“That’s right,” I said. “It’s a swell time.” Of course, I had to act like I hadn’t heard Joe Daggett talk about the whole thing yesterday at the contest.
All this sneaking around was getting to be a lot of trouble. For one thing, I had to try to remember what I was (or wasn’t) supposed to know about stuff like this. And now I needed to think up another lie to get out of work for the second straight Saturday. I snuck a peek at Uncle Spiro. He might be my only chance. But he was hiding behind his newspaper.
“There’s more,” said Pop. “ ‘As part of the pregame festivities, the winner of the first annual Mudpuppy for a Day Batboy Contest will be announced.’ ”
Now Uncle Spiro cocked an eyebrow at me over his newspaper.
Pop didn’t notice. He just kept reading. “ ‘ “Saturday will be a memorable day for Pups fans,” says owner Daggett. In addition, he announced that Saturday will be Ladies’ Day at Orchard Field. Half price for the ladies that day.’ ”
“Ladies’ Day?” said Ma, opening her eyes.
“I gave that idea to Mister Daggett,” said Pop, puffing out his chest. “Remember that, Nicky?”
“I sure do, Pop.” Credit where credit is due.
“It might be nice to see a ball game again sometime,” said Ma, almost to herself.
Pop kept reading. “It says here: ‘Get your tickets early, folks! Saturday promises to be a big—see next page—day at the Ol’ Orchard!’ Look here, Nicky. They talk about the contest yesterday too. When you were gone on your field trip to the state capitol.”
“State capitol?” said Spiro. He was really giving me the stink-eye now.
“That’s right,” said Pop. “Nicky knows the education is important.”
“What’s it say, Pop?” I squeaked, trying not to look in Spiro’s direction.
Pop pushed his glasses up on his nose. “ ‘The contest was a rousing success,’ ” he read. “ ‘Rousing,’ it means ‘good,’ neh? It says: ‘Saturday’s outing drew hundreds of lads from all over the city, vying for a chance to be Mudpuppy for a Day.’ What means ‘vying’?”
I thought about it for a second. “Competing.”
Pop nodded thoughtfully, and I imagined him tucking the word away into the filing cabinet of his brain.
I cleared my throat. “What else does it say?” I needed to keep Pop talking, so Spiro couldn’t interrupt and ask about my “field trip” on Saturday.
“Let’s see . . . ,” said Pop, finding his place again. “Here it is: ‘ “We sure do have a great bunch of kids in this town,” said Daggett. “They showed true spirit and gump-tie-on out there at the ballpark.”’ Gump-tie-on?” asked Pop, spelling it out for me.
“Gumption,” I told him. “It’s like . . . courage, I guess. Nerve.”
“I know someone with a lot of gumption,” said Spiro from behind his paper.
Pop paid no attention. “It says here: ‘Six finalists will compete for the honor: three winners of the field contest, and three essay winners.’ Good for Mister Daggett! He knows the reading and writing are important. A very smart man.” He kept reading. “ ‘The three field-contest finalists were identified as . . .’ ”
I froze on the carpet. In the funny papers, Prince Valiant sneered up at me from under his pageboy haircut.
Then Pop read, “ ‘See next page . . .’ ”
I couldn’t breathe.
It took Pop maybe two seconds to flip the page and find his place again, but those two seconds were the longest of my entire life.
Pop would see my name. He’d know I lied about the field trip.
I was doomed.
“What is this?” said Pop, adjusting his glasses.
Here it came. My life was over.
But then Pop did something I wasn’t expecting in a million years. He smiled. “Look, Nicky! Peter Costas of Cherry Street is one of the winners! That’s your friend Taki, neh?”
“Yep,” I squeaked. (By the way, see what I mean about grown-ups calling you by your baby name forever?)
“Pete Costas?” said Spiro, eyeing me with suspicion.
This was not going well. I held my breath, waiting for Pop to read my name and bracing for whatever might come next.
But he didn’t read my name, or anything else out loud. He just scanned a bit more, silently, and then folded the paper and handed it to me. “See your friend’s name?” Then he picked up another section of the Sunday paper, sat back in his easy chair, and started reading. “It says here that rain is coming on Tuesday. . . .”
But I’d stopped listening. Why hadn’t Pop gotten mad about seeing my name? I hadn’t dreamed yesterday, had I? It had all seemed pretty darn real: Joe Daggett calling me down onto the infield with Pete and some other kid from the east side named Wayne. I looked down now and scanned the page that Pop had given me. There were the names:
Peter Costas, West Cherry Street
Wayne Stanke, East Walnut Street
Mick Sparks, North Forty-Fourth Street
It took me a second or two, but then all of a sudden, it made sense.
I was Mick Sparks.
CHAPTER
28
SAY, POP, DO YA MIND if I take this over and show it to Ace?” I said, as casually as I could. “He’ll, uh, wanna see Pete’s name too.”
“I don’t mind,” said Pop, settling into his chair for a nap.
Before Uncle Spiro could say anything, I folded up the City section and headed out to the front hall to put on my shoes.
But I couldn’t tie them fast enough.
“All right, squirt.” It was Uncle Spiro, standing in the doorway. “What gives?”
“Huh?” I squeaked as I took my ball cap off the hook.
“Big contest out at Orchard Field yesterday, eh? Mudpuppy for a Day? Seems to me I heard something about that recently. How somebody was gonna clean Pete’s clock. How’d that work out?”
I didn’t say anything. I’d listened to enough episodes of Dick Tracy to know that my uncle couldn’t make me testify against myself.
Spiro stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at the ceiling. “Of course, you wouldn’t know anything about that. Because you work in your pop’s shop on Saturdays. Or—no, wait a minute—you went on a field trip to the state capitol, isn’t that it? A school field trip, all the way to Madison. And on a Saturday too. What a coincidence.” He gave me a wicked grin and unwrapped a stick of licorice gum.
“Knock it off,” I muttered. “I gotta go.”
“Not so fast, sport.” He chomped his gum. “I seem to remember somebody blackmailing me pretty good the other day. It’s payback time.”
I made a move for the front door, but Uncle Spiro blocked it with his foot.
“Okay, fine!” I looked past him to where Ma and Pop were snoozing. “Can we at least go outside first?”
So we went out to the front porch. It was a pretty day, the first really warm day of spring, and the elm trees were leafing out, forming a cool, green tunnel over the street.
Too bad my life was over.
I plopped down onto the porch steps. Uncle Spiro sat next to me and held out a stick of gum. I took it, unwrapped it, and started chewing.
“Yuck!” I said, looking up in surprise. “How can you chew this stuff? It tastes like medicine.”
He laughed and chomped his own gum. “It grows on you.”
I sat there, choking down that awful licorice flavor and staring up at the trees. I knew he was waiting for me to start talking. Might as well get it over with.
“You have to promise not to tell,” I started off.
Uncle Spiro gave a fake gasp. “Who, me?” Then he softened up when he saw I was serious. “Okay, I promise,” he said.
“Pop will kill me.”
Uncle Spiro rested his arms across his knees. “Listen, kid, I have a feeling I’ve done stuff a million times worse, and he hasn’t killed me yet. But how’s he gonna know, if we don’t tell him? Let me guess: You didn’t go on a fie
ld trip to Madison yesterday.”
“Nope.”
“Did you go down to Orchard Field?”
I nodded.
Spiro nodded too. “All that trouble, cooking up a story to tell your pop so you could get out of work, and what do ya get? Your ol’ nemesis Pete wins a finalist spot instead of you.” He patted me on the back. “I know it stinks, kid. But at least you tried. And I understand why you couldn’t tell your pop. Your secret’s safe with me.”
For half a second I thought about stopping there. Uncle Spiro was being nice and everything, but I reminded myself again that he was still a grown-up.
But then I realized that I wanted to tell him more. Here I was, one of three finalists from yesterday. One of only six kids in the whole city who would compete for the big prize. And who could I tell? Nobody. Even the newspaper got my name wrong. I was completely anonymous, and I couldn’t stand it.
“That’s not all,” I told Uncle Spiro. I handed him the newspaper. “I’m a finalist too.”
He stopped chewing his gum and stared at me.
So I pointed to the list of names. “See that last name, Mick Sparks?” I tapped the page. “That’s me.”
Spiro frowned at the newspaper. Then his eyebrows shot up, and he broke into a grin. “Mick Sparks! You’re a finalist?”
“Shhh!” I said, looking over my shoulder. “They called my number yesterday, so I know for sure it’s me. I guess my penmanship needs work.”
“Well, if that don’t beat all,” said Spiro, clapping me on the back. But then his smile faded. “Wait a minute. You can’t tell your folks, can you?”
I shook my head. “If I do, they’ll know I lied.”
“That stinks.”
“I know.”
We sat in silence for a minute. Finally Uncle Spiro said, “So, when’s the big day?”
“Next Saturday,” I told him.
“Another Saturday, huh?”
I nodded. “I didn’t think I’d have to worry about it. I didn’t expect to win.” And then I decided to ask him, before I lost my nerve.
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to—”
Spiro held up a hand before I could finish. “Sorry, kid. Don’t ask. I already have big plans of my own that day, and I can’t change ’em.”
“Like what?”
He watched a pair of kids ride past on their bikes. “I can’t say.”
“What?” I yelped. “After everything I just told you?”
He shrugged. “Sorry. You gotta trust me.”
I hopped up onto my feet. “I told you everything. Even stuff I didn’t have to tell you. And you know what a big deal this is! I bet you got nowhere to go, and nothing to do. You don’t even go to school! Pop is right about you! You’re just shifty and selfish and a—a freeloader!”
“Now just you hold on!” said Spiro, and for maybe only the second time in my life, I heard anger in his voice.
But I didn’t care. I was mad too. I stomped down the porch steps and ran over to Ace’s house with the newspaper. At least he’d be happy for Mick Sparks.
CHAPTER
29
I LEANED ON ACE’S DOORBELL, and almost let myself into the house so I wouldn’t have to feel Spiro’s deadly stare.
Finally the door swung open, and there was Ace. His hair was all messed up, and he was still in his pajamas.
“What’s up with you?” I asked him, pushing my way into the house. “Are you sick?”
“Nah. But my ma is being nice to me on account of my broken arm. She let me sleep in.” He yawned and scratched his wrist where it stuck out of his muddy cast.
“That thing is disgusting,” I told him. “How are you gonna stand it for six whole weeks?”
Ace inspected his cast. “I like it. It has personality.”
“It’s gonna smell like it has its own personality pretty soon.”
“Very funny,” he said. “So what’s going on with you today? Wanna play Monopoly or something?” Behind him, his pop and little sister were at the dining room table, setting up the game. I could hear “Chattanooga Choo Choo” playing on the radio.
“No thanks,” I said. “Your sister cheats.”
“That’s what I tried to tell my pop.”
Just then, we heard a car horn outside.
“Sounds like the Nash,” I said, frowning.
Me and Ace pushed the curtain aside, and sure enough, there was Uncle Spiro out front, laying on the horn.
“Your uncle wants you,” said Ace helpfully.
I sighed.
The horn honked again.
“Aren’t ya gonna see what he wants?” said Ace.
I jammed my hands in my pockets, thinking. Then I said, “Come with me. Maybe he won’t kill me in front of you.”
Ace perked up at this. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” I muttered. “I might have called him rude names. But he deserved it! He still won’t cover for me next Saturday, even though he knows how important it is.”
The car horn honked again.
“Horace?” called Ace’s pop, looking up from the Monopoly game. “Who’s that beeping on a Sunday afternoon? How am I supposed to concentrate? I just landed on Boardwalk.”
Ace’s little sister gave an evil laugh. She already had her victim in her sights.
“I’ll go check, Pop,” called Ace as we went outside.
Uncle Spiro stopped honking when he saw us come out of the house. “Get in,” he said through the open car window. He did not look happy.
I hesitated. “Can Ace come?” I might need a witness.
Spiro looked Ace up and down, taking in the messy hair, striped pajamas, scuffed slippers, and grimy cast.
“What’d you do to your arm?” said Spiro, chomping his gum.
Ace held out his cast. “Broke it.”
“Oh,” said Spiro. He wrinkled his nose. “It’s disgusting.”
“Thanks!”
“Okay, you two knuckleheads, get in.”
Me and Ace climbed into the back seat, and Uncle Spiro pulled away from the curb. I was almost afraid to ask, but I said, “Where are we going?”
“For frozen custard,” said Spiro.
Ace nudged me and whispered, “I thought he was sore at you.”
I just shrugged.
We rode in silence as Uncle Spiro drove past Roger’s custard stand. That was no big deal. Sometimes you just have a taste for Happy’s custard. But when he drove past Happy’s, too, me and Ace looked at each other, trying to figure out what he was up to.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it. I leaned forward and tapped Uncle Spiro on the shoulder. “Uh, where are we going? We just drove past the only two custard stands on this side of town.”
“We’re almost there,” was all he said.
A minute later, Uncle Spiro pulled the Nash to the curb and parked. “Here we are,” he said, getting out of the car. “Come on.”
We got out of the car too, and followed Spiro down the sidewalk for half a block. Then he stopped in front of a small building, all white, glossy-painted brick with red trim. It had a glass door with a CLOSED sign dangling on the inside, and big windows across the front. There were two picnic tables out front, also painted red, and a billboard that said:
COMING SOON!
THE BEST FROZEN CUSTARD IN TOWN
Spiro stood looking at the building, hands on hips. “Well?” he said. “What ya think?”
Me and Ace looked at each other, frowning.
“You’re taking us for custard here?” I said. “It’s not even open yet.”
“I know,” said Spiro, chewing his gum and wiggling his eyebrows. “Grand opening is next Saturday.”
I scratched my head. “Next Saturday? The twenty-ninth?”
“That’s the big day at the ballpark,” said Ace, nudging me. “Mudpuppy for a Day. Zoo parade. The whole shebang.”
Uncle Spiro looked at us with a huge grin on his face. “I’ve been trying to figure out what to call it,” he
said. “ ‘Spiro’s Custard’ doesn’t have the right ring to it. And then you gave me an idea for the perfect name.”
My mouth dropped open.
“What do you think about this?” he said, framing the little white building with his outstretched hands. “ ‘Sparky’s Custard.’ ”
CHAPTER
30
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, we sat at one of the picnic tables, slurping our cones. Spiro had given us a whole tour. He showed us how the custard machines worked, and even let us fill our own cones. He had a soda fountain too, and a cash register, and a jukebox, and everything. He even had a little bell on the door just like Pop’s hat shop.
“How do you like it?” said Spiro as we licked our cones.
“This is the most delicious custard I’ve ever eaten in my entire life,” I said, my voice all chocolatey and sticky. “And the shop is pretty great too.”
Ace nodded. “This chocolate is even better than the vanilla. But I might need another taste of that, just to be sure.” He had managed to dribble both flavors onto his cast.
Spiro looked around and nodded. “I think I’m gonna do okay. I’m only two blocks from Orchard Field. I ought to do pretty good business on game days.”
I put my feet up on the picnic table bench and grunted. “So how come the big secret?” I asked him finally. “Don’t you think Pop will be happy to see you opening your own business?”
Uncle Spiro straightened the napkin holder on the table. “I think so,” he said. “But it just seems easier this way. He’d have been full of all kinds of advice, and telling me how he would do things. Not that he doesn’t have good ideas, but this was something I needed to do on my own, ya know?”
I did know.
“Besides,” said Spiro. “Now I can surprise him.”
“Where’d you learn about custard and stuff?” said Ace, who was clearly impressed.
“I spent six months apprenticing down at South Side Lenny’s,” said Uncle Spiro.
Ace nudged me. “That’s why we saw him driving south over the viaduct that night!”
Spiro kept going. “Lenny and me were in the army together. He was a mess cook in France, just like me. He told me I had a knack for food. And I liked it. So, once the war was over and we came back home, I asked him to teach me everything he knew. He’s way down on the south side, so I won’t compete with him for customers.”
The Rhino in Right Field Page 9
