by Nan Marino
“‘LEM’ stands for ‘Lunar Excursion Module’. That’s the name of the craft that’s going to separate from the Apollo 11 spaceship and land on the moon,” says Billy Rattle, of all people.
“Don’t you remember last week when MaryBeth’s uncle came over and told us all about it?” asks John Marcos.
MaryBeth beams when John mentions her name, and I wish her eyes weren’t such a deep shade of turquoise.
“I wasn’t there,” I mutter.
“Were you grounded?” asks MaryBeth. “You’re always grounded.”
The others snicker.
Muscle Man pushes his way between Big Danny and me. “I have an uncle who is the boss of MaryBeth’s uncle. He runs the whole thing. The LEM. The moonwalk. The works.”
“Oh, yeah?” Now, it’s my turn to snicker. “What’s his name?”
Muscle Man doesn’t skip a beat. “Neil Armstrong. My uncle is Neil Armstrong, the astronaut.”
“Yeah, right. Your uncle is the head of the Apollo 11 mission.” I say the words loud and slow so the others in the group understand exactly how tall this tale is getting. “Neil Armstrong, the man who’s gonna be the first person to walk on the moon, is your uncle?”
“Uncle Neil,” nods Muscle Man. “He’s like a father to me.”
The others in the group turn away. Billy Rattle shreds his napkin into tiny pieces. Big Danny stares down at his shoe. MaryBeth plays with her shiny hair, and John Marcos swats a mosquito. I try, but I can’t make eye contact with a single one of them.
“Like a father,” I huff. “Jeez.”
“My parents are going to let me stay up late and watch the whole thing,” says Billy Rattle, his lips blue from his berry Italian ice.
“Me too,” chimes in just about everyone else.
I keep my mouth shut. I doubt there’s a chance of my staying up that late for anything. My parents would never go for it.
There’s no need to say any more. The ice cream is finished. The talking is done.
John Marcos picks up the ball and bounces it two or three times on the sidewalk. “You ready?” He nods to the gang.
We head toward Billy Rattle’s house. In the summer, his front lawn is known as “the field.”
Muscle Man stays behind. “I think I’ll sit this one out.” He yawns. “I’m kind of tired.”
“Maybe you can go call Uncle Neil and see how things are going with the blastoff.” I have to add more. “You’re not tired. More like you stink at kickball, and you don’t want to play.”
“That’s not true, Tammy. I’m a good player,” he says, with his fake smile.
Muscle Man never gets angry when I challenge him, and it burns me to bits.
“You’re the worst player on the block.” I can’t let it go. Instead, I do a nasty imitation of Muscle Man trying to kick the ball.
John Marcos gives me a sharp elbow, MaryBeth Grabowsky sighs, and Billy Rattle’s blue lips start to move. But whatever Billy is planning to say, he never gets a chance. Muscle Man cuts him off.
“Come on, Tammy, you know that’s not true.” Nothing stops Muscle Man when he’s on a roll. Right then and there, Muscle Man utters the stupidest words that any kid has ever said.
“I’m the best player on Ramble Street. I could take you on, all at once, if I wanted to.”
Five mouths drop open at the same time.
Billy Rattle bangs the side of his own head. I don’t blame the kid. I’m wondering myself if my hearing’s gone screwy.
Kickball is our game. No, it is more than a game. It is sacred.
On Ramble Street, tough talk about kickball cannot be ignored.
There’s only one thing to do.
John Marcos closes his fists. “Prove it!”
“Name the date and time,” says Muscle Man.
“Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock,” says Big Danny. The others nod.
“I’ll be there,” Muscle Man says with a grin, but I bet that behind that crooked smile is a barrelful of regret. On the outside, he looks cool, but inside, he has to be shaking. After all, he just challenged the entire block to our favorite game.
A delicious feeling creeps into me, like I’m suddenly filled with dozens of Mr. Softee’s swirly cones. It’s the day I’ve been waiting for. No more stupid grin. No more slimy words. This time he crossed the line. And he’s going to pay for it.
Tomorrow, Muscle Man McGinty is going down.
Chapter Ten
Secret Powers
THERE ARE LUCKY people in the world, and then there are people who always seem to find themselves knee-deep in trouble. It’s not hard to guess which group I fall into.
If I were lucky, the morning of the us-against-Muscle Man game would be different. I’d wake up to singing birds and sunshine, scarf down a bowl of Apple Jacks, and be the first one standing on the Rattle’s front lawn.
But I’m a “trouble” person. And that means I’m in deep water from the moment the day begins. First, there are no Apple Jacks. Shirley forgot to buy cereal. “That stuff will rot out your teeth.” She reaches for a cigarette. “Here, eat this instead.”
I stare at the plate of eggs she plops down in front of me. They’re cold and runny.
“Can I go out and play?”
“You’re not wandering around the neighborhood in this rain.” Shirley waves her hand at the window, and I have to admit I can’t see a thing but gray sheets of water.
“But Mom, there’s a big game today,” I protest. “Everyone is going to be there.” The rest of the kids will find a way out of their houses, I’m sure of it. After all, this is important. A little rain is nothing compared to honor.
“Besides, Tim is coming home,” she says, “and this time I want things to be nice.”
I play with the yolks while my mother rattles off chores that need to be done. When she finishes, I try again. “The game won’t last long. It’s just a morning thing.”
My mother isn’t budging. And I begin to worry that the game could go on without me.
Shirley takes a can of lemony stuff and sprays it all over the kitchen counters. “Come on, Tammy, let’s get this place looking nice for Tim.”
“A lot of good it’s going to do.” I point to the den where Marshall is holed up with the morning paper. “They’re still going to argue.”
Shirley scrubs the counter. “No, your father’s promised and so has Tim.”
“Yeah, right. Until they see each other in person. Then the fireworks will start.” I act out the scene from the last time Tim was home, using a deep bellowing voice for Marshall. “When are you going to get a job, Tim?”
And a medium voice for Tim. “Dad, you work for ‘the man.’”
And then I go back to Marshall’s bellow. “Mr. Rendizzi is not ‘the man.’”
Before I use the medium voice, I roll my eyes, the exact way that Tim does. Then in my best imitation of my brother, I say, “Dad, you work for big business. That’s ‘the man.’ And all ‘the man’ cares about is making money off of the little people.”
“That is enough, Tamara,” says Shirley, and I can tell by the way that she glares at me that I’m exactly two seconds away from getting grounded.
Big Danny is right. I’m always getting punished for doing practically nothing. All I did was try to remind my mother that a sparkling kitchen cannot stop my brother and father from fighting.
“I’ll clean up downstairs,” I volunteer. It’s one of her main gripes. The basement serves as a combination of laundry room and Tim’s room. It’s always a mess.
Shirley takes a drag of her cigarette and waves me away. “Put a load of laundry up while you’re down there.”
I grab a basket, throw in some dirty towels, and hop down to the basement as fast as I can. Nothing’s keeping me away from that game, not even Shirley.
There isn’t really anything in the basement to clean. Most of the books, records, and concert souvenirs belong to Tim. He took the place over before he went away to college. In his senior y
ear of high school, he even slept down here.
I turn on the washing machine and wait for the water to fill. I stare at Tim’s poster of Jimi Hendrix.
The poster is falling off the wall, one side of it curls down from the dampness. I find some tape and stick it back as best I can.
I decide that it’s time to use my special powers. I sink into Grandma’s old rocking chair, the one we keep in the basement because everyone thinks it’s ugly. And I summon Tim.
“Tim telephone. Tim telephone. Tim telephone.” Faster and faster I chant, until it sounds like it’s all one word. “Timtelephone. Timtelephone. Timtelephone.”
Nine times out of ten, Tim will call if I try real hard.
When it doesn’t happen right away, I think about something special about him. Today, I think about the time Tim taught me how to climb the big oak tree. The trick is to step on the chopped-off limb with your left foot and swing over with your right. When he still doesn’t call, I think about how he spends hours in the basement listening to music and how he says Jimi Hendrix’s guitar playing makes him feel restless. When that doesn’t work, I stare long and hard at the picture of Tim and his best friend, Vinnie Pizzarelli. I wipe off a thin layer of dust until I can see them both, smiling back at me.
The phone rings.
I listen for Shirley to pick it up. I can tell by the way she says hello that it’s Tim.
I lean back into the chair and sigh. My special powers worked again.
After a while, Shirley calls down the stairs and tells me to pick up the phone.
I grab the one by Tim’s desk. “I got it,” I shout to Shirley.
Both Tim and I wait for her to hang up before we speak.
“Hiya, Beanpole. Did you will me to call?”
“Yep.”
Tim laughs. “Just make sure you use your secret powers for good, okay?”
“They only work with you. I’ve tried them a million other times and nothing.” A million and one is more like it. I’ve willed and chanted and wished until I turned blue. I’ve tried for no homework. A snow day. A new bicycle. Ice cream for dinner. And, of course, I’ve been willing Kebsie to call for forty-seven days now. My special powers are very limited.
“The parents treating you okay?” Tim asks.
“Shirley and Marshall are treating me fine,” I say, just so I can say their names out loud.
“Shirley? And Marshall?” Tim laughs. “Is that what you’re calling them now?”
“Not exactly to their faces,” I explain.
Tim laughs again.
“Are you coming home this weekend?” I ask.
“I meant to, but I’m really busy. I’m taking a summer class, and then there’s a big concert upstate. It’s gonna last for days, and I really want to go.”
I kick at the nearby table. The picture of Vinnie and Tim goes crashing to the floor. “Does that mean that you won’t be home all summer?” I ask.
“Jimi Hendrix will be performing there,” he says, as if that explains everything. When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Everyone will be there.”
“Be there or be square, right?” I say, because it’s Tim’s favorite expression. I’m never quite sure where “there” is, but in Tim’s book, the worst thing you can be is an out-of-touch “square.”
There’s a sharp crackle of static, and I’m reminded that Tim is calling long distance.
“Hey, Beanpole. I finally got a letter from Vinnie. Can you tell Mr. Pizzarelli that? He says he’s doing okay. That things have quieted down.”
I pick up the picture of Vinnie and Tim and rub my hand against the glass, checking it for damage. It was taken two years ago in front of Vinnie’s first car, back when Vinnie Pizzarelli didn’t have a care in the world, before his number came up in the draft.
“Is he still your best friend?” I ask, without really thinking.
“What?”
I take a big gulp and ask again. “Is Vinnie Pizzarelli still your best friend?” I want to know.
“Of course. Jeez, Tamara, he’s thousands of miles away from home, fighting a war. If anyone needs a friend, it’s a guy who’s over in Vietnam.”
“Even if he doesn’t write to you?”
“He’s in a war, for Pete’s sake. He can’t write all the time. His letters are like gold to me. And to his dad, too. That’s why it’s important for you to go tell Mr. Pizzarelli about the letter. Tell him I’ll bring it the next time I come home. Promise me you’ll go see Mr. Pizzarelli?”
“Yes.” I rub my hand along the picture and make a point to touch Vinnie’s face. “I promise.”
“Even when someone is far away, they don’t stop being your best friend, Beanpole.” There’s more static. “Ah look, I gotta go.”
He hangs up and leaves me with nothing but his and Vinnie’s picture and a basement full of the empty feeling of missing Kebsie. Funny about how talking about Tim and his best friend makes me lonely for mine.
I reach for the box of Oreos Tim keeps stashed in his top drawer and shove one into my mouth.
“Even though you are far away, Kebsie Grobser,” I whisper, “you will never stop being my best friend.”
I stare at the picture of my brother and his friend, wishing it were of Kebsie and me. We didn’t have anything like it. There were group pictures at birthday parties, but I didn’t have one of just the two of us.
I shut my eyes and imagine the picture is of me and Kebsie. I have the perfect image of us eating hot dogs on the field trip to Teddy Roosevelt’s house. That day, Kebsie plopped herself down at the picnic table and did imitations of Mrs. Webber. When I was the only one who laughed, Kebsie told me I was cool. That was the moment I decided I liked her better than anyone.
I hold the picture close and try real hard to burn the image of me and Kebsie into its frame. When I open my eyes, Vinnie and Tim are still staring at me, smiling in front of Vinnie’s car.
My secret powers need work.
Chapter Eleven
Just My Luck
A CLAP OF thunder makes me jump. I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s 10:05, a whole five minutes after game time. By now, the other kids are probably standing around waiting for me. After all, I am the pitcher.
The basement has a door leading to the outside. If I open it right, slow but steady, I can avoid it making a groan, and Shirley will never know I’m gone.
I run straight through the puddles that have gathered on the sidewalk. Soon I’m standing on the Rattles’ front lawn.
I am alone.
The sight of the empty field knocks the wind out of me, just like when John Marcos accidentally kicked a lowflying ball straight into my stomach two summers ago. But that breathless feeling from the ball went away after a few minutes. This one stays with me, growing deeper with each new crack of thunder.
No one else cared enough to come. A few measly thunderbolts and some flashes of lightning kept them all away.
I glare up and down the block, searching for a sign that someone will join me. But the street is empty. I pay special attention to the old house right across the street, where Muscle Man lives.
Talk about luck. He couldn’t have planned better weather. The pouring rain gives him more time to figure out a way to weasel out of this.
Of all people, he should have been here. Even if no one else showed up, he should be standing in the rain along side me. He was the one who threw down the challenge.
“Come on, Muscle Man!” I shout to his house, which is shut up tight. “Right now! Come on out and show the world what you’re made of!”
A rattle of thunder and a few quick flashes of lightning are my only answer.
“Let’s go! You got a game to play!”
The ball sits in a puddle by first base, exactly where John Marcos threw it down the night before. I pick it up and bounce it a few times.
At the next house over, a door opens. Mrs. Grabowsky steps outside. “Tammy, sweetie, go home. No one is playing today.”
“Oh, no.
You’re wrong, Mrs. Grabowsky. They’re just late, but they’re coming.” I bounce the ball again. It makes a splat sound against a puddle.
“Go home. You’ll catch your death of cold,” she says.
“Is MaryBeth coming out?” I pop up the ball with my knee and catch it on the way down.
Mrs. Grabowsky shakes her head. “No, MaryBeth is not coming out.”
“Too bad. Tell her she’s going to miss a good game.”
“Tamara Ann Simpson, if you don’t go home this minute, I’m going to call your mother.”
It figures. That’s what happens when you’re a trouble person. People pick on you for doing nothing. All I’m doing is minding my own business, waiting for the game to start.
I slam the ball into the biggest puddle I can find. It sends water flying up so hard that even I jump.
“You’d better be out here tomorrow, Muscle Man, or I’ll come and get you,” I shout across the street with Mrs. Grabowsky watching me.
“I mean it, Tamara. This is your last chance.” Mrs. Grabowsky has her hands on her hips now, and I know I don’t have much time left.
Before she can make any phone calls, I head home.
I stay down in the basement for most of the day, listening to Tim’s Jimi Hendrix records and doing laundry, anything to keep away from Shirley.
Every so often I sneak back outside and glance down the block at the Rattle’s front lawn. But the only thing gathering on Ramble Street is a bunch of puddles.
Chapter Twelve
Let the Game Begin
WORD TRAVELS FAST on Ramble Street. Even a day of torrential rain couldn’t stop the entire block from hearing about Muscle Man’s challenge.
The morning after the storm, we’re ready for him. At 9:30, eleven of us are standing on the Rattle’s front lawn. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen us all together.
Big Danny and John Marcos stand in the center of the group. The others swarm around them.
Tony Mogavero pedals by with those punky kids at his side. As soon as Big Danny explains the situation to him, Tony drops his bike. “Catch you later,” he tells those two kids from Catholic school, and just like old times, he’s back with us.
