by Lindsay Eyre
Contents
Half Title
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
About the Author
About the Illustrator
Copyright
It was a normal Tuesday in April, and I was at school, because in April I’m always in school. The bell rang for recess at ten forty-five, just like normal. I grabbed the bats; my friend, Georgie Diaz, grabbed two balls; and we ran out to the upper baseball field, just like normal.
But the field was not empty like normal. It was filled with fifth graders, including Jamie Redmond and her munions — two of the meanest girls at Cherry Hill Elementary. They had bats and balls and mitts. They had smirkety smirks on their faces.
“What are they doing?” Georgie said.
“Maybe they want to play baseball with us,” said Josh Stetson, another one of my good friends. A clump of kids had gathered around us. There were tall ones and small ones. Girls and boys. Fourth graders like Georgie, Josh, Miranda, and me; third graders like my friend Alistair Robinson; and even some second graders. There were people who were great athletes, and people who weren’t. We were all very different, but we had one thing in common: we loved baseball and this was our field.
“They don’t look like they want to play with us,” Alistair said.
“Um, can you go away?” Georgie politely called to the fifth graders. “We want to play baseball now.”
The fifth graders looked at each other. They all rolled their eyes at the exact same time, like their eyeballs were tied together with invisible string. Then they laughed, especially the munions. “You can’t play on this field,” munion number one said.
“Why don’t you go down to your field?” I said, but as I turned to look at the lower field where the fifth graders usually played baseball, I saw the answer to that question.
“Uh-oh,” Miranda Tan, my best friend in the universe, whispered.
The fifth grade’s field was down the hill at the very bottom of Cherry Hill’s playground. Someone had surrounded it with bright orange tape, parked a tractor on the pitcher’s mound, and dumped bags the size of pillows everywhere.
“They’re tearing it up to make a fancy playground for the kindergartners,” Jamie Redmond said, her voice full of disgust. “Principal Stoddard wants the little kids to run up and down the hill as much as possible so they are exhausted and ready for a nap after recess. My mom tried to stop it, but the principal said the kindergarteners were just as important as the fifth graders. Even though that’s not true.”
An invisible part of me understood the principal’s point, because my twin brothers were kindergarteners and it was always better when they were sound asleep. But the visible part of me opened my mouth in disgust and outrage. “Then where are you guys going to play baseball?” I said.
Smirks spread over the fifth graders’ faces like poison oak. “Right here,” munion number one said.
I looked at my baseball friends. There were sixteen of us altogether. None of us smirked. “But we play here!” I said.
“Maybe we’ll have to take turns,” Miranda said. “We could play every other day.”
“But what would we do on the days when we don’t play baseball?” said a small girl on our team. Her name was Giselle, she was in third grade, and she sometimes put her clothes on inside out. She didn’t have a lot of friends.
“There’s nothing else to do!” cried another kid, whose name was Tiger. Tiger was in second grade and he wasn’t very tigerish. Mean kids called him Tiger the Cry-ger.
“We are not taking turns,” Jamie Redmond said. “We have to play baseball every day — tryouts for the town league begin in two weeks.”
“Some of us are trying out too!” I said.
“But we’re the ones who matter,” munion number one said.
“Sylvie,” Alistair said, sounding worried. “Are they going to take the field from us?” Before we played hockey together, Alistair had no one to hang out with at recess. Now he had baseball, and he had friends. He was probably afraid that if we lost the field, all of that would go away.
I looked around for help from someone — anyone — but everyone on our side just stood there with their mitts hanging down. The fifth graders were playing catch with their balls and swinging their bats. They weren’t worried a bit.
“I’m sorry,” Jamie Redmond said, because she’s never nice, but sometimes she’s almost nice. “This stinks for you guys.”
“But we’re the fifth graders,” munion number one said. “So we get the field.”
“No way!” Georgie shouted. “It doesn’t matter what grade you’re in!”
“You’ll get the field when you’re in fifth grade,” munion number two called. The other fifth graders nodded. Giselle and Tiger looked as if their hearts would break.
“You should make a bet.” The voice came from a group of trees near the outfield. We turned to see a huge kid I’d never noticed before, standing in the shadows by himself. “The winner of the bet gets the field,” he continued. “That would be more fair.”
“Shut up, Robot Boy,” munion number one said.
“Yeah,” said munion number two. “I bet you can’t even play baseball with a robot leg.”
Robot leg? I looked at the boy’s legs but saw only pants.
“A bet’s not a bad idea,” Jamie Redmond said. “It would be more fair.”
Georgie looked interested. “What sort of bet?”
“We could have a baseball game,” Jamie Redmond said. “You guys versus us.”
“No,” I said quickly. The kids who played baseball with us were all great, except they weren’t all great at baseball. We would lose a baseball game for sure.
“How about a race?” said munion number one, one of the fastest girls in the school.
“I don’t think a race is a good idea,” Miranda said.
“We could have a throwing competition,” said one of the fifth grade’s best throwers.
“No,” Alistair said. “Your arms are longer.”
“Or a hitting competition,” said the fifth grade’s best batter.
Georgie shook his head. “Bad idea, dude.”
“Or a catching competition,” said a great fifth grade catcher.
“No,” Josh said, because he usually played catcher.
The fifth graders were bigger and stronger, and even if I was a great thrower thanks to all my pitching, and Georgie was an awesome hitter, it was too risky. Jamie might throw faster than me by accident. One of the stupid munions might get superpowers and hit the ball farther than Georgie.
“I don’t think a bet is a very good idea,” Josh said. “We should think of another way to figure this out.”
The shouting began once again. I bit my lip, searching for an idea. There had to be something we could bet on that we were guaranteed to win.
Miranda put her arm around Alistair to comfort him. She was always such a good friend to everyone, always trying to make people feel better. She was good at other things too, even if they weren’t sports. Things like math and science and spelling.
I gasped. Miranda! Spelling! That was it! The class spelling bees were today, and Miranda would win for sure. She almost won the school spelling bee last year when she’d only been in third grade, and third graders never almost win spelling bees.
“I know!” I shouted, and everyone turned to me, because I am great at shouting. “The school spel
ling bee is next Monday. Whoever wins the bee will win the field!”
“The spelling bee?” Georgie said. He looked at Miranda.
“You mean, if a fifth grader wins the bee, the fifth grade gets the field?” munion number two said, smirking a smirkety smirk.
“Sylvie,” Miranda said in a warning sort of voice.
“For the rest of the year?” Jamie Redmond said.
“Yes,” I told Jamie. “And if a fourth grader wins the bee, we get the field for the rest of the year.”
There were grumblings and whisperings behind me as our side talked about my idea — they were worried it wouldn’t work and we would lose the field forever. I whispered to them that we had Miranda, the best speller in the universe, and they quieted down a little. The fifth graders were smiling and pointing at munion number two for some reason. That big, quiet boy was still standing in the trees, watching.
“What about this week?” munion number two said. “Who gets the field this week?”
“Nobody,” I said, because I didn’t want any of those munions playing on our field ever. “No one can play on the field until after the bee.”
“What?” the kids on our side cried. “We have to play! What else will we do?”
Jamie Redmond and her fifth grade buddies laughed at this. Like we were a bunch of baby losers who had no friends.
“So is it a deal?” I said loudly, my arms crossed, my face triumphant like an elephant. If they agreed, we would win the field for sure.
“It’s a deal,” Jamie said, and we shook on it.
“Attention!” Ms. Bloomen said as soon as we were back in our seats after recess. “It’s time for our class spelling bee!”
Some of the class cheered, but many of us did not. This was not because we didn’t like spelling bees — spelling bees are always great, because if they last long enough, we don’t have to do math. We didn’t cheer because of the bet. Whoever won the class bee would go to the school spelling bee, and the future of baseball rested upon their spelling shoulders. No one wanted to have those shoulders.
I was one of the cheerers, because I wasn’t worried. Miranda would win the spelling bee; the fifth graders would have to play hopscotch at recess, which would be funny; and everything would be just fine. Forever.
Miranda’s eyes were on the clock, while her teeth were on her fingernails. “It’s okay,” I whispered to her. “You’ll be great. You’re practically the spelling champion of the universe!”
She gulped so loudly it sounded like she’d swallowed a baseball.
“Everyone line up!” Ms. Bloomen said. “That’s right, over there. Near the windows. No jostling. Everyone be respectful!”
Nobody was respectful and everyone jostled, because no one wanted to go first. Most of the time our class was not very unified, but in this, we were awesomely one.
Ms. Bloomen began anyway. She started with really easy words like across, again, and cellar.
“A-C-R-O-S,” Lucy Smith said.
“A-G-A-E-N,” Seamus Holland answered.
“C-E-L-L-A-R-R-R,” Marcie Xu said, taking an extra long time on the last letter, like a pirate.
“Three r’s, Marcie?” Ms. Bloomen said.
“Aren’t there?” Marcie said, even though she is one of the smartest girls in the room.
The spelling bee went on. People were dropping like flies that didn’t know how to spell.
“E-M-M-B-B-A-R-R-A-S-S.”
“L-E-E-G.”
“A-R-C-H-E-R-I-E.”
Within minutes, only four people were left: me, Miranda, Georgie, and Josh. Miranda and Josh both looked as if they were going to throw up the alphabet. Come on, Miranda! I thought at her. You can do this! Spelling is easy for you!
“I-N-T-E-R-N-A-T-I-O-N-A-L,” Miranda spelled correctly.
“P-O-S-S-E-S-S,” Josh spelled correctly.
“C-A-M-M-I-T-M-E-N-T,” Georgie spelled incorrectly, possibly on purpose.
“P-A-S-T-T-I-M-E,” I spelled incorrectly, not on purpose, because pastime is a word that should have two t’s even if it doesn’t.
Only Miranda and Josh were left, which was great because Josh would get out any second.
“C-L-I-M-A-C-T-I-C,” Miranda spelled.
“F-L-A-U-N-T,” Josh spelled.
“W-I-D-G-E-T,” spelled Miranda.
“R-I-T-Z-I-N-E-S-S,” spelled Josh.
The words went on and on. “Correct!” Ms. Bloomen said again and again. I tapped my toe. I looked at my wrist as if I had a watch. Math time was over now — Josh needed to get out!
“Trepidatious,” Ms. Bloomen said to Miranda.
My heart pinged. The clock ticked. That was a tough word, but Miranda could do it. She could spell anything.
“T-R-E-P-I-D-A-C-I-O-U-S,” she said.
Ms. Bloomen shook her head. “That’s incorrect.”
My mouth dropped like a ball falling out of a window. She’d spelled it wrong.
“Now, Josh,” Ms. Bloomen said. “If you get this word wrong, the rounds will continue and Miranda will get another chance. If you get this word right, you will be our classroom champion.”
I looked at Josh with big eyes and pinched lips. It was my warning face that meant, “Spell this word wrong so that Miranda can win!” Josh looked right at me and nodded.
“Crescendo,” Ms. Bloomen said, and I sighed in relief. That was a really hard word. Josh would never get it right.
“C-R-E-S-C-E-N-D-O,” Josh said.
“Correct!” Ms. Bloomen cried. “Congratulations, Josh! Wonderful work. Josh is our class spelling champion! He will represent our class in the Cherry Hill spelling bee next Monday. Everyone give Josh a hand.”
Ms. Bloomen didn’t need to say this, because the class was already clapping their hands and stomping their feet. They were cheering because Josh is such a nice person, and it’s nice when nice people win things. They were also cheering because they were glad it wasn’t them.
I was not clapping, because even if I’d wanted to clap, I was too shocked to make my hands hit each other. Josh looked as stunned as I was. His mouth was open, his eyes were as round as eyeballs, and his eyebrows were as high as they could go.
Josh will never win the school spelling bee, I thought, and we made that stupid bet, which was my idea in the first place.
Josh put his head down on his desk.
“Oh no,” I whispered.
My friends and I walked home together after school like normal, because even when bad stuff happens, you still have to walk home from school. Usually when we walk home, Miranda and I talk a lot while Georgie says some rude things and some not-so-rude things and Josh smiles. Alistair likes to add things to the conversation that he thinks are interesting.
Today, Miranda and I said nothing, Georgie looked too tired to be rude, and Josh did not smile.
“What’s the matter with you guys?” Alistair said, because there was no conversation for him to add to.
“Josh won the class spelling bee,” Miranda said slumpily. “Now he’s nervous about being in the school bee.”
“But I thought you were going to win!” Alistair said. “Sylvie promised! She said you were the best speller ever.”
“I didn’t study much this year,” Miranda said. “I’ve been focused on the science fair.”
“And I meant to lose,” Josh said, shaking his head. “I didn’t think crescendo had an s.”
“It’s okay, dude,” Georgie said. “I thought it had an s-h.”
“What’s an s-h?” Alistair said. “Is that Latin?”
“How do you study for a spelling bee anyway?” Georgie said to Miranda. “Do you memorize the dictionary?”
“Alexa has,” Josh said, speaking about munion number two as if she had a real name. He was looking as slumpy as I’d ever seen him. His skin was pale, almost green. “I heard Jamie talking about it in the hall after school. Alexa won the school spelling bee last year, and she won their class bee today. I’m going to be competing against
her.”
Georgie kicked at an invisible munion. “I didn’t know she won the bee last year. Did you guys remember that?”
We shook our heads because we’d all forgotten.
Georgie went slumpy. “A spelling bee bet was a bad idea.”
“I’m not good at memorizing dictionaries,” Josh said. “Just multiplication tables.”
“But you can’t multiply spelling words,” Alistair said. “This is a disaster!”
“Yeah,” Josh said. “It is.”
Everyone sighed but me. I crossed my arms and frowned my lips. Something was very wrong here. My friends were depressed and slumpy. Any second now they would shout, “The spelling bee was your idea! This is all your fault, Sylvie Scruggs!” I needed to do something fast.
“You’ve always been a good speller,” I said to Josh.
Like magic, he stood up a little straighter.
“You’re not like Georgie,” I told him. “Ms. Bloomen doesn’t make you redo your papers because you spelled so many things wrong.”
“That’s true,” Georgie said, because he was excellent at math and didn’t care about spelling.
Josh looked even less slumpy now, though he still looked a little sick.
“You’ve always been great at reading and writing,” Miranda added.
“He has?” Alistair said with great doubtfulness.
I looked at Josh as if I knew a secret about him that no one else knew. “I think you’ll win,” I told him.
“Really?” he said.
“Of course!” Miranda cried. “You have plenty of time to study. It’s Tuesday and the school bee isn’t until Monday — that gives you six days.”
“Seven if you count Monday,” Georgie said.
“Five if you don’t,” Alistair said, because he wanted to say something important, even if it was wrong.
Josh almost looked like a happy person now. “I guess I could try,” he said.
“Totally,” Georgie said.
“You’ll be awesome!” Miranda said.
“You have to be awesome,” Alistair said.
“We’ll help you,” I said, trying not to smile too much, so my friends wouldn’t know that I’d changed their minds without their permission.
