Skinnybones

by Barbara Park

  I looked around for Brian, but he had already started walking home without me. At first that made me mad, but I guess he was just too embarrassed to walk home with a loser.

  In a way, I couldn’t blame him.

  I didn’t want to walk home with me, either.

  chapter seven

  HARD-BOILED EGGHEAD

  Sometimes I wonder why I even bother to play baseball at all. I hate the uniforms, I can’t throw, and I don’t like playing right field. Lately I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, and there’s only one thing I can come up with …

  I play for the caps.

  Baseball caps are probably the greatest invention of all time. No matter what you look like, as soon as you put on a baseball cap you automatically look like a ballplayer. A real ballplayer, I mean. Like Bobby Bonds, or Ken Griffey, Jr. or Cal Ripken. I’m not kidding. Even my cat looks a little like Ripken with a cap on.

  Once—just to prove my theory—I did a baseball cap experiment with my grandmother. My grandmother’s about eighty years old, but she doesn’t look it. She doesn’t need a cane or anything, and she only wears glasses when she reads.

  One of the things I like best about my grandmother is her blue hair. It sort of reminds me of cotton candy. I’m not sure that she really knows it’s blue, though. A few months ago, at Sunday dinner, she told my mother that she puts a “steel gray” rinse on it. I started to tell her that it looked more like “robin’s-egg blue,” but my mother shoved a roll in my mouth.

  Anyway, after we finished eating, I snuck up to my room and grabbed my baseball cap. Then I crept up behind my grandmother and put it on her head.

  Aha! Just as I had always suspected! She was a dead ringer for Tino Martinez!

  Grandma wasn’t a very good sport about it. She yanked my cap off her head and threw it on the floor.

  Man, was her blue hair ever a mess! Now she looked like Don King, that boxing promoter guy. I tried to help her smooth it, but she swatted my hand away. Not before I noticed the bald spot, though. Right at the top of her head, Grandma had a little bald spot.

  I offered to let her put my cap on to hide it, but she left the table in a huff. I knew exactly how she felt. My barber, Mr. Peoples, has given me more bald spots than I can even count.

  I’ll never forget the time he made my head look like a cue ball. Looking back, it was probably my own fault, though. As soon as I walked in his shop that day, it was obvious that Mr. Peoples was not in a good mood. And it’s a well-known fact that when barbers are feeling down, they give kids funny haircuts to cheer themselves up.

  That’s why I always try to find out how Mr. Peoples is feeling before I sit down in the chair. But on this particular day, it didn’t do me any good at all.

  “Hello, Mr. Peoples,” I said pleasantly. “How are you feeling today? Arthritis acting up? Problems with the wife?”

  Mr. Peoples frowned. “Get in the chair, Alex. I’m tired. My feet hurt. And I’m not in the mood for your jokes.”

  Right away, I started backing out of his shop.

  “Okie-doke. Well, nice chatting with you, Mr. P. I think I hear my mother calling me from the parking lot. I’ll come back another day when your feet are feeling better.”

  Mr. Peoples pointed to the chair. “Sit!” he ordered.

  Mr. Peoples has known me since I was two, so he feels comfortable bossing me around like that.

  I hesitated. “I don’t know, Mr. Peoples. Are you sure? I mean, are you positive you want me to sit down? Because if you’re upset about something, I would be happy to leave you alone to gather your thoughts.”

  This time, his face got totally red. “I said sit!” he blustered.

  Nervously, I climbed into the big vinyl seat. A man holding scissors is not a man to mess with.

  “Well, okay then, Mr. Peoples. But I really don’t need a big haircut today. Mostly all I need is a little trim. Just a little bit off the sides and that’s all.”

  Mr. Peoples didn’t hear a word I said. He was too busy plugging in his electric clippers.

  “No, wait, Mr. Peoples,” I said quickly. “I really don’t think you’ll be needing the clippers today. I just need a trim, remember?”

  His mood wasn’t getting better. “Who’s the barber here, Alex, you or me?”

  That’s when I decided to be quiet. If there was one thing I didn’t want to do, it was to make the guy any grouchier than he already was.

  Mr. Peoples took his scissors and began snipping at my hair. No, wait … snipping is the wrong word. The word is hacking. Mr. Peoples started hacking at my hair.

  “Whoa, you’re really going to town there, aren’t you, Mr. P.? It’s getting kinda short, don’t you think?” I asked.

  That’s when Mr. Peoples picked up the clippers and began buzzing all around the back of my head. Before I had a chance to protest, he was already heading up toward my left ear.

  Then all of a sudden, he stopped cold.

  “Whoopsie!” he said.

  My stomach turned over inside of me. Of all the words you don’t ever want to hear your barber say, whoopsie is right at the top of the list.

  “Whoopsie? Did you say ‘whoopsie,’ Mr. Peoples? Whoopsie, as in a mistake has just occurred up there?”

  I looked in the mirror and turned my head. That’s when I saw the “whoopsie.” It was a large round bald spot right over my left ear.

  Mr. Peoples brushed the area lightly with his fingers. “Looks like this haircut might be a little bit shorter than you wanted it, Alex. But at least it will be nice and cool for the summer.”

  My eyes opened wide. “The summer?” I said. “The summer? This is March, Mr. Peoples. The summer is still months away.”

  Mr. Peoples nudged me with his elbow and grinned. “That’s my point … get it? Even months from now, this haircut will still be nice and cool.”

  He began to chuckle. Already he had cheered himself up a ton.

  He started the clippers again.

  “More?” I asked, feeling sick.

  “Well, we can’t leave her like this, can we?” he said. “Gotta even her up. Right?”

  I couldn’t stand to look anymore, so I covered my eyes with my hands and waited until he was finished. After circling my head with the clippers about twenty more times, he finally shut them off.

  Slowly I opened my eyes. No! It couldn’t be! My hair was gone! Totally gone, I mean! I looked like a hard-boiled egg with a face!

  Mr. Peoples dusted the hair off my neck. “Well? What do you think?”

  I could barely speak. “What do I think about what?”

  “About your hair. What do you think about your hair?” he asked cheerfully.

  Stunned, I gazed at my hair lying all over the floor. “I think it looked better on my head. That’s what I think.”

  Mr. Peoples chuckled some more as he got the broom to sweep it up.

  I panicked. “No! Wait! Don’t!” I shouted. Then I jumped down from the chair and started picking up hair clumps and trying to stick them back on my head. I stuffed the rest in my pocket for later reattachment.

  Mr. Peoples laughed again. By now he was a regular jolly old elf.

  “You kill me, boy!” he roared. Then he held out his hand for the money.

  I slapped ten dollars down on the counter and ran home as fast as I could. My mother met me at the door.

  “LOOK WHAT THAT MAN DID TO ME!” I yelled, pointing to my head. “HE’S INSANE, I TELL YOU! INSANE!”

  Mom covered her mouth with her hand. It was clear that she was trying not to laugh in my face.

  “The good thing about hair is that it always grows back,” she managed to say.

  “Yeah, well, that might be the good thing about hair, Mother,” I snapped, “but exactly what is the good thing about … NO HAIR?!”

  Finally, my mother started to lose it and hurried out of the room.

  “No! Don’t go! I need help here!” I called.

  A minute later, she was back wearing sunglasses. �
�I apologize. But the glare coming off your head was blinding,” she said with a straight face.

  “Not funny, Mom!” I blurted. “Not funny!”

  That’s when I remembered it! My baseball cap! I had to find my baseball cap!

  I flew down the hall to my room. Please! Please! Just let it be where I can find it, I prayed.

  I opened up my closet door. Yes! For once I had remembered to put it back on the hook where it belonged.

  Quickly, I put it on my head. It fell down over my eyes. But after adjusting the back strap, I looked in the mirror. Almost at once, I started to settle down. What a relief! I looked like a cross between Mark Grace and David Justice.

  I’m telling you, baseball caps are the invention of the century.

  Now, if only baseball caps could make me hit home runs like David Justice, everything would be perfect.

  I guess you could say that hitting a home run is a dream of mine. I don’t think it will ever come true, though. It’s pretty hard to hit a home run when all you can do is bunt.

  Bunt. I’ve always thought that was such a stupid word. The first time I heard it I was only about seven. This kid on my baseball team was on his way up to bat. And before he left the bench, he turned around and said to me, “I think I’m going to bunt.”

  At first, I had no idea what he was talking about. But whatever it was, it didn’t sound good. I sat there and sat there trying to figure it out. And then out of nowhere, it clicked.

  Bunt? Wait a second! I bet it’s another word for “puke”!

  Oh, no! That poor kid’s sick and no one knows it but me!

  Quickly, I got off the bench and ran over to the coach. “Coach! Coach! I think Danny Patrillo is going to start bunting any minute!” I said frantically.

  The coach nodded calmly. “That’s okay, Alex,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. I told him to bunt.”

  Okay. Now I was really confused. Why in the world would a coach tell one of his players to hurl? Was this some strange baseball rule I hadn’t heard of? Were you allowed to throw up and run to first? Was he hoping to catch the other team off guard or something?

  Oh, geez, I hoped he wouldn’t tell me to bunt, too!

  I tugged on his shirt. “Listen, Coach,” I said, “I don’t think I could bunt even if I wanted to. I feel very good today. Plus I haven’t even eaten dinner yet.”

  The coach looked at me kind of strange and told me to sit down. I went back to the bench and watched the kid at bat. When the ball came, he took his bat and held it sideways in front of him. I figured he was just trying to get it out of the way so he wouldn’t bunt on it. And since I was next at bat, I thought this was a very considerate thing to do.

  But, instead of getting sick, the kid took the bat and tapped the ball toward third base. Then he ran as fast as he could and made it to first in plenty of time.

  “Great!” yelled the coach. “Great bunt, Danny!”

  I nudged the kid next to me. “I didn’t see it. I didn’t see him bunt. Did he do it in the grass? Where is it?”

  “Where is what?” he asked.

  “You know,” I said. “The bunt. Where is the bunt?”

  “Weren’t you watching?” he asked. “He bunted the ball down the third-base line and then ran to first.”

  Suddenly, I knew what a bunt really was. Man, did I ever feel like an idiot! Thank goodness no one ever knew what I had been talking about.

  Anyway, from that day on, I started working on my bunting. It just seemed like the perfect skill for a kid my size. And now, after four years of practice, I’m probably one of the best bunters in the entire Little League. It’s not the kind of thing that gets you any respect. But still, it’s something.

  Sometimes Brian helps me practice my bunting at recess. Last week, T.J. saw us and came strolling over again.

  “Bunting is for wimps,” he announced loudly.

  I ignored him.

  “Any kid with a half a muscle can hit the ball for real,” he said.

  Still, I ignored him.

  “Ooops … I forgot. You don’t have half a muscle, do you, Skinnybones?” he said.

  He grinned meanly. “Hey, I just thought of something. Only runts bunt! Get it? Get it, Alex? I made a poem!”

  That’s when I decided to stop ignoring him.

  Brian tossed me another ball. I held the bat steady until the very last minute. Then I turned it sharply and directed the ball right into T.J.’s head.

  “Whoa! Sorry, T.J.!” I said. “Man, it seems that all I’ve been doing lately is accidentally hitting you with baseballs. Geez, it’s a good thing they keep hitting you in the skull. Otherwise, you could get hurt.”

  For the millionth time in my life, T.J. shoved me to the ground again and sat on top of me.

  He was smirking like crazy. “We’ll just see how good you bunt on Saturday, funny guy,” he said.

  For a second I didn’t know what he was talking about. Then, all of a sudden, I remembered. Saturday was the day when our Little League teams were scheduled to play each other.

  Wonderful. And now I’d gone and made him mad.

  I closed my eyes. Way to go, Alex. You’ve done it again.

  chapter eight

  A FACEFUL OF FLAKES

  Usually, when I go to the Little League field for a game, I don’t know who we’re going to play until I get there. I just go to the game, lose, and go home. The way I look at it, losing is losing. Who cares who you lose to?

  A lot of kids don’t feel that way, though. T.J. Stoner is one of them. T.J. always knows exactly which team he’s going up against. Then, a couple of days before the game, he goes around school announcing how badly the other team is going to get whipped. Nobody ever argues with him, either. ’Cause they all know it’s true.

  Anyway, that’s why I wasn’t surprised when T.J. went through the halls bragging about how Franklin’s Sporting Goods was going to “mop up the floor” with Fran and Ethel’s Cleaning Service.

  Fran and Ethel’s Cleaning Service—that’s the name of my team this year. Catchy, huh? When I first found out about it, I thought about quitting. But my dad said that Fran and Ethel had paid a lot of money to sponsor our team, and it wouldn’t be fair if everyone quit just because it was a stupid name.

  So far, I’ve never had a team name that sounds as neat as Franklin’s Sporting Goods. Last year my team was called Preston’s Pest Control. Our team banner had a roach being knocked out with a baseball bat. It was totally humiliating.

  Anyway, on Friday morning, right after class started, T.J. raised his hand and made another public announcement.

  “Tomorrow, at 10:30 A.M., my Little League team is going to be playing Alex’s team. So I was thinking some of you guys might want to come by the field and watch us play.”

  My stomach turned over. Oh, geez, no! He was inviting the entire class? No way! My team hadn’t won a game all season, and T.J.’s was in first place. It was going to be a slaughter!

  Quickly, I jumped up. “Why?” I called out.

  My teacher looked at me strangely. “Why what, Alex?”

  “Why would anyone want to come to our game?”

  Desperately, I looked around the room. “Don’t you people have lives of your own? It’s just a stupid Little League game.”

  T.J. smiled broadly. “Well, not exactly. There’s something else you guys should probably know. I don’t want to brag, but I’m going to be pitching tomorrow. And if I win the game, I’ll set a Little League pitching record for most games won in a row.”

  He paused so that his thrilling information could sink in.

  “It’ll put me in all the record books,” he added.

  Mrs. Grayson’s whole face lit up. “Really, T.J.? That’s terrific!”

  I jumped up again. “Books, schmooks! Record, schmecord!” I hollered.

  Mrs. Grayson told me to be quiet. But T.J. wouldn’t quit. He kept talking about that stupid game all day long.

  Even after the bell rang and kids were le
aving the room, he stood at the door issuing personal invitations. “You’re gonna be there, right?” he’d ask. “You’re not going to let me down, are you?”

  I tried to duck past him, but he grabbed my shirt. Then he pulled me right up to his face and smirked.

  “See you tomorrow, Alexandra,” he said.

  I wrinkled my nose at his breath. “Phew. Mackerel for lunch again?” I asked.

  But T.J. just laughed. “We’ll see how funny you are tomorrow when the whole class turns up to watch you lose. Loser.”

  Then he sort of rubbed his hands together and walked away.

  Man, was I ever in for it now. This was even worse than the pitching contest. If there’s one thing worse than losing, it’s losing in front of your whole entire class!

  I’ve never even played in front of a crowd before. With a team like mine, a lot of the parents don’t even show up. In fact, so far there are only two people that have been at every single game we’ve played this year.

  Fran and Ethel.

  They always come to watch us play right after they get off from work. You can tell who they are because they usually wring out their mops while we warm up.

  It wasn’t surprising that I couldn’t eat any dinner that night. And I didn’t sleep at all. Mostly, I just lay in bed trying to think of a way to get out of playing. I must have gone through a hundred plans before I finally came up with one that I thought might work.

  It was pretty extreme. But it was my only chance.

  The next morning, I made sure my parents were at the breakfast table. Then I dragged myself into the kitchen on my stomach and slowly pulled myself over to the table.

  “ ’Morning,” I said weakly.

  My father looked down at me. “ ’Morning, Alex,” he said back.

  “ ’Morning,” said Mom. “What kind of cereal do you want?”

  Feebly, I raised my head. “Cornflakes. I’ll have a few cornflakes, please,” I muttered.

  My mother got up from the table and stepped over me to get to the refrigerator.

  “Juice?” she asked.

  I nodded. What was wrong with these people? Didn’t they notice that I was lying on the floor?

  Mom bent down and put my bowl in front of me. “You’d better hurry and eat,” she said. “You have to get ready for your game soon.”