Billy wanted to tell the Hoove that he was busy, that he had made plans with Ricardo. But when he opened his mouth to tell him, the only thing that came out was, “Sounds great, Hoove. Can’t wait.”
Oh, well, Billy thought. I’ll tell him some other time. Like maybe never.
All the next day at school, Billy kept thinking about the sleepover at Ricardo’s. He couldn’t wait to see what kind of fun Ricardo had planned for them. Actually, it didn’t even matter if Ricardo hadn’t planned anything, if they twiddled their thumbs all night. The point was that he had been invited to sleep over at the house of not only a really nice guy, but the best player on the baseball team. And all because he was a mind reader.
Occasionally, as he sailed happily through his day, it occurred to Billy that he wasn’t really a mind reader. That he had only passed himself off as one. But as soon as that thought popped into his head, he dismissed it. It got in the way of his newfound fame. When kids passed him in the hall and said hi, he answered with a confidence that surprised even him.
“Hey, Steve, how’s it going, man?”
“Nice to see you, Zoe. Great scarf.”
“Yo, Collin. Catch you in math.”
It was the best day of school he could remember. He didn’t worry about whether he was in the “in” group or the “out” group. He was able to just be Billy Broccoli and feel relaxed. It had never occurred to him before that it was possible for him to live in a worry-free zone.
As Billy closed his locker and headed for home, Ricardo handed him a note with directions to his house.
“It’s only a couple blocks from you,” he said. “Your parents won’t even have to drop you off.”
That was good news and bad news for Billy. The good news was that Ricardo lived close by so it’d be easy for them to hang out together a lot. The bad news was that Ricardo’s house was within the Hoove’s boundaries, and that meant he would have no trouble infiltrating the sleepover.
As he walked home, Billy rehearsed ways to tell the Hoove that he wasn’t invited. He thought maybe using reverse psychology would work.
“Hoove,” he’d say. “You are so beyond mortals like us that you would be bored stiff at a stupid little sleepover. I mean, nothing happens. We watch a little TV and eat a little popcorn. Big deal, you can’t even digest it.”
But as he crossed Moorepark and passed Patty’s Coffee Shop, he realized that the reverse psychology angle wouldn’t work on the Hoove. No way, no day. The Hoove was ready for any adventure, boring or not. So his next thought was to try flattery. Making Hoover feel important would work for sure.
“I need you to do me a favor,” he’d say to the Hoove. “You know how Rod Brownstone noses around our property, and you’re the only one who can put a stop to his annoying spy games? Could you please stay home and make sure he doesn’t get up to anything sneaky? No one else is up to the task.”
Billy decided that flattery was the best plan of attack. But when he finally got home and pushed open the door to his bedroom, his plan immediately fell apart. The Hoove was standing at the mirror, trying on his dress-up suspenders.
“Do you think these are too formal for the sleepover?” he asked. “Because I don’t want to embarrass anybody by overdressing. For my casual look, I’ve already packed your baseball jersey, which I knew you’d let me borrow because you’re that kind of generous guy.”
Billy gulped.
“How’d you know about the sleepover?”
“I heard Bennett telling your mom. These ears are not only good-looking, they also have a keen sense of hearing.”
“So, about the sleepover, Hoove,” Billy stammered. “I have several thoughts I want to discuss with you.”
“Put those thoughts away,” the Hoove called over his shoulder as he tossed one of Billy’s baseballs into Billy’s overnight bag. “Because we’re heading for a great time. I see a catch in our future. Not to mention ghost stories before bed … of which I have more than a few. They will amaze and thrill the gathering. I can see us now, sitting around the campfire.”
“Hoove, we’re not allowed to make fires. We’re kids.”
“Billy Boy, you are a dream crusher. But I’m going to let that slide tonight because I am in such a great mood about the sleepover. As a matter of fact — drumroll please — this is my first sleepover in ninety-nine years.”
Billy’s mouth opened and not a sound came out. All the plans he had made walking home were caught in his throat. He had just screwed up the courage to tell the Hoove he couldn’t go, and now, listening to his excitement, Billy’s courage evaporated like water on a summer sidewalk. He didn’t have the heart to say no.
“Listen, Hoove, you’ve got to promise me something,” he said firmly.
The Hoove zipped up Billy’s overnight bag and turned to face Billy, a big smile on his handsome face.
“My ears are at attention.”
“No kidding. I really need you to listen to me and keep your word.”
“Okay. Will you spill the beans already?”
“Ricardo doesn’t know about you, and he’s not going to. He’s a brand-new friend, and he doesn’t need to know I have a personal ghost. Nobody does, for that matter.”
“Are you embarrassed by me?”
“In a word, yes. He’ll think I’m nutso if I tell him about you. So here are a few of Billy’s rules for you. No floating popcorn when we’re watching TV. Actually, no floating popcorn ever. No howling or creaking sounds. No baseballs whizzing around the room on their own. No wedgies when we’re asleep.”
“Now you’ve gone too far! What’s a sleepover without a wedgie?”
“Hoove, what I’m saying is that you have to be invisible.”
“What are you talking about? In case you haven’t noticed, I am invisible.”
“Good. Stay that way. That’s all I’m asking.”
Billy felt a vibration in his pocket and reached for his cell phone. It was a text from Ricardo. It said:
Get here now. I have a big surprise.
Throwing the last of his things into his backpack, Billy headed down the hall toward the back door. The Hoove followed behind, quiet as a mouse.
Breeze was in the kitchen making a grilled cheese sandwich that smelled so delicious, Billy’s nose practically did a backflip.
“Want one?” she asked as Billy came into the kitchen.
“No time,” he said. “But it sure smells great. Tell Mom that I left for Ricardo’s. I’ll call her when I get there.”
“Wow, look who’s developed a major social life,” Breeze commented. “Not bad for a career nerd.”
Billy didn’t even bother to answer. He was out the door before she’d even finished her sentence. The Hoove, however, couldn’t resist picking up the pepper shaker when her back was turned and covering the top of her sandwich with a spicy layer of pepper. That would teach her to insult his pal.
Ricardo lived about three blocks away, on Babcock Lane. In the Hoove’s day, the block had sat on the edge of the family ranchero property, out behind the avocado and orange groves. Back then, it was a flat, grass-covered pasture that they’d used for grazing cattle. Over the years, the cattle had been replaced by three-bedroom homes with a herd of minivans, one parked in each driveway.
As Billy turned the corner onto Babcock Lane, the Hoove dipping and diving through the air behind him, he saw Ricardo waiting on his front lawn. Standing next to him was an older man wearing a blue satin Dodgers zip-up jacket.
“You must be Mr. Perez,” Billy said as he approached the man, extending his hand to shake as his mother had always taught him to do. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Tell him he’s got a cool jacket,” the Hoove whispered in Billy’s ear. “That will impress him.”
“You’re right, man. This is Mr. Perez,” Ricardo said, “but he’s not my father. He’s my father’s older brother, my Uncle Tito.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Also Perez,” Billy answered. The man laughed a huge heart
y laugh at Billy’s little joke. Billy liked him right away, but he liked him even better when Uncle Tito told him the exciting news.
“How would you like to go on a private tour of Dodger Stadium?” he asked. “That includes the dugout, the locker room, the batting cage, and the announcer’s box.”
Billy looked at Ricardo. “He’s kidding, right?”
Ricardo shook his head.
“Maybe I could even let you run the bases on the field and stand in the on-deck circle,” Uncle Tito added. “Just don’t ask to throw a ball from the pitcher’s mound. That’s sacred ground.”
Billy’s jaw dropped about a mile. He assumed this was all a big joke, but Uncle Tito wasn’t laughing.
“My uncle is one of the groundskeepers at Dodger Stadium,” Ricardo explained. “He’s arranged to show us around tonight.”
“Amazing” was all Billy could say.
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool,” Ricardo said. “He’s taken me once before, but tonight he said I could bring a guest.”
“Thank you a million billion trillion gazillion babillion times,” Billy said to Mr. Perez, grabbing his hand and shaking it like a water pump. “This could be the best night of my entire life. No. Wait a minute. It is the best night of my entire life.”
Uncle Tito laughed that big hearty laugh of his.
“I understand your excitement,” he said.
“I’ve been working at Dodger Stadium for ten years, and every time I walk in there, I feel the magic like it was the first time.”
“When do we leave?” Billy said. He was so excited that he didn’t notice the Hoove stomping back and forth across the lawn like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum.
“How about now?” Uncle Tito suggested.
“Now is not soon enough,” Billy answered, and Uncle Tito laughed again.
“You got a funny friend,” he said to Ricardo. “I’ll go get my truck from down the street. Ricardo, go grab the sandwiches your mom made. They’re in the kitchen. Billy, you wait here and we’ll be right back.”
As Uncle Tito walked toward his truck and Ricardo headed into the house, the Hoove flew into Billy’s face and took off into the rant of the century.
“Tell me this isn’t happening,” he howled. “You’re just going to leave me here? You know I can’t go to Dodger Stadium. It’s way beyond my boundaries.”
“What do you want me to do, Hoove? I didn’t know this was going to happen.”
“You didn’t know? Well, I’ll tell you what you know. You know that it’s my dream, my all-time, most important, deep-seated, biggest-ever dream to see the baseball stadiums of America. I know you know that!”
Billy nodded. The Hoove had told him that many times.
“So how can you go to one of those stadiums without me? Tell me how that’s fair?”
“It isn’t, Hoove. But what do you want me to do? Not go?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I want. I mean no, that’s not what I want. I mean yes. I mean no. I mean … I don’t know.”
“Well, that clears things up.”
“All I know, my ex-buddy, is that this is the worst. My dream is so close, it’s right there under my well-chiseled nose, and yet it’s so far. And you’re going to live it instead of me.”
Billy was quiet for a moment. He heard the sadness in the Hoove’s voice, and he didn’t know what to say or do.
“I can take pictures for you on my cell phone,” he suggested meekly. “I’ll capture every detail, I promise.”
“Pictures?” The Hoove was shouting now. “I’ve seen Dodger Stadium on television. I’ve seen it in magazines. I don’t need a picture. I need to be there in person. To smell the grass. To feel the dirt under my feet.”
Billy had never heard that tone of voice come from the Hoove. Whether he was angry or bored or impatient or frustrated, he was always so full of attitude. Like the coolest actor playing his part. But standing there on the lawn of Ricardo’s house, the Hoove’s attitude melted away, and he sounded just like any other kid whose heart was breaking with disappointment. Billy reached out to place a comforting hand on Hoover’s shoulder.
“Hey, man, what’s with the arm in the air?” Ricardo said, surprising Billy as he came bouncing down the front steps of the house, holding a wicker picnic basket. Realizing that he must look like an idiot, Billy pulled his hand back fast.
“I appreciate the gesture,” the Hoove said, “even if it was short-lived. But what I’d appreciate more is if you told Mr. Baseball here that you suddenly got called home.”
Ricardo was heading to the curb, where Uncle Tito had just pulled up in his blue Ford truck.
“What excuse could I give him?” Billy asked the Hoove.
“Tell him that your best friend needs you.”
“Come on, Billy!” Ricardo called. “We can’t keep our private tour waiting.”
Billy watched Ricardo climb into the front seat of the truck. Uncle Tito honked the horn and beckoned him.
“Dodger Express,” he called out. “All aboard.”
Billy stood there on the lawn. His feet felt like cement blocks. It was as if he were divided in two. Everything on his right side was telling him to go get in the truck and have a great time. Everything on his left side was telling him to stay with the Hoove.
Right side.
Left side.
Right side.
Left side.
What was a guy to do?
The Hoove couldn’t believe his eyes as he watched Billy walk away from him, climb into the truck, and close the door. His heart practically broke when he saw the truck pull away from the curb and head down the street, block after block, until it was just a tiny blue speck disappearing on the horizon.
After all I’ve done for that kid, he thought, this is the thanks I get. He’s off to Dodger Stadium and I’m standing here on the lawn like a pink plastic flamingo stuck in the grass.
The Hoove’s sadness turned to rage. Even though he knew nobody could hear him, he started to shout.
“All right. You know what? I’ve had it. I quit. I’m turning in my ghost badge. You hear that, Higher-Ups? You win. Take my report card and shred it. See if I care. Oh, and let me answer that for you … I don’t!”
He waited for a response, any response. A flash of lightning, a crow flying, a rock exploding in flames. But all he got was silence.
“Okay, don’t answer me,” he shouted into the emptiness. “I don’t need your advice anyway. Hoover Porterhouse the Third has always been on his own, and will remain so. Thank you and good-bye.”
He flipped into hyperglide and took off down the street for whereabouts unknown. He flew by Mrs. Pearson, who was climbing off her electric lawn mower after a good mow. It was not easy for her to dismount since each of her thighs was the size of a Thanksgiving turkey. Normally, the Hoove might have stopped to help her, giving her leg an invisible lift. But he was in such an emotional tizzy that he could think of nothing but himself and his own anger.
As usual in times of crisis, he found himself heading to the baseball diamond in Live Oak Park. Even though he couldn’t actually walk onto the field, it made him feel better just to be close to it. He pulled to a stop at the left field fence and perched on top of it, hanging his legs over the chain link, but being careful that they never touched the ground.
Out of the corner of his eye, the Hoove noticed a wiggling bank of fog appear on the pitcher’s mound. As it moved closer and closer to him, he saw that it was the distinctive figure of Yogi Berra walking toward him again. Although he wore a Yankees cap on his head, he wasn’t wearing his uniform. Instead, he had on a floral bathing suit and an unbuttoned matching Hawaiian shirt. His knees were covered in thick white sunscreen.
“Not you again,” the Hoove said.
“Oh yes, kiddo. Me again,” Yogi answered. “And I’m not exactly thrilled to be here, either. Ten seconds ago, I was sitting on the beach in Miami spreading suntan lotion around my knee area and lolling around in my swimming trunks.”
“Oh, is that what you call that tropical garden adorning your body?”
“Can you explain something to me, kiddo? Why are you always in such a foul mood?”
“I have every right to be. You know what good old Billy Broccoli just did? Took off and left me in the dust. The kid goes to Dodger Stadium, which happens to be my ninety-nine-year dream, but do I get to go? No, he does. Tell me how that’s fair. I have been thinking about visiting baseball stadiums longer than he’s been alive.”
“Yeah, everyone knows that.”
“Wait a minute,” the Hoove said, eyeing Yogi suspiciously. “Are you sure you’re not one of the Higher-Ups?”
“I already told you I’m not. I’m just a messenger. I hear things through the grapevine.”
“Oh really? Because you seem to know everything about me, which makes me think that either you’re one of them or you get a paycheck from them.”
“You got a lot of mouth, kiddo, but not much to back it up.”
“Listen to me, Yogi. First of all, I think you should change your name. You sound like a frog. And second of all, I quit. I’m done with the ghost business. It’s busting me in half. I mean, who does that kid think he is? He is nothing without me. Zero. Wait a minute, let’s ponder this. What is less than zero?”
“Beats me, kid. The only math I know is batting averages.”
“All right, I’ll tell you what it is. Minus zero. Billy Broccoli is a minus zero without me. I do everything for him. Pick his clothes. Show him how to walk without grinning like a two-yearold that just filled up his diapers. I’m working nonstop to put some swagger in his life. And he goes off to live my dream without a second thought.”
“So you’re going to quit, just like that? And be confined to this small suburban neighborhood for all eternity? I’d think twice about that, kid. It’d feel mighty awful.”
“How do you know how I feel?” The Hoove was shouting now. “You get to go to steak restaurants and sit on the beach and travel across the country whenever they call you. I’m stuck on this one little ranchero in Southern California. And the only way I can get out is by helping a kid who refuses to take the sweet nuggets of advice that I drop in his lap like candy.”
Mind If I Read Your Mind? Page 7
