by Nan Marino
“I was wondering if Douglas would be able to play with us. We’re playing kickball and we want to finish our game,” says Miss-Matchy-Matchy-with-her-hair-ribbons-and-sandals.
“Douglas,” Mrs. Kutchner calls up the stairs, “your friends are here for you.”
I want to correct Mrs. Kutchner and explain to her that I am not his friend. Something about the way she looks at me makes me stop.
Muscle Man’s wormy voice floats down from upstairs. “Tell them I’ll be out in a minute, Grandma.”
Mrs. Kutchner, MaryBeth, and I stare at each other. Each one of us has a make-believe smile on our face.
“You still making those lemon drop cookies, Mrs. Kutchner?” I ask.
Before I can even finish, MaryBeth has her pointy elbow lodged in my gut.
“What’d I do?” I whisper.
“Don’t be rude,” she scolds.
“I’m not. I’m just making conversation.”
Mrs. Kutchner laughs. “It’s been a bit hot outside, but as soon as the weather cools, I’ll make a batch. Would you girls like some?”
“I wouldn’t want to put you through that trouble,” says MaryBeth.
“It’s no trouble.” Mrs. Kutchner smiles.
“Yeah, that would be great. I’d love a big bunch.” I try to sound polite. “Please,” I add.
MaryBeth’s elbow is back in my gut.
“She said it’s no trouble,” I whisper.
Muscle Man comes bounding down the steps, not at all like a person who is about to be destroyed.
“Hi, MaryBeth. Hi, Tamara. How nice of you to come and get me.”
“Yeah, real nice.” I walk him straight over to where the other kids are waiting.
“Oh, Tammy, before I forget…” Muscle Man pulls a paper out of his back pocket. “I told you I’d come through for you.”
“From Kebsie?” I ask.
Muscle Man hands me the note.
I hold the heavy crinkled-up paper in my hand. It even feels different than a plain old regular letter. Now I understand what Tim said. Letters from your best friend are like gold.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” asks MaryBeth. The others gather around me.
What Kebsie writes to me is personal and sacred. And the last thing I want to do is share it with the crowd.
I shove the letter in my back pocket. “Nope. Let’s play ball.”
MaryBeth doesn’t budge.
“I’m not opening it now,” I say.
“That’s not what I’m waiting for.” She crosses her arms in front of her.
I move toward the Rattles’ front lawn, where the others are taking their positions. MaryBeth refuses to follow. Instead she grabs Muscle Man and pulls him back so the two of them are standing arm-in-arm, staring at me.
“What now?” I ask.
MaryBeth rolls her eyes toward Muscle Man and mouths the words “Thank you.” Muscle Man looks like he’s waiting for it too.
I roll my eyes at both of them. “All he did was pass on a note,” I explain.
If Miss Goody Goody ever wrote a note at school, she’d know that you really don’t thank the person for passing it on. It’s just what you did. There’s no way I’m saying thank you to Muscle Man McGinty.
I’m so busy staring down MaryBeth Grabowsky that I almost miss the ball Big Danny throws my way. “Let’s get this game started,” he says, and I want to run to second base and throw my arms around him for getting me out of this jam.
I give the ball a snappy bounce and take my position on the field.
Chapter Sixteen
Not Feeling It
ITS TIME TO strike this kid out. I don’t care what Greg McGinty or even John Marcos says. Not one bit.
Benny Schuster’s still on third as a substitute runner, and I’m not giving those long legs of his a chance to leap on home. Muscle Man isn’t going to score a single run on my watch.
I roll three good hard balls. I make no bones about it.
John Marcos is trying to catch my eye. I avoid him, which is a hard thing to do since he’s the one throwing me back the ball.
The only person I make eye contact with is Muscle Man McGinty. And all he can do is sigh every time my pitches fly past him.
In no time, Muscle Man McGinty is out, and it’s our turn.
Billy Rattle is up first. His kick is respectable and should have been a solid double. But Muscle Man can’t play outfield and second base at the same time, so Billy flies home.
Big Danny is next. That kid can send a ball clear off the block any time he wants to. And that’s exactly what he does.
“That ball went so high that maybe your uncle Neil Armstrong will find it when he lands on the moon!” I shout as Big Danny rounds the bases.
John Marcos, Benny Schuster, and one of the Donovan twins all have home runs. Even Conchetta Marchetta makes it to third, and then Tony Mogavero brings her home.
Our strategy is simple really. All we have to do is kick it where Muscle Man isn’t. Each kick sends Muscle Man scrambling to the other side of the field.
Each time we make it home, we high-five. Billy Rattle does a victory dance.
The score builds up fast. In no time at all, the score is Tamara and team 10, Muscle Man 0.
We’re destroying this kid. He is toast. No, he is worse than that. He is burnt toast.
Surrounded by all these home runs and high fives, I can’t help daydream about the moment when Muscle Man breaks down and tells us that he never should have challenged us. I imagine him exhausted, panting out his words, and confessing to us all that he’s a wormy liar.
I’m ready for him. I remember every lie he’s told, and I’m going to get him to admit to every single one. The Neil Armstrong Uncle lie. The Training for the Olympics lie. The James Bond Eyesight lie.
I’ll make sure that after he’s done confessing to us kids, he knocks on the door of every grown-up on Ramble Street. I wonder if Mr. Grabowsky will use the words slippery slope when Muscle Man tells him there was no Mr. Softee truck. Maybe Mr. Pizzarelli will find his Broadway show lie so repulsive that he’ll take him down to the station house, just to scare him.
Oh, I’m sure there’ll be tears. Maybe he’ll even beg for forgiveness. I bet the other kids will stand with their mouths hanging open, and I will try my best not to tell them I told them so. They will feel foolish that they were so easily led. They will tell me that I am wise. And they will turn a cold, cold heart toward Muscle Man McGinty.
Oh, the joy. The joy.
I study Muscle Man, looking for a sign. An eye twitch. A quivering lip. A deep breath. So far, nothing. He’s giving no signal that he’s about to crack.
If he needs to go a few more rounds before he breaks down, then we can too.
I glance over at my teammates. Not a tired one in sight. We are ready to go the distance.
Muscle Man still wears his ear-to-ear grin. And I can’t figure out why. This game is ours.
Janie Lee is up next.
MaryBeth straightens out Janie Lee’s hair. “Now sweetie, all you have to do is kick the ball and run.”
I take one look at MaryBeth Grabowsky and her little sister, and I think I figure out why Muscle Man is smiling.
We have a weak link.
“Maybe Janie Lee should sit this one out,” I say.
“Are you kidding?” asks Big Danny.
“No way,” says John Marcos. “The score is 10 to nothing, Tamara. What’s the problem?”
The problem is that Janie Lee is only five. She’s an easy out, even for Muscle Man. I count the kids on our team. If Janie Lee is out every time she’s up, then the score could only be thirty-four to nothing before Muscle Man is up again.
Thirty-four to nothing. That’s not enough.
“This game is too important,” I say, ignoring the pouty look on Janie Lee’s face.
MaryBeth puts her hand on Janie Lee’s shoulder. “If my sister doesn’t play, then I don’t play.”
I shrug. But the truth is that I want MaryB
eth to play. I want her to be here when Muscle Man breaks down. I want her to see him fall.
“Come on, Tamara, let the little kid play,” says Big Danny. He puts his hand on Janie Lee’s other shoulder. “I don’t play either if she doesn’t play.”
“Me either,” says John Marcos.
Even the Donovan twins threaten to walk if Janie Lee doesn’t play.
“Okay, okay. She’s up now,” I say, finally.
I give Muscle Man my most dangerous glare, one that I hope shows him that even though my team is clueless, I know his plan.
I hope, for Janie Lee’s sake, that the strikeout is quick and painless.
“Whenever you’re ready, J. Lee,” shouts Muscle Man.
Janie Lee nods, and he throws her the first pitch.
It’s not the fast, get-down-to-business pitch that I would have thrown. It’s a slow, easy ball. A baby pitch. Even Muscle Man, who has no pitching technique at all, can do better.
Janie Lee kicks it, but instead of hitting the ball head-on, she nicks the top of it. The ball hardly goes five feet. Muscle Man is all over it. He’s got the ball in his hands before Janie Lee can take three steps toward first base.
Even Janie Lee knows she’s out. She snivels. For a moment, it looks like she’s going to cry. And it’s a sad fact that whenever a Grabowsky girl sheds a tear, every boy on Ramble Street scampers to her side.
“Run!” I shout.
“Go to first base, Janie Lee!” yells John Marcos.
“Try your best, sweetie,” adds MaryBeth.
Janie Lee heads to first base, running as fast as her five-year-old legs can carry her.
Muscle Man races toward her, except instead of moving at top speed, he moves in an exaggerated slow motion.
“I’m coming at you,” he says, but he hardly steps off the pitching mound.
It’s all pretend, and everyone knows it except for Janie Lee.
The truth is that he can tag her out seven times if he tried and three times if he only half tried.
Janie Lee reaches first base. Still out of breath from her long run, she throws us all a big Grabowsky smile.
“Way to go, Janie Lee!” shouts Big Danny.
“You did it, honey!” screams MaryBeth.
Muscle Man runs to first base and high-fives Janie Lee, as if they’re on the same team. The other kids jump up and down, like it’s the winning run in the World Series.
Muscle Man and Janie Lee race toward the group with their hands up in the air. Big Danny, Benny Schuster, Conchetta Marchetta, Billy Rattle, Greg McGinty, and, of course, MaryBeth, all high-five them.
It’s like one big love festival, and I’m the only one not feeling it. It’s incredible. The kid doesn’t even lose when he’s losing.
Chapter Seventeen
Kebsie’s Letter
I CARRY KEBSIE’S letter with me all day. After fifty days of missing her, it feels good to have her around, even if it’s just in paper form.
Something inside me isn’t in a hurry. So I keep her letter with me. And wait.
I wait until after everyone gets called home for dinner and the kickball game is done for the day. I wait until after Shirley fixes me a Swanson’s TV dinner. I’m so busy thinking about the letter in my pocket that I hardly taste any of it, even the apple cobbler, which is my favorite part, even though Shirley never cooks it right and it always sticks to the aluminum tray. I wait until Marshall and Shirley are sound asleep and the only things awake on Ramble Street are the crickets.
I slip out my window and onto the garage roof. All this time, I didn’t know what I was waiting for. But as soon as I see it, I know instantly. I was waiting for the moon.
The moon is only a quarter slice, and there are a few clouds in the way. My flashlight batteries are wearing out, but one good bang sends a light beaming.
I open Kebsie’s letter slowly and carefully.
Dear Tamara,
Thanks for the charm. I am doing good. I will tell you where we are sometime soon. I am with my mother.
MaryBeth got another Barbie doll? That’s neato. Tell MaryBeth congratulations.
From your bf,
Kebsie
I read it again and again before the words sink in.
“Tell MaryBeth congratulations?” “Neato?” That’s not the Kebsie Grobser I know. Tell MaryBeth that Barbie dolls are stupid. Tell MaryBeth to make sure she gets her dolls muddy. Tell MaryBeth to wipe that prissy look off her face. Those are things that Kebsie would say in a letter.
I wonder if Kebsie’s in trouble. Maybe she’s trying to tell me something. Maybe “neato” is a secret code word. Maybe she’s really trying to say, Help! I’m being abducted by evil Soviet spies who are forcing me to tell national secrets! But something lumpy inside me knows this is wishful thinking. There are no signs of worry or trouble in this note, and Kebsie doesn’t know any national secrets.
This is a letter from someone who’s too busy to write because she is probably walking around her new neighborhood using the word neato.
All this time, I thought I was something special. I guess I was just someone to hang out with while Kebsie Grobser lived on Ramble Street. I was nothing to her.
There’s no name for the feeling inside of me. The emptiness I got from missing Kebsie seems like good times compared to this new feeling.
I rip up the letter and promise myself that I’ll never, ever write to her again.
Chapter Eighteen
The War Comes Home to Ramble Street
THE NEXT DAY, my own team pulls a fast one on me.
We’re lined up at home plate when MaryBeth Grabowsky drops a bombshell. “Janie Lee and I were talking about it last night. We think it would be a nice thing to give Muscle Man another chance to kick.”
Janie Lee jumps up and down in agreement.
“I’d be okay with that,” says John Marcos, and MaryBeth smiles.
“But it’s our turn. We’re up. He shouldn’t be up until he earns it,” I protest.
“The score is 43 to nothing. What harm would it do?” asks Big Danny.
Harm? What harm? It would change the rules of kickball. Rules that we live by and think are important. What if we changed other rules? The entire game would be different. What if, instead of running to first base, we ran to third? Or maybe it’s ten strikes and you’re out. Where does it end?
“This is wrong.” I stare at the pitcher’s mound, where Muscle Man is patiently waiting.
The team puts it to a vote. I am outvoted.
It looks like I’ll have to strike Muscle Man out all over again.
John Marcos signals for me to pitch a slow ball.
I answer with my fastest pitch.
“Are you gonna call it?” I ask him. “What strike is this?”
John Marcos throws the ball back at me. “Call your own strikes.”
And that’s what I do. “Steee-rike one,” I say in my best umpire’s voice.
“Hold on a sec, Tammy. I’m not warmed up.” Muscle Man drops to the ground and begins doing push-ups. He then moves into a weird combination of jumping jacks and deep knee bends.
Jeez. The kid thinks he’s a junior version of Jack LaLanne.
“Whenever you’re ready, Jack.” I smirk.
Muscle Man kicks at the air a few times. Finally, he gives me a nod. And I throw the ball.
My next pitch is exactly the same as the first one.
Even though he’s seen this pitch before, Muscle Man kicks way too soon. His foot sticks out in front of him, and he holds it there while the ball rolls over home plate.
I look at John Marcos to see if he’s going to call this one. When he doesn’t, I shout, “Steee-rike two.”
John Marcos picks up the ball, slow and with one hand, and tosses it back in a lazy way. The ball stops midway between the pitcher’s mound and home base.
Muscle Man himself has to run after it. “Your pitching is really good today, Tammy,” he says as he tosses me the ball.
“Sti
ll think you can beat us all?” I ask, to remind my team exactly why we’re doing this.
Muscle Man doesn’t answer. He’s too busy looking at something way in the outfield. Ready or not, I throw my next pitch.
He doesn’t even try to kick. For a second, I think the moment I’ve been waiting for is finally here. “Do you give up?” I shout, but Muscle Man only stares past me. John Marcos stands alongside him, and the ball drifts over toward the Grabowsky’s front lawn.
“What now?” I head for home plate and grab the ball myself. If I have to be pitcher and catcher too, this game will go on forever.
“Look, Tammy,” whispers Muscle Man. He points to a man in uniform walking down the block.
“What’s a soldier doing on Ramble Street?” asks John Marcos.
“Look at those medals on his chest,” says Muscle Man.
Whoever he is, he looks pretty official.
The others join us at home base.
“What do you think he wants?” MaryBeth asks.
“Maybe he’s a friend of Vinnie’s.” I brush her question off, anxious to get on with the game.
“If he is, I’ve never seen him,” says Big Danny.
The soldier doesn’t look like he’s ever been here before. He checks each house number with a piece of paper he’s holding.
He finally stops in front of the Pizzarelli house. He checks the number one last time. And then he marches to the door.
We all inch closer, waiting to see what happens next.
It takes a while for the door to open. Poor Mr. Pizzarelli probably worked the night shift and was in the middle of a nap. I wonder if he’s going to yell about being woken up, the way he did the time when Kebsie and I made too much noise outside his bedroom window.
As soon as he sees the soldier, he lets him in, and the door slams closed behind them.
“There you go. He’s a friend of Vinnie’s. Now, can we get back to the game?” I ask.
But no one moves.
“Maybe he came to tell Mr. Pizzarelli that Vinnie’s dead,” says Big Danny.
We all stare at Mr. Pizzarelli’s closed-up door.
“Things are fine. My brother got a letter from him a few days ago.” And I suddenly remember that I never told Mr. Pizzarelli. A ball about the size of the one I’m holding forms in the pit of my stomach.
