I gave myself a mental shake, raised the whistle, and blew. Everyone looked up instantly.
“Come on in,” I called. They trotted eagerly to me. The poor Krushers. While I’d been watching the clouds, they’d been getting bored. It really wasn’t the same, practicing when the coach wasn’t paying attention and helping you out.
“Okay, let’s play a game. And we’ll concentrate on making really good catches. They don’t have to be perfect. Just do your best and remember what I told you.”
I divided the teams up and sent them out. Since they were uneven, I went out to right field (which is traditionally where you put your least experienced player. Not much happens in right field because most batters are righthanded and they hit to left field). I thumped my glove and shouted, “Play ball!”
Claire Pike, who is five and prone to tantrums, was up first. She swung and missed. She swung and missed again.
“Keep your eye on the ball,” called Karen. (One thing about coaching Karen — she never forgets anything you tell her!)
Claire stared hard at Matt, who was pitching. She leaned over a little, squinting, watching the ball.
Matt threw a fast pitch. Claire swung — and hit it! The ball klunked down, rolled about a foot, and died.
She stood looking at it.
“Run!” screamed Karen.
Claire wrinkled up her brow. Then she started toward first base. She kept looking back at the ball.
Good grief! Was she still keeping her eye on the ball?
“Don’t look now! RUN!” I shouted.
Both Matt and the catcher dove for the ball. It disappeared between them, and Claire stopped watching it. She ran as hard as she could to first base.
Safe!
“Good work, Claire,” I said.
She frowned suspiciously. “You’re on the other team,” she said, and turned her back on me.
I couldn’t help but laugh.
It felt good to laugh. It seemed as if I hadn’t laughed for a long, long time. Not much to laugh about right now, I reflected. The big fat red 60 on my science test loomed before my eyes. I had to study tonight. I had to …
“Kristy!” shrieked David Michael.
I came to earth abruptly. Jackie Rodowsky, the Walking Disaster, was running at top speed toward first base. Claire, still stealing anxious glances at the ball, was on her way to second. And the ball was streaking across the grass toward me.
Everything happened at once. One minute I was staring at the ball openmouthed, trying to gather my wits. The next minute, in a kind of super slow motion, I was stretching my glove down toward it.
Too late. The ball took a sharp, wicked hop and smacked me hard in the shin.
“OWWW!” I grabbed my leg, hopped once, lost my balance, and fell over.
“Get the ball,” someone shouted. There was a mad scramble around me, then Matt held the ball up.
“Time out,” called Karen.
I sat up, holding my throbbing shin, just as Claire touched home plate.
“I made it!” she cried.
“No, you didn’t.” Karen trotted past her, on her way out to right field.
“I did too!”
“It was already time out,” said Karen. “Kristy fell down.”
Claire’s face scrunched up. She took a deep breath, turned bright red, and began to throw a tantrum. “Nofe-air! Nofe-air!”
We’re all pretty used to Claire’s tantrums by now, so, keeping my eye on her, I stood up and tested my leg.
I looked at the circle of anxious faces. “It’s all right. Okay, listen up. This was a key lesson. Pay attention!”
“You stopped the ball,” said David Michael diplomatically.
“Yeah,” several people murmured.
I looked at their faces. They’d started to smile. The Krushers were a great team, no doubt about it.
“Um, let’s play ball,” I said. “But I’m going to coach from the sidelines.”
I walked gingerly back toward the third base line with Claire, who had stopped tantruming.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
“Only when I laugh … Okay, Claire, you go back to third, okay?”
Her face started to scrunch up again, and I added quickly, “That way, you get to run home again.”
She thought about it for a moment, let her breath out, and trotted back along the baseline.
I leaned over, pulled my cap down, put one hand on each knee, and called, “Play ball!”
For the rest of the practice, I made myself pay attention.
Making yourself pay attention is exhausting. After practice that afternoon, I felt pretty tired. And by the time dinner was over and I’d disappeared upstairs to study for my science test, I was wiped out. But I had to do it. Ms. Griswold was giving me a second chance not to fail.
I opened my notebook, picked up my highlighter … and the phone rang.
“Kristy?” It was Claudia.
“Hey, Claud. Listen, I’ve got to study, I —”
“Yeah. Don’t you hate it? Unless it’s art, but that’s not work. That’s art.”
“I’m not any good in art,” I said. “Or science, either, at least not right now.”
“You’re a good student, Kristy. And science is very organized. At least that’s what my teacher always says. So you should be good at science because you’re so organized.”
I sighed. “I wish it worked that way.”
Claudia went on, “So, have you written your speech yet?”
“Speech?” I gasped. I looked over at my calendar. Sure enough, there it was. Tomorrow the class assemblies were going to be held for the first round of speeches.
“Oh, no!” I cried.
“You haven’t?” asked Claudia.
“I’m about to. Right now. Listen, Claudia, you saved my life. I gotta go.”
“Good luck,” said Claudia.
“Good-bye,” I said.
When I sat down at my desk again, I pushed the science book out of my line of vision. Tomorrow morning. I’d get up early tomorrow morning and study. And between classes. And maybe during the assembly.
But first I had to write a speech. A really, really good speech. I closed my eyes, imagined myself at the podium.
Ladies and gentlemen? No. Fellow students? No.
I pulled my notebook toward me, turned to a blank sheet, and began to write.
“Thank you,” I said to the mirror. I was practicing my speech.
Someone tapped on the door to my room.
“Kristy?” It was my mom.
“Come in,” I said.
She stuck her head around the door. “It’s late.”
“I know. I’m almost done.”
“Anything I can help with?”
For a moment I was tempted. But what could she do? I could tell her how overwhelmed I felt, but that wouldn’t make the feeling go away. I took a deep breath and shook my head. “Thanks, but I’m just in a crunch right now.”
“Well …”
“So much work, so little time,” I explained.
My mother smiled. “Don’t forget to sleep,” she said.
“I won’t. ’Night.”
“Good night, Kristy.”
After she’d closed the door, I turned back to the speech. It was an okay speech. It sounded okay. At least I thought it did. I looked at the clock. Too late to call Mary Anne and read it to her. Her father was a lot more lenient these days, but I don’t think anybody’s parents would appreciate a phone call at this hour.
It could be a better speech. Maybe tomorrow, if I had time … no, I’d forgotten about the science test. I looked over at my bed, then back at the pages of the speech, then at the science book. I got up and put the science book under my pillow and climbed into bed. I didn’t really believe the knowledge would seep into my brain during the night, but I was desperate.
My eyes closed as soon as I turned out the light. I thought I’d worry so much I wouldn’t be able to sleep. But sleep was no problem
… then.
The problem came at about two A.M. I opened my eyes and stared into the darkness. Boom. One minute I’d been sound asleep (although not dreaming about science or science books) and the next minute I was wide awake.
And my mind was going a mile a minute. Speech. Baby-sitters Club meeting. Baby-sitting jobs — maybe I could let some of those slide for now. The Krushers (my shin gave a sympathetic throb). All the duties of being president of my class. At least I had experience being a president; being president of the BSC had taught me just how many responsibilities a person in charge has.
Maybe I should temporarily resign from the BSC. Or go on inactive status. Would that work? The thought gave me a sharp pain in the stomach, but I reminded myself it would only be temporary.
Of course, with every thought, I had to turn over, or thump the pillow, or pull on the covers. It wasn’t like being in bed at all. It was like swimming in choppy water, just trying to stay afloat.
I looked at the clock. Good grief. Almost an hour had passed. I had to get some sleep, or I’d be one of the walking dead the next day. Instead of Kristy Plus, my slogan would be Kristy, Rest in Peace.
Closing my eyes, I willed myself to stop thinking.
It worked for about a minute. Then I found myself staring into the dark, my mind going around and around, thinking the same things over and over again.
Finally I got up, very quietly, pulled my science book out, and took it to my desk. I turned on the lamp. I opened the book. If anything would put me to sleep, it would be studying science.
It was weird, studying in the middle of the night. I mean, I’d heard my brothers complain about pulling all-nighters, but this was the closest I’d ever come. Turning the pages of the book seemed to make a lot of noise. And the house was so quiet. Staring at the pages, listening to the silence, I decided that big houses have a different kind of quiet than smaller houses, like the one we used to live in. Smaller houses were a noisier quiet. They creaked. Sounds didn’t have so far to travel, maybe.
Maybe there was a scientific explanation … Science. I jerked my thoughts back to the book. I studied. I kept waiting to get sleepy.
But it was a long time before I did.
* * *
One thing about not getting enough sleep: You don’t have enough energy to worry.
The next day for the first round of speeches, assemblies were held by grade in the auditorium. The candidates had to sit in the front row. Just my luck, I got the seat next to Alan. He crossed his eyes. I ignored him.
Behind me, I could feel the whole eighth grade breathing down my neck. Don’t be silly, I told myself.
Grace leaned across Alan toward me. “Is that your speech?”
I looked down at the paper-clipped pages in my hand.
“Yes. Why?” (That shows how out of it I was. I knew better than to ask Grace anything.)
“No reason,” said Grace. She leaned back and made a big point of opening a leather folder. Tucked inside was a thin stack of 3 x 5 cards, with typewritten words on them. Grace looked up and caught my eye. Satisfied, she smiled and closed the folder again.
Typical Grace, I thought. But typed 3 x 5 cards do not a good speech make.
Alan didn’t seem to have any speech notes at all. I couldn’t see Pete from where I was sitting. He was on the other side of Grace.
Our principal walked up to the podium and cleared his throat and waited. I glanced back. Mary Anne, a few seats behind me, caught my eye and nodded, holding up her thumb.
Where was everybody else? Before I could scope out the assembly anymore, the rustling and shuffling and whispering died away. Our principal smiled.
“We are here today for the preliminary round of speeches by our candidates for the offices of eighth-grade president, vice-president, secretary, and treasurer. Each candidate will have three minutes to present his or her platform. At the end of the speeches, if we have time, they will field questions. We’ll begin with the candidates for secretary.”
Good. I slid my science notes out under my speech notes and began to read over them. Somehow, all that reading in the middle of the night hadn’t helped. The facts just wouldn’t stick in my brain.
“Grace Blume,” said Mr. Taylor. Grace stood up, smoothed her hair, and walked calmly to the podium. She looked very pulled together up there, smiling at the assembly.
“When you choose your class president, you want to choose someone who can truly represent you,” said Grace.
She paused. She put one of the little white cards behind the other, then read the next one.
“I will be the leader you need.” (Pause, change cards.) “We work hard.” (Pause, change cards.) I’m going to leave out the rest of the pauses, but you get the idea.
Grace went on. “But you wouldn’t have to work quite so hard if you had the right leader.
“As your leader, I would see to it that we didn’t have to work so hard. We need to enjoy ourselves once in awhile. For example, our football team has been winning! Isn’t it time we celebrated that? And what about dances?”
And so on. I rolled my eyes, not caring if Grace saw me. I knew she was shallow, but this was ridiculous. She was making all kinds of impossible promises. But people applauded when she was done, as if they didn’t know the difference.
Finally it was my turn. It was a long walk to the podium. I stood for a minute looking out at everyone. And everywhere I looked, I saw a member of the BSC — Dawn in one corner, Mary Anne near the middle of the room, Logan a little further back, Claudia in another corner, Stacey in the front. For a moment I was disconcerted: We usually sat together.
Then as I glanced around the room again, meeting their smiles wherever I looked, I realized they’d split up on purpose.
Suddenly, I didn’t feel so dim and sleepy. I smiled at the whole assembly.
“I’m not up here to make a lot of promises that I — or anyone — can’t keep,” I began. Grace’s eyes narrowed. “What I am here for is to talk about responsibilities. We’re expected to study, to participate in school activities, to go to classes, to follow certain rules. We do that pretty well, I think. So it seems to me that we should have more responsibility. I don’t mean more rules to follow. But more of a chance to prove ourselves. For example, we have a class play every year. Who gets to choose which play we put on? We have no input into that decision. I think it is time we did. I think we should have a committee of people from our class to choose which play we perform …”
As I outlined my ideas about school lunches and the Special Ed classes, I saw people nodding. They were listening! They agreed with me. And I was sure the applause as I sat down was louder for me than it had been for Grace (she, of course wasn’t applauding at all). Anyway, I heard Claudia whistle (I think it was Claudia).
Then Alan got up.
The worst.
He stepped behind the podium and said, “Okay, everybody stand up.”
There was a pause, then a buzz of talk.
“Come on,” said Alan. “Up!”
The buzz of talk grew louder, but everyone eventually got to their feet.
“Good,” said Alan. “Now, sit down again.”
“What is this,” said someone, “Simon Says?”
Alan waited, his arms extended, until the snickering, grumbling students sat down. Then he folded his arms across his chest.
“I’ve just proved to you what a good leader I am. You all did what I told you. So now I’m telling you to vote for me.”
That was it! He left the podium and returned to his seat, raising his clasped hands over his head at the rest of the class talking and laughing behind him.
I couldn’t believe it.
After Alan, Pete seemed unbelievably mature. I grimaced. Alan was such a pest. Just his existence had made Pete look good. Although it hadn’t hurt any of the rest of us, either.
“Every one of the candidates for class president has presented some good ideas,” Pete began. “And when I’m president, I’ll be gla
d to try to put some of those ideas into practice. I, too, believe that we should be part of the decision about what class play we perform each year. I’d also like to see greater editorial freedom extended to our school newspaper …”
I groaned. Boring.
“Assemblies could be better here at SMS, too. I’d like to be a part of a committee to take suggestions for speakers — speakers we would be interested in — and to help get those speakers.
“At least some of those assemblies should be pep rallies. We have a great football team —”
Pete paused while people broke into cheers. (I didn’t cheer. I thought it was extremely manipulative to encourage the audience to cheer by talking about the football team.)
“But we have some other great athletes, too. They also deserve pep rallies.”
I had to admit, it was an interesting idea. But was it practical? Wouldn’t that mean we’d be holding pep rallies practically every ten minutes, if we included every team in the school? Like the fencing team? It would take some organizing …
“And that’s only the beginning. But I need your help first — your help when you vote. Vote for Pete Black for president.”
The applause was loud.
Okay ideas. Some of them.
I pulled out my science notes. I needed to use every minute to study for the make-up test at lunch. And I did. I had to hurry to get there on time.
Ms. Griswold was waiting for me.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said.
She looked surprised. “You’re not late, Kristy. Slow down.”
“Oh. Well, anyway, I’m ready for the test.”
Ms. Griswold smiled. “Good.”
I slid into my seat, pulled out a pencil, and took the test from her.
“Good luck, Kristy.”
Luck wasn’t enough. Some of the material I’d studied came back to me — or was it just familiar from being on the test the last time? Maybe I should have pulled an all-nighter. I went over and over the questions, and the answers, but I didn’t feel good when I handed the test back to Ms. Griswold.
Kristy for President Page 7
