“Have you ever eaten pizza?” I asked.
“Perhaps you misheard my recent ethnic identification, young Master Carter: pizza is Italian,” said the Butler.
“So that’s being objective in order to discern and express truth?”
“There are limits to all dicta,” said the Butler.
“You can’t say you don’t like pizza if you’ve never tried it,” I said.
“And yet, there are so many things I can say that of—monkey brains, squid tentacles, whale blubber. I feel quite confident in adding pizza to the list of things I know I would detest despite not having tried them. Never mind the fact that one would always do well to avoid food served out of an automobile.”
“Can we have pepperoni on it?” said Emily.
“And pineapple?” said Charlie.
My mother looked at the Butler. “One night,” she said.
The Butler hesitated, hesitated, hesitated . . .
“And sausage?” said Emily.
The Butler heaved this great sigh of despair, like he’d just heard the whole world was about to end or something.
“In for a penny,” he said, and went to make the phone call.
We waited about twenty minutes, and then the Butler said we should all get into the Bentley and drive to Willy’s Pizza and Subs, so that at the least, our dinner would not be afflicted by the erratic driving of Willy’s proxy.
“What’s a proxy?” said Annie.
“ A teenager,” said the Butler. “Step lively now, please.”
I drove. My mother sat in the back seat, gripping the three girls with tight hands.
But can I say, besides the one stop sign that was pretty much hidden by a stupid spruce tree that whoever owned should have cut back, I did fine?
The pizza was ready when we got there. Two pepperoni and pineapple and sausage and green pepper pizzas. The green peppers were the Butler’s idea. “We may as well have at least one item for dinner that makes an appearance on the food pyramid,” he said. So we sat around a table beneath a television—you can imagine what the Butler said about sitting beneath a television—at a table with a plastic tablecloth—you can imagine what the Butler said about the plastic tablecloth—and the Butler served slices to all of us and then he took a piece of pizza onto his own paper plate—you can imagine what the Butler said about the paper plate—and he asked for a proper fork and knife and Willy himself brought a plastic fork and knife—you can imagine what the Butler said about the plastic fork and knife—and the Butler ordered a ginger ale because they don’t serve tea at Willy’s Pizza and Subs—you can imagine what the Butler said about Willy’s Pizza and Subs not serving tea—and we picked up the pepperoni and pineapple and sausage and green pepper slices—you can imagine what the Butler wanted to say about us picking up our food but didn’t—and we ate all of it.
Willy asked the Butler how he’d liked his pizza when he had finished.
“It abounded in mozzarella,” said the Butler.
“That’s what we’re known for: extra cheese,” said Willy.
“And the proximate nature of the green peppers and the pineapple was remarkable,” said the Butler.
“I arranged it myself,” said Willy.
“And the pepperoni and sausage were as pungent as any human being might wish.”
“Only the best ingredients,” said Willy. “So you liked it?”
“The night will go down in the annals of digestive history,” said the Butler, and Willy slapped him on the back.
“Next time you come, you’ll try the Willy Supremo.”
“The very next time,” said the Butler.
· 22 ·
Run Out
If a batsman attempting a run cannot reach the crease before the ball is thrown into it, and the bails are knocked off, then the batsman is out. Any fielder may knock down the bails, and so the batsman is out. When a batsman is run out, his turn is over.
It was a hard night.
The girls kept waking up, and they would remember, and then they would start to cry, and I would listen to my mother walking down the hall to their bedrooms. The sounds of quiet voices in the dark, soft and sad. Charlie and Emily whispering after my mother left. Annie in their room. And then finally all three of them in my room, carrying blankets and pillows and Ned and climbing up on my bed and all of us lying down together in some sort of tangle. (This is not something to tell Billy Colt, remember.) Finally falling asleep with someone on top of me, or maybe two someones on top of me, or maybe two someones and a dog on top of me. Waking up a couple of times with lots of breathing in the room, and being happy about all that breathing.
Really happy about all that breathing.
Even Ned’s.
But it was still a hard night.
So when we bundled into the Eggplant the next morning, we were pretty sleepy. And it was raining, of course, not as hard as an Australian tropical thunderstorm, but the wipers were swishing back and forth fast, and the Butler had to lean forward to peer through the windshield.
We stopped first at St. Michael’s to drop off my mother, who was, if you can believe it, leading a meeting to plan the budget not for next year, but for the year after next year! I guess there really is no time to lose.
After that we drove to Longfellow Elementary, and when we arrived at the second-grade door, the Butler got out with his satellite-disk umbrella, opened the side door, leaned down, and said, “Miss Emily, make good decisions and remember who you are.”
“Are you going to be here after school?” said Emily.
“Of course I will be here,” said the Butler, and she hugged him under the umbrella.
When we got to the fourth-grade door, the Butler got out with his satellite-disk umbrella, opened the side door, leaned down, and said, “Miss Charlotte, make good decisions and remember who you are.”
She hugged him under the umbrella.
When we got to the fifth-grade door, the Butler got out with his satellite-disk umbrella, leaned down, and said, “Miss Anne, make good decisions and remember who you are.”
She hugged him too.
When we got to the middle school building, the Butler started to get out with the satellite-disk umbrella, and I said, “Don’t even think it.”
“Of course not,” said the Butler. “Why should I deny you the pleasure of sitting in wet trousers and sopping socks all day long by offering the use of my umbrella?”
“Jeans,” I said. “Not trousers. Jeans.”
“Wet, nonetheless.”
I opened the door. “I’m not going to hug you either, you know,” I said.
“Have a good day, young Master Carter,” said the Butler. “Make good decisions and remember who loves you.”
I looked at him. “I thought it was ‘remember who you are.’”
The Butler looked back at me. “It is the very same thing,” he said.
“What?”
“Young Master Carter, when you walk Ned for your mo
ther; when you attend Miss Anne’s robotics competition without observing that such attendance is, if you’ll pardon the expression, ‘a pain in the glutes’; when you cheer at Miss Charlotte’s football match even though she barely had a touch; when you accompany your sister to a Turner art exhibition; when you take your young sisters to buy Dreamsicles; when you appear as exhibit A for Miss Emily’s Favorite Person of the Week event; when you attend two ballet exhibitions despite your unfortunate and undiscerning distaste for the art; you are telling them that it is the same thing.”
“Is that sort of what being a gentleman is supposed to be?”
“We are what we love, young Master Carter.”
I thought I was going to bawl, like I was still a kid.
I really thought I was going to bawl.
“Mr. Bowles-Fitzpatrick, I—”
“You are letting the rain spatter the upholstery,” said the Butler.
“Are you going to be here—”
“As I’ve already informed your sister, I will be here as usual,” he said.
“That’s not what I was going to ask.”
“Which I am aware of. In you go, young Master Carter.”
“You can be such a pain in the glutes,” I said.
“Which I am also aware of. It is, as I pointed out earlier, one of my skills,” the Butler said.
I ran inside.
But I got rained on pretty hard. The rest of the day, I sat in wet jeans and sopping socks. Somehow, I kept thinking this was the Butler’s fault.
And somehow, all day long, I kept remembering who loved me.
* * *
In the Blue Mountains of Australia, you have to pay attention, you know. If you don’t pay attention, anything could happen. Even going to get firewood can be dangerous, because of all the slithering snakes.
But if you never go to the Blue Mountains of Australia, maybe you’d never learn to pay attention.
* * *
On the Friday before the match, while I was still remembering who loved me, the school was going kind of crazy—especially in the eighth-grade hallway, where all the lockers had Team India or Team Britannia flags taped onto them.
Pay Attention, Carter Jones Page 11
