A Whole Nother Story (14 page)

CHAPTER 20

T
hat night at dinner, everyone seemed in good spirits. Maggie, Jough, and Gerard had all made new friends and Mr. Cheeseman was nearly finished reassembling the LVR into its oblong, disco-ball shape.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy these past few days,” he said between bites of frozen pizza. Actually, that’s not entirely accurate. The pizza was not frozen. In fact, it was quite hot and melty but had at one time been frozen when Mr. Cheeseman first purchased it at the supermarket.“And I’m sorry that I haven’t had much of a chance to find out how you’re all settling in.”

“I’m settling in great,” said Gerard. “I met two boys about my age and they let me join their secret spy fort.”

“Secret spy fort?” said Maggie. “Are their names Tommy and Danny by any chance?”

“Yeah. How did you know?” Gerard asked suspiciously.“Have you been spying on us?”

“No, I have not been spying on you. In fact, I can’t think of anything I would like to do less. It’s just that I made friends with their sister, Aurora, today. She’s very nice. And a very good artist.”

“You must be talking about Aurorasaurus,” said Gerard.

“That’s not nice at all,” Maggie said. “I can tell you right now that nickname is very hurtful to Aurora and if you call her that again, I will punch you.”

Gerard suddenly looked a little embarrassed. “I didn’t make up the name. I was just repeating what I heard.”

“Parrots repeat what they hear,” said Mr. Cheeseman.“And they have a brain the size of a walnut. I suggest you choose your words more carefully. And Magenta-Jean Jurgenson, there will be no punching your brother or anyone else. Is that understood?”

“Okay. No punching.”

“Good. Now what about you, Jough? How are you getting along here?”

“Well, I met the boy from the big green house down the street today. His name is Elliot. He’s kind of weird but very nice. He said that baseball tryouts are this Saturday.”

“Are you going to give it a shot?” asked Mr. Cheeseman.

“I don’t know,” said Jough. “I would hate to let my teammates down if suddenly we had to pack up and move again in the middle of the season.”

“I think you should go for it,” said Mr. Cheeseman. “I’ve got a good feeling about this town and I’ve never been closer to making the LVR fully operational. The problem is still the code. I don’t suppose any of you have had a chance to try and crack it.”

Mr. Cheeseman reached into his pocket and pulled out the mint green piece of paper upon which was written the incomplete code.

“Sorry, I haven’t,” said Maggie.

“Not yet,” said Jough.

“I have,” said Steve confidently. “And I think I’ve got it. When danger lurks and your heart is racing . . . dial 911 and get the police to take care of the danger and an ambulance to take care of your racing heart.”

No one said anything at first, except Pinky, who, as usual, snarled at the mangy sock puppet for whom her dislike grew daily.

“That’s . . . not bad,” said Mr. Cheeseman. “I’ll give it a shot and see what happens. Anyone else?”

“I don’t know,” said Jough. “It’s a tough one. I mean it could be anything, right?”

“And what happens if we never figure it out?” asked Maggie.

“Then I’m afraid I’ll have to try and hack into the mainframe and create an entirely new code. Or, worse yet, build an entirely new computer. And that could take a year or more. Your mother was much better with computers than I am. But don’t worry. I have faith that we’ll crack the code soon.”

Mr. Cheeseman spoke with confidence but secretly wondered if he would ever get the LVR working and, if so, would he be able to keep it out of the hands of those with evil intent, those who, as each day passed, were getting closer and closer.

Saturday arrived and by midmorning the sun had risen in the sky like a 4.5-billion-year-old, average-sized star burning at roughly 10,000 degrees Kelvin at its core.

It was a perfect day for a baseball tryout and Jough was happy to find Elliot waiting for him when he left the house with his baseball glove tucked under his arm and his black curly hair bunching out from beneath his cap.

“Did you get a good night’s sleep?” asked Elliot. “It’s important that you be well rested.”

“Don’t worry,” said Jough. “I feel fine.”

“Okay, but you might want to consider smiling more. Likability is an important factor in securing lucrative endorsement deals.”

This did make Jough smile. “I haven’t even played my first game of organized baseball and already you’re thinking about endorsement deals?”

“It’s never too early to start working on your public image. Have you considered adopting a child from a foreign country? And you may want to lose the mustache. Makes you look just a little bit sinister. Just saying.”

“You’re really taking this agent thing seriously,” said Jough, rubbing his barely-there mustache.

“I take everything seriously,” said Elliot. “Look at this.”

Elliot reached into his pocket and produced a business card and handed it to Jough. The card read:

WALSINGHAM GROUP SPORTS MANAGEMENT

Elliot Walsingham
President

“Nice,” said Jough, wondering whether he should be flattered or disturbed. “Very nice.”

“Thank you,” said President Walsingham. “I’ve drawn up a contract for you to look at later. You’re a minor, so it’ll have to be signed by your parents. Will they be coming out to the tryouts today?”

“No, my dad’s got too much work to do. But he promised he’ll be at all my games to cheer me on.”

“Oh. How about your mom?”

“No. She, uh . . . she died. Two years ago.”

“Wow, that’s funny,” said Elliot.

“Funny? What’s so funny about it?” snapped Jough.

“No, no, I didn’t mean funny. I meant it’s strange because my mother died, too. When I was just six. She was in a car accident.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Jough, suddenly sorry he had spoken so roughly to his new friend and possible future agent.

“It’s okay,” said Elliot. “You get used to it as time goes by.”

But Jough didn’t think he’d ever get used to it.

The baseball field was teeming with kids Jough’s age, all warming up and milling about. Many of them were there with their fathers, which made Jough feel a bit envious, though he did appear to be the only kid there with his own personal manager in tow.

“I’m glad you’re trying out and not me,” said Elliot. “Last year I got so nervous I threw up on home plate. Just the thought of all those people watching me was too much.”

There would be a lot of people watching. In addition to the prospective players, coaches from every team were there, scouting the talent pool from which they would draft their teams. Among them were: Gino Zaremba, owner and coach of Gino’s Pizza; Tyson Pram, owner and coach of Pram’s Insurance; and Wendle Endersbee, owner and coach of Wendle’s Auto Body Repair.

“Wendle’s Auto Body would be a very good fit for us,” said Elliot as Jough performed some basic stretches.

“A good fit?” said Jough.

“Yes. Rumor has it that they secretly pay their players. Five dollars if you hit a home run, ten dollars if you hit a car in the parking lot.”

Jough tried to ignore Elliot and continued to warm up while waiting patiently until his name was called from the sign-up sheet.

“Jough Psmythe!” bellowed Gino Zaremba, mistakenly pronouncing the
P
in Psmythe.

“Okay,” said Elliot. “This is it. Let’s show ’em what you can do. And if you feel like you’re going to throw up, just try and convince yourself that you feel fine.”

“I do feel fine.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Elliot as he gave Jough a pat on the back and watched nervously while his possible future meal ticket walked to the pitcher’s mound.

Coach Zaremba, serving as the home plate umpire, tossed Jough a ball. Jough took the ball and smacked it into his glove a few times just to get the feel of it. He dug in and looked to home plate, where a large brute of a kid was standing with a cocky smile on his big brutish face. In his hands was the biggest bat Jough had ever seen outside of a cartoon. Jough’s first thought was, “If this kid hits the ball, it could break a window on the space shuttle.”

Jough paused and looked over at Elliot, standing near the dugout.

“Don’t worry, Jough,” Elliot shouted. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

Jough smiled and, with all eyes turned his way, he went into his windup and delivered his first pitch, a screaming fastball. The giant kid at the plate took a giant swing with his giant bat and a loud
thwack!
carried through the air. Everyone looked to the sky to see the ball, but it was nowhere in sight. Could it be the ball was hit so hard and so far that it was invisible to the naked eye? Or could it be that the loud
thwack!
everyone had assumed was the ball hitting the bat was actually the ball hitting the catcher’s mitt?

“Strike one!” shouted Coach Zaremba.

The catcher tossed the ball back to Jough while the batter dug in with his back foot, more determined than ever to impress the coaches and to show Jough he was a better hitter than Jough was a pitcher. Inside his glove, Jough gripped the ball and prepared to send in his secret weapon, the screwball his father taught him to throw using scientific principles. Jough wound up and delivered the pitch, which started out right down the middle, then broke sharply inside.

The batter swung and this time he did hit the ball. Luckily for Jough, he only hit a small portion of the ball, which spun up high into the air, carrying over the chain-link backstop and, with a loud
thunk,
hit a car in the parking lot.

“Yes!” said Coach Wendle Endersbee of Wendle’s Auto Body Repair.

“Darn it!” said Coach Tyson Pram, the car’s owner.

“Strike two,” said Coach Zaremba as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a new ball. He tossed the ball to Jough, who looked to home plate. The batter’s face was now beet red with anger and frustration, and Jough knew the boy would be swinging hard. So he dug in, wound up, and threw the ball as slowly as he could toward the catcher’s anxious mitt.

The batter swung his cartoonish bat with all his might, twirling like a cyclone as he missed the ball by a good three feet and raised a cloud of dust that could choke a Tibetan yak. He threw his giant bat to the ground and stormed off as Jough took a moment to bask in the impromptu applause from his peers.

“Great job,” said Elliot as Jough walked back toward the dugout. “Great pitching, and you didn’t even throw up. Nice touch with the smile at the end, too. You came across as very likable.”

“Thanks.”

“You really caught Coach Wendle’s eye. We’re in a very good place, I think.”

Coach Wendle Endersbee certainly would have chosen Jough after watching him deliver that almost unhittable screwball across the plate with remarkable speed and accuracy. In fact, Jough’s pitching impressed all of the coaches there. It just so happened, however, that first pick in this year’s draft went to Police Chief Roy Codgill, captain of the local police force and coach of the Police Pals.

“Well, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m a little disappointed,” said Elliot as he and Jough looked at the rosters, which had been posted on the dugout wall. “Due to government cutbacks, the Police Pals are the most underfunded team in the league. It’s rumored that some of their equipment is taken from the evidence room.”

“Come on,” said Jough, shaking his head. “You’re making that up.”

“It’s true. Last year a kid found a clump of hair on the end of his bat.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” came a round, hollow voice from behind them.

Jough and Elliot turned to see a very muscular man with thick arms that failed to taper at the wrist, as most arms tend to do. He had a blond crew cut and a large baby’s-butt chin.

“Welcome to the Police Pals,” said Chief Codgill as he shook Jough’s hand with a grip so strong it made Jough wince.

“Easy on that right hand,” said Elliot. “That’s going to make us both a lot of money someday.”

“Yeah? And who are you?” said Chief Codgill, looking down at Elliot with a bit of a scowl.