by Nan Marino
Mrs. Kutchner pats my hand. “She might contact you when they both feel safe, honey. I gave her your address.”
“It’s been forty-three days.”
Muscle Man returns juggling three glasses of lemonade in his sweaty hands.
The sight of him standing there makes Mrs. Kutchner change her tone. “Thank you, Douglas. Isn’t that nice that Douglas is here now?” she asks, as if Kebsie Grobser and Muscle Man were interchangeable. Well, maybe to an old lady like Mrs. Kutchner a slippery, slimy, lying weasel of a boy can replace Kebsie Grobser, but not to me.
I leave without touching the lemonade, but Muscle Man is right behind me.
“Tamara, wait!” he says before I get to the curb. I keep going. There’s nothing he can say that would make me turn around.
“I know how to get a letter to Kebsie,” he shouts, and I stop dead in my tracks.
“Mrs. Swanson, who’s my caseworker, she was Kebsie’s too, I bet.”
“You were listening to my conversation with Mrs. Kutchner?”
“I didn’t mean to. But I can help.”
I decide it’s worth giving Muscle Man ten seconds of my time. “Can you really get her a letter?”
“Mrs. Swanson and I are good friends. The best. She’ll get the letter to Kebsie. Give it to me.” He holds out his grubby hands.
I pull away.
If Jack LaLanne is right about life being a battlefield, then Muscle Man is the enemy. And there is no way I am going to hand over Kebsie’s letter to the enemy. I hold the letter tight, close to me.
“Come on, Tammy, there’s no other way,” he says. His hands are still outstretched.
I didn’t have a choice. Not handing the letter over meant that I’d never hear from Kebsie again.
For Kebsie, I’d do it. Kebsie was worth the trouble.
I shove the letter at him and head for home.
Chapter Seven
Banned
I CAN NEVER count on my mother to answer the door when her soap operas are on. Even though Shirley is sitting in the living room, just ten steps away from the front door, I race downstairs from my bedroom as soon as I hear a knock. Kebsie has been gone for forty-five days now, and I wonder if it’s her.
Instead, I find John Marcos, Big Danny, and Billy Rattle standing on the stoop. Muscle Man worms his way in between them. “Hiya, Tammy.” He smiles, but the others are much more serious.
MaryBeth Grabowsky is outside too, keeping her distance, pacing up and down on the sidewalk, wringing her hands and looking pouty. Benny Schuster is walking alongside her and so is one of the Donovan twins, although I’m not sure which one.
“You have to come outside,” says John Marcos.
“I’ll be right back,” I call to Shirley. She’s way too interested in The Days of Our Lives to answer.
As soon as we walk over to the Grabowsky’s front lawn, I know what’s going on. “Does someone have a gripe?” I ask.
When John Marcos answers, “Yes,” I am not surprised. The only time we’re allowed on the Grabowsky’s lawn is when we are doing quiet activities like talking. And the only reason for talking is when someone has a gripe.
We tiptoe through the grass, taking special care not to dig in with our heels and scuff up the lawn. Mr. Grabowsky hates scuff marks.
I keep a careful eye on Billy Rattle to make sure he’s on his toes. Last year Kebsie and I got blamed for some grass getting pulled up when I’m sure it was caused by Billy running over the lawn wearing baseball cleats. “You’d better be careful,” I tell him.
I flop down on the ground, and I have to admit that it does feel nicer than Shirley’s dandelion patch. As soon as I catch MaryBeth watching me run my hands over the cushiony tufts of grass, I stop. I wouldn’t want MaryBeth Grabowsky to know that I think her lawn looks nice.
Whenever someone has a gripe, the first thing we do is gather on the lawn and form a circle. MaryBeth sits down, like she usually does, with Benny Schuster on one side and the Donovan twin on the other. The moment John Marcos takes his place in the center, MaryBeth gives him a smile. At least he doesn’t smile back.
Of all places, Muscle Man flops down next to me, right where Kebsie used to sit. “Is anyone else coming?” he asks.
“We called for everyone. No one else is around,” says John Marcos.
“Not a single Marchetta kid?” asks Billy Rattle. With eleven children in the family, normally there’s at least one of them floating around.
“They’re all too busy swimming in their new pool,” explains Big Danny, who lives next door to them.
“Your brother coming?” I ask the Donovan twin.
“He’s at the dentist.” He grins.
Benny Schuster gives the twin a light slap on the head. “Quit smiling likes it’s a good thing.”
Big Danny spies Tony Mogavero riding down the street on his bicycle. Two punky kids, who are strangers, ride with him. Big Danny waves, but Tony shakes his head and peddles away, his punky friends at his side.
“It’s been like that ever since he transferred to Catholic school,” says the Donovan twin. “I guess he thinks he’s too good for us.”
I nod. “Yeah, I noticed.”
A few weeks ago, I asked Tony if he wanted to play kickball. And even though he is the best outfielder we’ve ever had, he shrugged it off as if the game meant nothing to him.
I’ve had a hard time liking him ever since.
“We’re ready,” says John Marcos.
I’ve never been clear on how John got the job of running the gripe votes, but he’s been doing it every summer for as long as I can remember. And except for when I don’t agree with him, he does a pretty good job at it.
I look around, wondering whose head is on the chopping block. On Ramble Street, you have to be careful. The slightest misbehavior can get you ousted from a game. And there is no point to summer if you can’t play kickball.
“I would like to begin,” says Billy Rattle. Then he jingles the change in his pockets to show he means business.
As soon as he gets the nod from John Marcos, Billy Rattle makes his big announcement. “Big Danny stole money from me.”
Big Danny jumps to his feet. “No way! I found that money over by the railroad tracks.”
John Marcos orders Big Danny to be quiet and lets Billy Rattle tell everyone how he lost fifty cents and how it was an awfully odd coincidence that Big Danny found the exact same amount that very same day.
Big Danny explains over and over again how he found the money by the railroad tracks and asks Billy if the fifty cents that he lost was in quarters, nickels, or dimes.
“Two quarters. Five dimes. Who remembers? I have so much change, I forget,” says Billy Rattle.
Like most kids with money, Billy knows when to flaunt it. When he shakes his pockets again, a bunch of change falls to the ground. The sight of all those nickels, dimes, and quarters scattered on the lawn blocks out anything sensible that Big Danny has to say.
Big Danny looks worried. And who could blame him? To be accused of stealing? That could get you banned from kickball for days.
John Marcos stands up, and I figure he’s going to say that it’s time to put this money thing to a vote. Instead he nods at Benny Schuster. “Now for the second order of business.”
I look around to see who’s next.
Benny grabs at MaryBeth’s arm. “Look what Tammy did to MaryBeth,” he says, waving her arm back and forth like a flag.
The Donovan twin leans over. “That looks bad.”
Everyone, even John Marcos, rushes over to take a look.
I spring up to see for myself. On MaryBeth Grabowsky’s dainty little arm there is a tiny, faint bruise, one that I have to squint to block out the sun to see.
“When?” I demand.
“Yesterday when we were playing, you pushed her to the ground,” says the Donovan twin, and I wish I could remember which one he is so I know exactly who I’ll be carrying a grudge against for the rest of my born days.
“She was standing on the baseline. I was running for third.” I point my finger at MaryBeth. “It’s her fault. No fielder is allowed to stand on a baseline. There are rules about being in the way.”
As soon as I see that solemn look on John Marco’s face, I realize that we are looking at MaryBeth’s arm for a reason. “Wait a minute! You’re going to vote? On a little thing like an accidental shove?”
“It didn’t seem like an accident to me,” says Billy Rattle. “And it hurt, didn’t it, MaryBeth?”
Rubbing her arm for effect, MaryBeth nods. And the boys gather around MaryBeth Grabowsky like they always do.
“I should be the one who has a gripe against her. She was in the way.” I kick my foot into the ground to emphasize my point.
A large chunk of sod comes flying off the lawn. There is a big brown spot where the grass should be. Mr. Grabowsky’s perfect lawn is ruined.
“Look what you did!” MaryBeth glances toward her front door and back at the spot in the middle of the grass. The other kids gather around it. The way everyone is staring, you’d think the hole was as big as the Grand Canyon.
I pick up the sod, and I’m surprised at how heavy it is. The chunk in my hands is pretty big.
Muscle Man moves the dirt around. “I’m an expert gardener. Give the sod to me. I’ll fix it. No one will ever know.”
“Nice going, Tamara,” says Billy Rattle. “You messed up the lawn.” He jingles the change in his pockets. “Come on everyone, let’s get back to the gripes. I’m ready to vote.”
I don’t stay around while Billy Rattle, Muscle Man McGinty, and the others on Ramble Street decide my fate. I run away, taking the chunk of sod with me, leaving the others to gape at the big brown spot in the middle of Mr. Grabowsky’s lawn.
Chapter Eight
The Fourth of July
“HEY MUSCLE MAN,” I grunt. It kills me to say hello to the kid, but I have no choice. I’ve been standing alone at the Fourth of July barbeque for over an hour now. No one else is talking to me.
“Why hello, Tammy.” A stupid grin is smashed across his face. “This is a real nice party. Don’t you think?”
I shrug. Billy Rattle’s parents always have a July 4th barbeque. To me, it looks the same as last year’s and the year before that. A bunch of neighbors. Hamburgers. Hot Dogs. Sparklers. Mr. Rattle’s accordion playing. Pretty standard stuff.
“Is MaryBeth still mad at me?” I ask, even though I’m not sure why I care. I did nothing wrong, and she’s just being stupid.
“Oh gosh, I hope not,” he says.
A group of neighbors on the other side of the yard is getting ready to do the bunny hop. MaryBeth Grabowsky is in the middle of the crowd, jumping up and down, practicing her bunny steps. I try to catch her eye.
When she sees me, she throws me a dirty look and hops to the other side of the line.
“Did you play kickball today?” I ask.
Muscle Man nods. “It wasn’t the same without you, Tammy. Too bad you couldn’t play.”
I wonder if Muscle Man is rubbing it in. It’s not like I didn’t want to play. As I expected, I was banned.
“What happened with Big Danny?” I ask. “Was he banned too?”
“Two days, same as you, and a few kids called him a thief.”
I shake my head. “Big Danny is not a thief.”
“For the record, when we voted about you, I voted to let you play,” says Muscle Man. “After all, you were the one who gave me my name.”
For a moment, I’m not sure if he means it or if he’s being sarcastic. “You like your name?”
“Sure.” He nods. “I think it fits me good.”
In truth, I think it fits him too. But not in the same way he does. After all, what else can you call a kid who goes around bragging that he’s the bravest, smartest, strongest, fastest person who ever graced the planet?
“They’ll let you play tomorrow. You were only banned for two days,” he says.
“Yeah, you know how it is when they ban you. It never lasts for long,” I say.
Muscle Man nods, and I realize that this is another one of his falsehoods. The kid has no idea of what I’m talking about. As far as I know, Muscle Man McGinty has never gotten ousted from a kickball game. Not even once.
And on Ramble Street, that is something to brag about.
Muscle Man turns to leave, but I step in front of him. “Just a minute. You never told me what happened with the letter. Did you hear anything?”
Muscle Man ignores me. He waves hello to Mrs. Murphy, who’s sitting alone in a corner, wrestling with a giant piece of Mrs. Rattle’s Fourth of July pie. “Hi, Mrs. Murphy. How are your roses growing? Did you get rid of those mealy worms?”
Mrs. Murphy, a cranky old lady who hasn’t cracked a smile since November of 1963, giggles. “The roses are doing well. The worms are gone. How nice of you to ask about them.”
“Did I ever tell you about the mealy worms in my old garden?” begins Muscle Man, but I won’t let him finish his tale.
“What happened with the letter?” I interrupt. “Can your caseworker get it to Kebsie? Will she write back?”
Before he can answer, a cheer goes through the crowd.
“We want Pizza! We want Pizza! We want Pizzarelli to sing!”
Mr. Pizzarelli, who always takes this day off from his job as a police officer, pretends to be surprised. To get the crowd going, Mr. Rattle plays the accordion in time with the chants. “Peet-zah! Peet-zah!”
“What’s happening?” asks Muscle Man.
“Never mind what’s happening. What about the letter?” I yell, but my words are drowned out by the noise.
Mr. Pizzarelli jumps up after the crowd is worked into a frenzy. He holds up his hands, and the crowd goes quiet.
I lean toward Muscle Man. “The letter?” I whisper. But before I can say anything else, a dozen people shush me at once. I turn around and see Mrs. Murphy, her lips pursed in shushing position, waiting for me to speak again.
I sit down on the grass next to Muscle Man and listen to Mr. Pizzarelli sing. After he does a few solo numbers, a few of the neighbors join him. By the time Mr. Pizzarelli gets to “This Land Is Your Land” and “God Bless America,” most everyone on Ramble Street is singing.
But the last song belongs to Mr. Pizzarelli. He always ends with his favorite, “If I Were a Rich Man.” It brings the house down. This year, he gives his best performance.
As soon as he finishes crooning his last “bid de bid de bum” and before the neighbors can call out for an encore, Muscle Man is at his side.
“Hey, Mr. Pizza. Great voice. You really know how to work a crowd. Did I ever tell you about the time I sang on Broadway? Let me know if you ever need some pointers on how to hit those high notes.”
For a moment, I think that Muscle Man is finally going to get his due. You’d think that a cop would be able to spot a fib and that there’d be a special penalty for lying to a police officer (maybe one that involves handcuffs). But Mr. Pizzarelli only smiles at him and heads over to the line of people who are getting ready to dance the Alley Cat.
Muscle Man tugs at my arm. “Come on, Tammy. Let’s dance.”
I plant my feet firmly into the ground. “Forget about it.”
Muscle Man races toward the Alley Cat line, and I race after him. He’s not getting away this easy.
When we reach the group, Mr. Rattle is instructing the dancers. “Hop. Skip. Turn. And then you all shout, ‘Meow.’” He plays a few notes on his accordion and the dance begins.
Muscle Man is three steps behind the others, twisting and hopping like no alley cat I ever saw. I wave my hands in front of his face, but he turns and dances in a new direction.
The music stops, and suddenly I’m shouting, “What about Kebsie?”
Muscle Man, whose hands are held up like paws in alley cat position, struggles to catch his breath.
I move in front of him. This time he’s not getting away. “Did you give the casew
orker the letter?”
Finally, he nods. “Yup, you should be hearing from Kebsie soon.”
Chapter Nine
When You Can’t Eat Ice Cream, Eat Your Words
“DON’T DRIP ON me,” Billy Rattle warns Big Danny. It’s Big Danny’s and my first day back after being banned, and Billy Rattle is still grinning from his victory about the fifty cents.
We’re crammed elbow to elbow on the front stoop of the Grabowsky house, and Big Danny is eating his usual, a Mr. Softee double black and white twist, so Billy Rattle has good reason for worrying about drips.
Only two of us didn’t buy anything when the truck came around. Me and Muscle Man sit empty-handed, watching the others slurp down their cones.
It’s a sun-melting-tar kind of afternoon, and I bet that ice cream tastes good. Muscle Man is probably thinking the same thing. I can tell by the way he eyes the drops that land on the sidewalk.
The other kids don’t notice the two of us staring at their cones like they’re worth a million bucks. They have other things on their minds.
“What if the moon is gooey and soft? What if the astronauts get swallowed up as soon as they walk on it?” Big Danny never takes his eyes off of his swirly cone. “The surface of the moon could be as mushy as ice cream.”
“Impossible,” says John Marcos. He grabs a napkin and wipes his hands. For a boy, John is neat. “You have ice cream on your brain.”
“John’s right,” chimes in MaryBeth Grabowsky. “My uncle works for Grumman. He helped build the LEM. He says the moon is as hard as a rock.”
“Your uncle has something to do with the first moon walk?” I notice that she and John are sitting real close. “Yeah, right.”
“What’s the matter with you, Tammy?” Billy Rattle smirks. “Don’t you know that the LEM was built a few miles away from here in Bethpage?”
When it comes to brains, Billy Rattle is a few marshmallow candies short of a bowl of Lucky Charms. It bothers me that he seems to suddenly know so much about the moon walk. Especially since I don’t.
“You don’t even know what the LEM is, do you?” John Marcos looks me straight in the eye, and it’s as if he’s reading my mind.
