G straddled a pew log and sat down. “I believe you, Loam.”
I thought he could have kept his mouth completely shut and not said anything at all. He hid Dandy’s rainbow secret for a long time. He could have held mine.
“Loam, when are you going to return all that stuff?” G asked.
Loam touched Dandy’s shoulder. “We’ve been working on a plan. Dandy understands that everything has to go back. We actually started today. We returned a few things to the dining hall, some dishes and such.”
Weed girl clapped her hands.
“We have a few things for both of you.” He handed me Pop’s orange stocking cap, and he gave G a green writing pen.
“I put the bottle of alcohol back, so don’t worry about that anymore. And I have one more thing.” He leaned over and picked up the old blue People of Three Boulders journal. He held it out to G.
G put her palm up, stopping Loam. “You need to put that back where you found it, with all the other old journals.”
He began flipping the pages of the blue journal. “But I was glancing through it, and I think you both need to see something.”
“No,” G said firmly. “It’s not mine.” She slapped the journal closed, holding down Loam’s hand.
“It’s just that there’s some information in here that—”
“No, Loam.”
He didn’t move his hand away from G’s, but he looked toward me with laser eyeballs.
“I don’t want anything to do with stolen goods or information from stolen goods. That’s final,” G said. “Put the journal back, Loam.”
He nodded and stood up slowly. The journal remained in his hand. G was right. He did need to return it, but my brain was curious about what Loam had seen inside.
As Loam and Dandy began to walk away, he turned and looked at me again. I swear his eyeballs were trying to tell me something important.
What was it?
Day Eight
The Softball Game
The morning of the big softball game, I woke up sweaty and shaky. My hand ached like sharp teeth were biting into my flesh. I sat up on the couch, but dizziness made me lie right back down. I unwound my bandage and had to turn my head to the side to catch my breath because my arm smelled yucky. Today there were red streaks shooting from the bend of my wrist almost up to my elbow.
For a short moment, I thought about waking Officer D and letting her know I wasn’t doing too good, but if she knew how bad I was hurting, she might take me to the doctor, and then social services Fran might find out, and she might force me to answer more questions about that night. All I needed was to get through these last five days, get back to Pop, and never have to think about that night or my hand again.
I sipped some water, took another one of those pain pills, and rested for a bit. Carefully, I rewrapped my arm being sure to put extra white goop all over those shooting red rays.
Officer D began whistling the moment she woke up. Instead of her cop uniform, she put on sweats and a T-shirt, and then she yanked a red visor down over her head. She opened her closet and pulled out the biggest darn softball mitt in the world.
“Good morning, Jane.” She was practically singing. “Are you ready to be part of Three Boulders history and break a record today?” She spun her mitt on her pointer finger.
It was a good thing she was so distracted because she didn’t even comment on how my bandage was wrapped almost to my elbow or how I was sitting so still on the couch.
Crud, it was hurting bad.
But seeing her this excited about the game made me even more certain. I could not mention my hand. I couldn’t make her miss this game.
“Jane,” Officer D said, “you’re not going to be able to wear a mitt at the game today. I was thinking that you could be the Hitters number one cheerleader.”
A flood of relief gushed through my whole body. I wasn’t sure I could even stand up, let alone swing a bat or catch a softball.
“I don’t have to wear some dumb skirt and shake my booty the whole game, do I?”
“No skirts and no booty shaking, Jane. You just have to lead some cheers, nice and loud. Dandy will cheer with you.”
Actually, that sounded like something I could do—be nice and loud, I mean. Even as cruddy as I was feeling, loudness came pretty natural to me.
At eleven o’clock, all fifty-six humans in Three Boulders trekked to the softball diamond. About half sat in the rickety bleachers, talking and eating popcorn. Officer D told me to just relax in the Hitters dugout during warm-ups, which I was happy to do. Dandy sat next to me, and that was perfect because I knew she wouldn’t ask any questions.
G came into the dugout at one point, rattling off the positions and the batting order to me. When I didn’t respond, she looked right into my eyes. “Jane, does your hand hurt?”
“A little.” That was a universe-size lie. “Don’t worry about me, G. Just get out there and win the game.”
Old Red, the umpire, sat in a fold-up chair right behind the wire backstop. Every so often, he looked my way. G told me he knew every word in the official softball rule book.
I believed that.
When Old Red blew his whistle, the Mighty Catchers stayed on the field, and the Royal Hitters jogged to their dugout.
G was our leadoff hitter. The crowd started hollering at her, “Hey, batter, batter!”
It was time to start my official role as cheerleader. I stood next to the dugout fence, leaning against the metal pole, and chanted for my friend:
G, G, she’s our man!
If she can’t do it, no one can!
Go, G!
Go, G!
I waved a mitt with my good hand over my head like a pom-pom. Dandy flapped her hands over her head.
Preston Farmer, the Three Boulders strikeout record holder, stood on the pitching mound. He looked all business up there, and he stared at G, who held her bat high and pinched her lips tight. He swung his arm in a circle and fired a pitch to his catcher.
“Strike!” Old Red yelled.
“C’mon, G!” I cheered.
Preston launched another pitch.
“Strike two!”
G tapped her bat on the dirt a few times and then lifted it high again.
Preston Farmer hurled the third pitch, and G took a whopping swing and smacked that ball deep into center field. She sprinted all the way to second base.
“You rock, G!” I hollered.
That was the first hit of many for the Royal Hitters. As the game went on, they continued to slug that ball left and right, and runners crossed home plate almost every inning. G was awesome. She made some great catches at second base, and I hollered my lungs out for her, doing my best job as team cheerleader.
Then there was Officer D. She hit a home run her first time at bat, and in a later inning, one of the Catchers smacked a line drive right in her thigh, but she hardly even flinched. She just scooped it off the ground and tossed it to third base for an out. The Hitters were rolling toward the record books.
By the last inning, players weren’t sitting in their dugouts anymore. They lined the sides of the field, clapping and hollering at teammates. I was still doing my best to cheer because that was my job, after all.
Even though I felt like a pile of doggie doo, I noticed everyone around me. The Hitters had grins from earlobe to earlobe. The Catchers were fist-bumping and pumping up their teammates. Folks on the bleachers were whistling and stomping their feet. Every Three Boulderite was excited. I was all swept up in their fun, and I felt a smile rising inside me just being with them, together in a big group, cheering each other along. I’d never done anything like this with Pop. We only had each other to cheer for.
“Jane!” G waved her arm over her head. “You get to play now!”
Oh no.
G jogged toward me. “We like everyone to play at least one inning. We’re up by three runs. I think the game is ours!” she said. “Here’s a right-handed mitt for your good hand. If a ball come
s your way, catch it with the mitt, transfer the ball to your left hand, shake off the mitt and then, throw the ball directly to me, okay?”
That was an awful lot of directions.
I glanced at Officer D, hoping to see her shake her head and maybe yell at me to sit back down and cheer, but she gave me a thumbs-up and pointed to right field.
“Come on, Jane!” Loam yelled.
The Hitters actually wanted me to play.
This was not good news, but I couldn’t let my new teammates down, and I had to keep everyone believing that I was doing just fine and that my skin didn’t feel sticky and my head wasn’t burning up, and my legs weren’t wobbling. I made my way to the outfield, and as I was walking, I decided to try a little prayer. Maybe in Three Boulders, at this important softball game, God might listen. Maybe he would help end this game quickly.
I kept my eye and ear on Old Red, watching his arm motions, calling strikes and balls. So far there were two outs and no one on base. This was good. God was listening. G was hopping like a wild rabbit near second base. It was definitely looking like the Hitters would get that win-streak record.
But then things went downhill—real fast. First Preston Farmer got on base. Then Chef Noreen had a hit, and then Mrs. Biggs and all her frizzy hair smacked that softball right between G and Loam. The bases were loaded for the Catchers.
My heart and knees relaxed, though, when I saw who was up next: little Timmy Spencer. There was no way in a whole lifetime of Three Boulders softball games that he could get a hit and give the Mighty Catchers the lead.
Sure enough, Timmy swung hard on Alan Stein’s first two pitches. I started walking toward G, getting ready to celebrate, when a third pitch was thrown. Timmy flung that bat and slapped the ball like a peewee-size Babe Ruth . . . right in my direction.
Oh crud, crud!
I backpedaled, feeling my heart pound. Back and back I moved, but that ball just kept soaring. It kind of turned into slow motion as I watched it fly farther and farther until eventually, it dropped and hit the ground way beyond me and just behind a line drawn with white chalk over the grass.
Little muscleman Timmy Spencer had hit a home run. All those push-ups paid off. This was probably a new Three Boulders record.
Pop always told me that when a person does a real amazing thing, you’ve got to let them know because everyone needs pats on the back. Timmy Spencer hitting a home run, yep, that was amazing.
So I put on my cheerleader voice and hollered, “Woo-hoo, Timmy!”
I didn’t need to know much about softball to be able to add up those numbers. I was a good adder, after all. The Catchers had just won the game.
Every member of the Royal Hitters squad was furious. Our pitcher, Alan Stein, threw his glove to the dirt. G kicked her feet, spreading dirt all over second base. Officer D punched her fist into her mitt. I was the only Hitter cheering for Timmy. I cheered for him as he jumped on first base right next to Officer D and then skipped on toward second, and then, before I could let out one more whoop, Timmy was lying in the dirt, rolling in a ball, clutching his ankle.
Officer D got to him first. She leaned down and placed her man paws on his ankle. “He’s hurt!” she said.
“I gotta run!” Timmy shrieked. He tried to roll over and stand, but his mom got to him and held him down with Officer D.
“Sweetheart, you don’t have to run.”
“I gotta run the bases!” Timmy screamed again.
“You hit the winning home run, Timmy. You won the game for the Catchers!” his mom said.
“Technically, the lad is correct, Amelia.” Old Red was inching toward the small crowd that gathered around Timmy. “He does need to run the bases or his home run won’t count.”
“That’s ridiculous, Red,” Mrs. Spencer said. “He’s hurt. He can’t possibly run.”
“Rules are rules, I’m afraid,” Old Red said.
“I can do it,” Timmy squeaked, and he tried to push himself up and stand on his ankle, but he just collapsed right back onto the ground. I felt sorry for him. One moment he was the hero and the next moment, he was . . .
“This is crazy,” Preston Farmer said. He walked right up to Timmy and lifted him in his arms. “I’ll carry him around the bases.”
“Preston, I have read the rule book of softball from cover to cover. A teammate cannot be carried,” Old Red said. “We made a pact here in Three Boulders that the rules of the game will be abided by at all times. We can’t make an exception now.”
Grumblings sprang up from everywhere, a tornado of whistles, cheers, and boos. All the laws in this place made my brain hurt. They should know that sometimes there has to be exceptions. Timmy Spencer deserved an exception.
So I said, nice and clear, “I’ll carry him.”
Everyone heard me. I know they did because the tornado died to an eerie calm, with every set of Three Boulder eyeballs locked on me.
“Didn’t you hear what Red said? He can’t be carried.” Preston Farmer peered at me.
“I heard him. He said Timmy couldn’t be carried by a teammate.” I paused. “Well, I’m not a teammate. Timmy’s a Catcher and I’m a Hitter.”
That eerie calm continued as everyone digested my words.
“Timmy, if you can stand on your good leg, I think you can hop on my back, and I’ll give you a piggyback ride,” I said, reaching for his arm.
Officer D was standing with her fists on her wide hips, her chin hung low. G looked like she wanted to cry.
“Red, are you going to let this happen?” Alan Stein was not happy.
Old Red had a crooked, wrinkly smile on his face. “Alan, there’s no rule that says an opposing player cannot carry the runner around the bases.”
“Great.” I said. “C’mon, Timmy, hop on.”
Timmy slowly rose and managed to climb on my back. He was pretty heavy for a peewee, and I had to take a deep breath to keep my balance. I walked slowly toward second base. I squatted down so he could tap the base with his toe to make it official. I clung to him with both hands which made the bandage twist and grind into my burned skin.
Crikity crud, that hurt.
But I kept moving around the bases, grimacing, gripping Timmy’s skinny legs. I think I dropped him onto home plate. I’m not really sure because the dirt and the backstop and all the cheering people were getting fuzzy and jumbled in my brain.
But I do remember screaming.
And I was pretty sure that if there was a Three Boulders record for the loudest, shrillest scream ever emitted, I broke that record right then and there at the softball game.
Day Nine
Gifts from Three Boulders
When my eyelids cracked open, the first thing I noticed were pasty green walls surrounding me. I closed my eyes again and wiggled my piggy toes from the little ones to the big ones. My brain was waking up, and I had some memories. Little snippets of pictures formed, one at a time, but together, they didn’t make much sense.
I remembered being lifted off the ground. Timmy Spencer had his hands squeezed over his ears. G whispered something to me. Someone held my good arm, telling me I was really brave, and that I would be fine. There was a squirrel on Officer D’s truck. A blond lady with furry kittens on her shirt said, “This will pinch.”
I opened my eyelids again. The pasty walls were still there, but this time, I noticed tubes. One tube went into the top of my good hand, held down with smooth white tape and the other tube led to the inside of my elbow. My burned hand rested on my belly, wrapped real snug with an ugly brown bandage, clear up beyond my funny bone. It didn’t hurt one bit. I wiggled my piggy toes again, just to make sure I had feeling in my body. I wiggled my fingers too. They all moved.
I was definitely alive in this pasty green room.
“Good morning, Jane.” It was the same voice I’d been hearing for the last eight days, Officer D.
I couldn’t quite get any words out, which made me question once more whether I was really alive. Just in case, I wig
gled my fingers again.
A man with flying hippos on his shirt moved toward me. He said a bunch of stuff about how nice it was to see the blue of my eyes, and that he was going to take my blood pressure and check my temperature. I stared and stared at those flying hippos as my arm was twisted and squeezed.
Next there was a stick shoved in my mouth, and then a disk placed on my chest, and while flying hippo man and Officer D were talking, my brain had a few more pictures flash into my memory. First it was sound, the tinny rattle of a car door slamming. Then it was a feeling, a seat belt strapping across my chest. Then the picture changed. I was sitting on the kitchen floor, my kitchen floor. Pop was next to me. I could hear him. Jane Girl, what have I done?
Flying hippo man put both his hands on my neck and pressed lightly, and that’s when my voice came back.
“Pop?” I asked. “Where’s Pop?”
Officer D sat down in a chair next to me. She touched my shoulder. “He’s not here, Jane. Remember, he’s at the clinic.”
“Can he come see me?”
Officer D shook her head. Her hand was still on my shoulder.
“Why do I have these tubes in me?”
“Your wound is badly infected. The tubes are feeding you antibiotics and some pain medication too.” She took a deep breath and looked at the floor. “I can’t believe I didn’t see how sick you were, Jane. I should arrest myself for not noticing.” She took another breath. “You were hiding your pain from me, weren’t you?”
I didn’t say a word.
“Jane.” Officer D picked up my hand with the tubes and squeezed it. “I have to ask you, is there anything else you’ve been hiding? Do you have something more to tell me about that night?”
I swallowed hard. My mouth felt dry and crackly. Officer D handed me a paper cup with a straw and I sipped some water. “No,” I said.
Mostly the Honest Truth Page 10
