by David Teague
“I’m sorry, Mom,” said Oscar, and his stomach dropped. “How long does it take to steam a Mochalino Supremo, anyway?”
As if he didn’t already know the answer.
“Nineteen seconds,” said his mother.
“Why did I bother to ask?” Oscar muttered.
“What, honey?”
“Nothing,” said Oscar.
“I wish it’d happened in time for me to see the end of your game, even just to see you snatch defeat from the jaws of victory,” said his mother.
“Nobody’s put it that way yet,” said Oscar ruefully. “Wow. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. For me, it’s not whether you win or lose. It’s how you play the game, honey. Anyway, getting fired is the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m going to apply at Rossini’s. Tomorrow. Listen. I’ve already got my audition tunes ready.” And with that, she sang. She sang and sang. She sang “God Bless the Child.” She sang “Satin Doll.” She sang “Summertime.” And while she sang, for a few minutes, it was summertime just like summertime was supposed to be, with fireflies and cicadas and the aroma of freshly cut grass wafting through the windows. Not ghosts and pterodactyls and Robocops and second suns. Oscar wished the ride home would never be over. He wished his mother’s song would last forever.
But eventually, they rolled into the driveway and parked under the weird orange sky. And Oscar remembered what his dad had asked him to say. He didn’t want to ruin the moment, but his mom had just lost one of her jobs, so he knew he’d better say it. “Dad stopped by this afternoon.”
“Oh?” said his mother nonchalantly.
A good start. Her happy mood seemed to be holding up. “He said he’s really busy with his project, and he has a lot going on, and he’s going to be late with the check,” Oscar blurted as fast as he could.
“Was Gina along for the ride?” asked his mother breezily, as if none of this information really bothered her.
“Yes. She told me congratulations on the, uh, home run,” said Oscar.
“Poor girl,” said his mother. “One day, I hope she’ll wise up. And get over your dad. Just like I did. Because I am. Completely. Over him. I’m a winner now! Like you, Oscar! You’re my hero! Rossini’s, here I come!” And as she dropped her keys in her purse, she sang the last verse of “Summertime” again, for all the world to hear. And burst into tears. “I can’t believe he left,” she sobbed. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry, Mom” was all Oscar could say.
Twenty minutes later, Oscar sat on his bed with Dr. Soul. Streaks of red stained the western sky. Darkness would’ve descended two hours before if not for the lurid new sun. His mother was still awake, sitting by herself in the living room, singing the sad song that had no words. Oscar recorded his mother’s song on his phone, just for a bit, because he didn’t want it to drift away into the night and be lost forever.
“I’ve got to fix things, Dr. Soul,” said Oscar. He gazed out his window. Sleep felt farther away than Kamchatka.
The breeze sighed against Oscar’s window screen like it had done every summer night he could remember, and he heard the forest leaves rustle until a rush of wind swelled the whisper into a roar, as if a green ocean had rolled nearby in the darkness.
Then everything fell silent. Peace, just a moment of it, seemed to descend.
“I can do this!” Oscar said to himself. The same overwhelming hope that had filled him at the beginning of every baseball game filled him now. “I’m going to find the watch and put the nineteen seconds back, and the Wildcats are going to beat the Yankees fair and square.” He turned to his cat. “Dr. Soul, where do you think the watch is?”
Dr. Soul licked his right paw and used it to rub his ear. He didn’t reply. “No offense, Dr. Soul,” said Oscar, “but I really need a partner who can talk.” He petted his cat silently for a moment. “I need a friend who can talk,” he added. “I have to find Lourdes.”
He listened for his mother’s singing downstairs, but he couldn’t hear her. She’d fallen asleep. Oscar slid his window screen open.
He stepped through his dormer window and felt with his toes for a foothold on the pebbly shingles outside.
Dr. Soul just watched with a look in his eye that said: Even cats should be in bed right now, Oscar. He leaped to the windowsill as Oscar stepped outside. Have fun, Dr. Soul seemed to say. I’m staying home.
Creeping along the ledge beneath his high window, Oscar let his eyes adjust to the odd, orange sky, and in the momentary calm, he located the branch of a linden tree that overhung his roof.
Stepping onto it, he made his way along the bough to the linden’s trunk.
When he got to the trunk, he stepped around it to a branch growing on the far side. Down this branch, over his backyard fence, he crept into the dark canopy of the Tuscarora Woods.
From limb to limb, from tree to tree, he stole deeper into the greeny darkness. Eventually, he came to the tallest tree in Mt. Etna, a sycamore. But instead of climbing down, he climbed up.
From the very top, he took in the sight of the town lying quietly, sparkling, and momentarily safe beneath him. There was no actual East or West Mt. Etna. This was just a distinction the Yankees and their families had made up so they could feel superior. Up here, none of that mattered.
Oscar set the arches of his feet into the topmost Y of the tree, reclining against one branch of the split, observing the stars as they played peekaboo through the orangey glow of that ever-near second sun.
And something about their certainty, their age-old and up until now unchanging array, made it just plain hard to believe any of this was happening.
Maybe T. Buffington Smiley was wrong about the whole thing?
But from his great height, Oscar could still see the last particles of dusky red in the western sky, the second sun hanging on.
That brought him back to reality. To his mission. Far below, on a distant street, where a light shone in a window. The only light in the entire town of Mt. Etna, East or West. And it was coming from what Oscar now knew was Lourdes Mangubat’s house.
She must be sleepless, just like him.
Exactly what Oscar had been hoping to see.
He climbed down from his tree.
“I need help,” said Oscar when Lourdes opened her door.
“I thought you’d never ask,” replied Lourdes. “But it might be good if you’d tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t. You’ll think I’m terrible,” said Oscar. “A horrible teammate and an awful friend.”
Lourdes thought this over. “No,” she finally said, stepping outside to sit on the porch, “you’re a good friend, and an awesome teammate. Believe me. I know one when I see one.”
“How?” Oscar murmured.
“I’ve been on all kinds of baseball teams, Oscar. And do you know why I finally joined the Wildcats? When I could have been on the West Mt. Etna Select Elite Pro-Development Yankees, or for that matter, the North Dallas All-Stars or the San Francisco Choice?”
“All of us Wildcats kind of wonder about that,” said Oscar, sitting beside her. “Since you’re so awesome, and we’re not.”
“I used to live in Texas,” said Lourdes. “I was on TV all the time. My team won the state championship three years in a row. And I’m not bragging when I say it was because of me, mostly. That’s just the truth. Any of my teammates would agree.”
“Wow,” said Oscar.
“But I didn’t like it one bit. I was scared all the time. I had never lost a game pitching, and all I ever felt was afraid, because I knew that one day I would lose, and when I did, my teammates would be happy, because they hated me for being so good. My batting average was .702. And they all despised me for it. We were enemies. Everybody secretly wanted everybody else to blow it, so they could be the best, and we were all jealous when anybody did anything great, and the moms and dads were worse than we were. And do you know what people said to me every time I made a play?”
“I—I t
hink I do, actually,” replied Oscar. “They said you’re pretty good for a girl?”
“Yes,” hissed Lourdes, angry at just the thought. “It got so bad, I couldn’t sleep at night. I never felt like eating. I wanted to quit. But my mom said how about if we move? And find a team that’s just average? You can play for them, and nobody will care if you win or lose. Nobody will make cracks about your being a girl. You’ll play just for fun, like you’re supposed to. We looked all over the country, and we decided on the Wildcats, and Mom found a job in Mt. Etna, and we moved, so I could play baseball without having to hate it, without being afraid of making a mistake, or committing an error, or just plain losing every time I suited up.”
“Wow. Thanks on behalf of all the Wildcats,” said Oscar. “I’m glad we’re so bad we don’t put any pressure on you.” He grinned.
“Me, too,” said Lourdes, smiling back. “Still, even though you all seemed nice, I thought it would be safer not to make friends with any of you.”
“We noticed,” said Oscar.
“I wanted to duck the pressure,” said Lourdes. “And it was fun, just showing up to play with nobody depending on me. But then the Wildcats got better.”
“We all tried harder because of you. We wanted to live up to your example,” replied Oscar.
“But that’s the thing. Even when we starting winning, things were still OK. Because when the Wildcats got good, they turned out to be a team—a real team—what a team is supposed to be. And that’s because of you, Oscar. You have more team spirit than some entire countries. That’s why I wanted to be friends with you. Why I came to your house and followed you when Mr. Llimb and Mr. Skerritt were with you. But I blew it and lost the big game. I’m sorry I was so rude to you tonight. I never blew a game before. I thought it was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. I thought you’d all hate me. I thought the universe would come to an end. But I should have known none of that would happen. The Wildcats were awesome, even though we lost. And you were the best Wildcat of all. I could never think you were a terrible teammate, or a terrible friend.”
“Thanks,” said Oscar. He fell silent. Maybe Lourdes would understand if he told her what he’d done? It would feel good to get it off his chest. So Oscar Indigo took a deep breath, gathered his courage, and said, “I know you wonder what’s been going on with me. So here it is. I’m not who you think I am.”
“You’re not Oscar Indigo?” replied Lourdes.
“Yes. I’m Oscar Indigo. But Oscar Indigo is not who you think he is.”
“Then who is Oscar Indigo?” asked Lourdes.
“He’s a— I’m a loser!” said Oscar. “Because of something awful I did.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Lourdes. “I mean, I believe you did something, because of the black Cadillac and Mr. Llimb and Mr. Skerritt, and all the whispering, but I don’t believe it was awful.”
“I just got so tired of losing,” moaned Oscar.
“Oscar!” she replied. “You’re a winner!”
“Come on, Lourdes,” said Oscar. “My baseball career is one big Team Spirit plaque.”
“But you’ve never missed a practice,” Lourdes pointed out. “You’ve never missed a game.”
“It’s not that hard to get to practice, or games either,” pointed out Oscar. “You can get your mom to take you, or walk, or ride your bike, or take the bus. Just about anybody can do it.”
“You invented the team cheer!” said Lourdes.
“Yeah . . . East Mt. Etna, East Mt. Etna, East Mt. Etna, wow! Ain’t nobody gonna keep the Wildcats down,” said Oscar unenthusiastically. “Doesn’t even rhyme.”
“You mix up the OscarAde,” persisted Lourdes.
“That half the team pours out the back of the dugout on the poison ivy,” said Oscar.
“You holler advice at people while they’re on base,” said Lourdes.
“And get them thrown out,” said Oscar.
“You take more practice swings and do more pushups and run more laps than anybody,” said Lourdes, “and you get better all the time.”
“That’s not as good as it sounds,” said Oscar. “At least not for me. For you, it’s great. If you get any better, you’ll be ready for the majors. But guys like me are so far behind that even if we improve every season, we have to live to eight hundred to actually be any good.”
“But you give a hundred percent every practice!” protested Lourdes.
“Sure,” said Oscar. “I give one hundred percent in practice because I never get to play in games.”
“You do the little things right!” pointed out Lourdes.
“Because I’m horrible at anything big,” said Oscar.
“What about the secret ingredient?” asked Lourdes. “In OscarAde?”
“You don’t want me to tell you about the secret ingredient,” warned Oscar.
“Yes I do!” said Lourdes.
“A drop of Old Spice aftershave from the bottle my dad left when he moved out,” said Oscar. “To add zip.”
“Eeeeeuuuw,” said Lourdes.
“I told you,” said Oscar.
“But you—I—” said Lourdes. “I didn’t know you realized all that about yourself.”
“All these years, I know everybody thought I didn’t know any better, because I was just a cute little guy who wanted to play baseball. But I knew. I knew how bad I was. I’m so tired of being the supportive, enthusiastic kid who’s just happy to be here,” said Oscar.
“You’re wrong about yourself, Oscar,” said Lourdes.
“How?” Oscar asked.
“It’s one thing to keep trying when you think you’re going to succeed. And it’s a totally different thing, and a hundred times better, to keep trying even when you know your chances are one in a thousand,” she said. “Your spirits keep everyone else’s up!”
“Thanks, Lourdes,” said Oscar.
“It’s true. I wanted you to know what I think,” said Lourdes.
“But there’s more to all this, Lourdes,” said Oscar. “The thing is, I cheated. When I hit that home run? I didn’t really hit that home run. I used a highly advanced, extremely sophisticated, incredibly dangerous scientific instrument to disrupt the flow of time so I could—well, it’s kind of a long story—but the thing is, I didn’t really bat that ball over the fence the other night. I fudged it.”
“Wow,” responded Lourdes. “I thought you just corked your bat or something simple like that.”
“Lourdes, I haven’t even told you the worst of it,” continued Oscar. “When I did all this, I set in motion the destruction of the universe as we know it.” And he told her the whole story. From the watch buried in Miss Smiley’s mail to “nineteen Mississippi” to the fake home run. From Hector Smiley to the mysterious theft at the Veeder-Klamm Museum to the cosmic tomato bush to the twelve-year-old girl who struck out Babe Ruth and never pitched again. Lourdes took in every word. She didn’t question a single thing, or seem surprised by any of it. As crazy as the whole story was, she seemed to believe Oscar. And when Oscar finished, she said only, “It sounds like everything leads back to Miss Ellington.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” replied Oscar, “because I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
This Explains a Lot
In the darkness, Oscar led Lourdes to Miss Ellington’s house. Both suns had set, and the night had finally grown dark. In Miss Ellington’s yard, Oscar said, “Take a breath. Those are her tomato plants. Smell them?”
Lourdes breathed deep. “Delicious” was her only reply.
Dr. Soul, watching from Oscar’s windowsill next door, leaped to the nearest tree limb and then to the ground.
When Oscar knocked on the back door, it swung open. He stepped inside. “Miss Ellington?” he called.
Lourdes and Dr. Soul followed behind. Oscar switched on the light.
Everything lay perfectly still, although Oscar felt like Miss Ellington might walk in at any moment to begin scolding him because he hadn’t introduced
his new friend. But as the seconds passed, the house only creaked emptily.
Miss Ellington was gone. And it felt like she was never coming back.
Oscar took a seat at the kitchen table, in front of the unruly pile of mail. The clutter looked exactly the same as it had when they’d oiled the glove Miss Ellington had given him earlier that day.
“Something’s up with her,” said Oscar. “She wrote letters to her friends every week. She had a system. She kept everything organized. Until two days ago. I don’t know what happened.” He lifted her address book out of the pile.
“Why do so many addresses have lines through them?” wondered Lourdes, glancing over his shoulder as he flipped through the pages.
“A lot of her friends—” began Oscar. “A lot of her friends weren’t—didn’t—couldn’t—a lot of her friends have died. But not everybody. Look.” He tabbed to F. “Sheila Flaherty is still—” Oscar froze before he said anything more. Because Sheila’s name and address were crossed out, too.
“Oh no!” cried Oscar. As he lifted the address book to look more closely, a sheet of paper, folded into thirds, slid out and fluttered to the floor. Dr. Soul pounced on it like it was a bird. And when he realized it wasn’t, he got busy licking his paws, cool as a cucumber, like nothing had ever happened.
Lourdes picked the letter up. She opened it. “It’s a note to Miss Ellington,” said Lourdes. “It’s from—Bryan Flaherty?”
“Read it,” said Oscar softly, though he already knew what it would say.
“Dear Miss Ellington,” Lourdes began.
“I’m sorry to have to deliver this news, but my mother won’t be answering your last letter. As you know, she has been very ill for the past year, and last night shortly before midnight, she passed away. I’m returning your letter and photograph with this one.
“Oh no,” said Lourdes, looking up with tears in her eyes. “Miss Ellington must have been so sad!” She put the letter on the table.
