Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy (20 page)

But 1–0 isn’t much of a lead. Especially not against a team that would do anything to win.

I didn’t count the stitches on Brandon’s mitt. I didn’t even try talking to it. I just got down and sweated through the innings one by one. Brandon was about the farthest thing from my mind. Until the bottom of the sixth inning, that is. That’s when I saw him in the crowd yelling his brains out.

I couldn’t quite believe it. I mean, he was supposed to be at his school, what was he doing at mine? But it was him all right with his shiny swimmer hair and November tan. I wanted to wave at him and thank him for loaning me his mitt, but that’d be kind of embarrassing in front of the whole school.

So I tried to just ignore him and concentrate on the game. We’d been ahead by two runs at the bottom of the third, but then Dawn caught a line drive and hurt her hand, and even though she kept saying she was fine, she made a few errors and you could tell that she was afraid to catch the ball. Then Mr. Vince figured out that Monet’s information was all wrong, and before we knew it, they were ahead, 5–4.

Now the bases were loaded, and since there was only one out, we were in some serious trouble. Debbie Wall was on third, itching to plow me over, Babs was on second,
and Monet was on first, clapping her hands, yelling, “C’mon, Tenille, c’mon! You can do it! Bring us home!”

Well, there’s no way Tenille Toolee’s ever going to get an extra-base hit, let alone a home run. Usually she strikes out or hits an infield fly, which puts her out automatically. So I was glad she was up until I saw Ms. Rothhammer with her arms wrapped around like a support bra. And since her fingers are busy tapping her collar bones, there’s no mistaking that we’re supposed to use the Fake.

Marissa’s getting ready to present the ball so I cock my head at the coach’s box because I’m not sure she’s seen Ms. Rothhammer’s signal. Marissa nods, so I stand up and dust off the plate with my foot, and before I crouch into position, I make like I’m stretching and flash the Fake signal, just in case any of the outfielders missed it. Then I get down and call, “Any base, guys! Any base!”

For a second there Tenille must’ve thought God was smiling on her, because over the plate comes this easy little pitch that a tipsy turkey could’ve hit. Tenille hits the ball, all right. She pops it up, and Dawn catches it for an easy out. Then Dawn sends the ball back to me, and while the runners are sitting pretty on their bases, our team starts whooping and cheering, faking like it’s the third out, not the second.

I throw my mask back and yell, “Way to go, Dawn!” and start trotting into the playing field. Marissa comes off the mound and all the infielders run toward her, jumping up and down, yelling like crazy.

The whole time, I’ve got my hand on the ball and I’m watching. Becky’s charging from left field to cover third,
Kris has made it from center field to second, and Cindy is flying in from right field to cover first.

Mr. Vince’s team is looking around like, What the heck is going on? and it looks like the Fake is going to be the Flop. Then Babs takes the bait. She comes off the base a few steps, yelling, “Hey, wait a minute!” and before she knows what’s happened, I’ve got the ball to Kris and Babs is out.

Mr. Vince throws down his cap, “Get back on base! Babs, Debbie, Monet! Back on your bases!” Then he makes a beeline for Mr. Caan.

Mr. Caan comes forward shaking his head and says, “She’s out, Coach. It’s a fair play.”

Well, Bug Brain isn’t just going to stand there and get swatted. He buzzes around Mr. Caan with his arms flapping and shouts, “It’s illegal! Show me where it says you can pull a play like that?”

By now Ms. Rothhammer’s joined them. She hands him a rule book and says, “Show me where it says you can’t.”

Pretty soon Miss Pitt’s out there with them and so is Mr. Troxell, and after about five minutes, Mr. Troxell practically drags Mr. Vince back to the sidelines. Mr. Caan calls, “Last inning, girls, let’s do it!”

Our team goes crazy, whooping and slapping hands, and when Ms. Rothhammer comes over, she doesn’t make us sit down and settle down like she normally does. She turns her back to the playing field, pumps her arm, and says, “Yes!” And it’s as clear as the smile on her face—she’s been waiting to put ol’ Bug Brain in his place for a long, long time.

Then she gets serious and says, “Okay, girls. Keep your heads—we’re still down a run, but I think we can turn that around. We’ve got them flustered, so use that. Annoy them with your leads, step out of the box if you want to. Take your time, but stay in control. At this point it’s a mind game. Use your heads!”

We settle in while Cindy Salazar goes up to bat. Now, Cindy’s a decent fielder and a decent batter. She plays well, but she’s no fireball—she’s more smoky. There’s something there, but everyone’s kind of given up on ever seeing it ignite.

So while Emiko’s busy finding a toehold on the mound, Mr. Vince signals his outfielders to move in. What he doesn’t know is that Cindy Salazar isn’t just going to ignite, she’s going to
explode
.

She measures up at the plate, like she always does, she holds the bat high and still, like she always does—but when the pitch comes in, she digs in and swings, and then follows through so far that she almost falls down.

I think she surprised herself as much as she surprised the rest of us, because for a minute she just stands there with her jaw to her jersey, watching the ball sail out to left field.

Miss Pitt yips,
“Run!
Cindy,
run!”
which makes her snap out of it and just
haul
out to first base.

Poor Anita had moved way in because Mr. Vince had told her to, and she’s chasing the ball down the best she can, but by the time she’s got a handle on it, Cindy’s already rounding third like her cleats are on fire. When the ball finally comes in to Babs, the score’s tied and Cindy’s getting pounced and slapped and kissed by the rest of us.

So we’re tied, 5–5, feeling like we can do no wrong when Jennifer Ryker gets up to bat. And what’s she do? She strikes out. First three pitches—
swish, swish, swish
—she’s out, just like that.

That brings us back around to Dot. And there goes the crowd chanting, “Dot-Dot-Dot! Dot-Dot-Dot!”

Emiko takes a long time presenting the ball. She digs in her toehold and flicks her head around a bit, and when she’s finally ready, she holds up the ball, whips it around, and lets it fly.

Dot lets it go by.

“Ball one!”

Babs sends the ball back to Emiko, who goes through the whole ritual all over again—digging in, flicking her head, playing with the ball. And when it finally comes sailing over the plate, Dot lets it go by again.

“Ball two!”

Mr. Vince starts steaming. You can’t quite hear him, but you can tell from the way he’s pacing around that his mouth’s warming up to yell some pretty juicy things at Mr. Caan.

The third pitch comes over, and it’s another ball. Mr. Vince comes shooting over to the plate yelling, “What do you mean, ‘ball’? You need glasses? It was right down the middle!”

Mr. Caan pushes back his mask. “It was inside, Rob.”

“It was right over the plate!”

Mr. Caan puffs up a bit. “Coach, you do your job, I’ll do mine.”

Mr. Vince just stands there a minute flaring his nostrils
in and out, and finally he heads back to the bench and calls over his shoulder, “It was a bad call. You hear me? A bad call!”

Like he could really tell from over by first base. The bug brain.

Now, Dot doesn’t want to walk. She wants to
run
. So she leans into the next pitch that comes over, swings … and misses. She swings at the next one, too. And misses again.

So she’s standing there with a full count and the crowd’s going bonkers with their, “Dot-Dot-Dot! Dot-Dot-Dot!” and she’s primed to swing at
anything
. Only she doesn’t. She can’t. The next pitch that comes in is so far inside that she has to jump back to get out of the way.

“Ball four!”

Dot trots to first base, but she’s not going to stay there long. She’s going to run or steal or
fly
, but she’s not hanging around.

I get up to bat and I’m busy watching Dot with her toe on first and the rest of her stretched out toward second, glad that Ms. Rothhammer’s not making me bunt again, when over the plate comes the pitch.

Mr. Caan shoots up a finger and shouts, “Steeerike one!”

I forget about Dot and concentrate on the next pitch. It’s low and inside, so I let it go by. Dot’s already halfway to second by the time Babs gets a handle on the ball, and even though Babs bullets it to Monet, Dot’s slid in before it’s crossed the pitcher’s mound.

The next pitch is right over the plate, so I swing. Trouble is, I hit the ball up the handle so it doesn’t have a lot
on it. But I’m not going to just stand there and watch Gisa throw me out. I drop the bat and run, and when I get to first there are two
smacks
, right in a row. First my foot on the bag, then the ball in Julie’s glove.

Miss Pitt jumps up and down yipping, “Way to go, Sammy! Way to run it out!” and Gisa’s over on third kicking mud around, spitting out four-letter German words.

There’s no way Dot could’ve advanced, not with the way I practically gave the ball to Gisa. So there we are on first and second, and Xandi comes up to bat.

Every pitch, Dot and I would lead off, and every pitch, Babs would check us. And when Xandi finally does hit the ball, it’s a grounder right between first and second.

Now, I’ve got no choice. I’ve got to run. And I’ve got one eye on second and the other on the ball, worried that I’m going to have to hurdle the thing to get to second, when I realize that since Monet’s fielding the ball, it’s not her job to cover second anymore. It’s the shortstop’s.

Monet could’ve made the out at first, but Heather’s standing on second, screaming, “Here! Here!”

So what’s Monet do? She whips her the ball.

I’m as good as out. I run as fast as I can, but everything seems like it’s in slow motion—the ball coming through the air toward Heather’s glove, me swinging my arms up to come in for the slide—and when Heather grabs the ball, well, the sneer on her face says it all.

But I don’t slide like Dotty DeVries. If someone’s blocking the bag, I don’t go around them—I go
through
them. And it didn’t matter that it was Heather in my way—I would’ve done the same for anyone.

And the fact is I did ram her. Hard. And when I did, she stumbled back, and out of her glove pops the ball,
thump
, onto the ground.

Mr. Troxell slices the air with his arms. “Safe!”

Heather screams, “There’s no way! Didn’t you see what she just did!”

Mr. Troxell shakes his head and slices the air again. “She’s safe.” Then he points to Heather and says, “You were blocking the bag.”

Steam is blowing off Heather, but she doesn’t say a word to me. She just hobbles back to shortstop, slicing me up with the Evil Eye.

So it’s one out with the bases loaded. Our team’s going crazy at the bench, jumping up and down, pounding on each other as Becky Bork steps up to bat.

Becky gets into her robot stance and waits. And waits and waits and waits. And when Mr. Caan calls, “Steeerike three!” she keeps right on waiting until Marissa finally goes up and taps her on the shoulder.

Talk about pressure. Two down with the bases loaded in the last inning of a tied game doesn’t leave much room for error. Marissa measures up and waits, and when Emiko finally gets tired of checking Dot at third, she presents the ball and everyone holds their breath. Everyone but Dot. She takes a monster lead off third, and when the pitch finally comes over the plate, it’s a good thing Marissa connects, because there’s no way Dot could’ve made it back to third otherwise.

The ball nearly gives Emiko a buzz cut and goes sailing just left of second. Debbie Wall scoops it up on the
bounce, but it’s too late—Dot jets across home plate and we’re ahead, 6–5.

Kris made the last out with an infield fly, but none of us even cared. We were
winning
. Even Ms. Rothhammer was jumping up and down. She huddles us up and says, “This is it … this is
it!
All you have to do is hold them. Just three little outs, that’s all you need—just three little outs.”

We all take our positions and when Julie Jaffers gets up to bat, she measures up like she always does, sticks her fanny out, like she always does, and half the boys in school whistle, like they always do. Then we get down to the business of trying to strike her out.

She waits out the first two pitches. One’s a ball, one’s a strike. Then she tips one foul for her second strike. On the next pitch she hits a line drive straight at Marissa, and
snap
, she’s out.

Now, when Heather got up to bat, I don’t think she was really thinking about softball. I think she was thinking about me. And when the pitch came over the plate, it wasn’t a softball she was seeing—it was my head. She
killed
the thing.

For a minute there everyone thought she’d hit a home run, but Kris relayed the ball in from center field in time to stop her at third.