The Off Season
Catherine Gilbert Murdock
Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
...
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
1. The Jorgensens' Labor Day Picnic
2. An Extra Hand at Evening Milking
3. Football and Barbecue
4. Big Trip to the Big City
5. Skimming Along
6. Dad's Big Fat Turkey Idea
7. A Whole Herd of Trouble Coming My Way
8. Bad News on All Fronts
9. Separations Are Very Stressful
10. Notions That Make Turkeys Look Just Brilliant
11. Mother Problems
12. "He's Just a Friend"
13. A Cabover Camper Really Can Hold Two People
14. Win
15. The Call
16. The Most Difficult Situation I Can Think Of
17. Bill
18. My Own Personal Time Zone
19. Even More Family Trouble
20. Things Are Looking Better—No, I Take That Back
21. Wanted: A Town Full of Strangers
22. Rehab
23. Why the Packers Might Not Totally Suck
24. There Aren't No Miracles on Schwenk Farm
25. Win Wasn't Captain for Nothing
26. Getting to Know the New Normal
27. Big Trip #2
28. Day of Thanks
29. Easy Lives
Acknowledgments
Reading Group Guide
Meet the author
Find out what happens next in D.J.'s life in the final installment of the Dairy Queen trilogy, Front and Center.
GRAPHIA
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN HARCOURT
Boston New York
Copyright © 2007 by Catherine Gilbert Murdock
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Graphia,
an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. Originally
published in hardcover in the United States by Houghton Mifflin Books for Children,
an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 2007.
For information about permission to reproduce selections from
this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,
215 ParkAvenue South, New York, New York 10003.
Graphia and the Graphia logo are registered trademarks
of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
www.hmhbooks.com
The text of this book is set in Dante.
Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Murdock, Catherine Gilbert.
The off season / by Catherine Gilbert Murdock
p. cm.
Summary: High school junior D.J. staggers under the weight of caring
for her badly injured brother, her responsibilities on the dairy farm, a changing
relationship with her friend Brian, and her own athletic aspirations.
[1. Football—Fiction. 2. Interpersonal relations—Fiction.
3. Farm life—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M9415Off 2007
[Fic]—dc22
2006029278
ISBN: 978-0-618-68695-7 hardcover
ISBN: 978-0-618-93493-5 paperback
Manufactured in the United States of America
DOM 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
4500286584
To Mimi and Nick,
for their many excellent suggestions
Contents
1. THE JORGENSENS' LABOR DAY PICNIC [>]
2. AN EXTRA HAND AT EVENING MILKING [>]
3. FOOTBALL AND BARBECUE [>]
4. BIG TRIP TO THE BIG CITY [>]
5. SKIMMING ALONG [>]
6. DAD'S BIG FAT TURKEY IDEA [>]
7. A WHOLE HERD OF TROUBLE COMING
MY WAY [>]
8. BAD NEWS ON ALL FRONTS [>]
9. SEPARATIONS ARE VERY STRESSFUL [>]
10. NOTIONS THAT MAKE TURKEYS LOOK
JUST BRILLIANT [>]
11. MOTHER PROBLEMS [>]
12. "HE'S JUST A FRIEND" [>]
13. A CABOVER CAMPER REALLY CAN HOLD
TWO PEOPLE [>]
14. WIN [>]
15. THE CALL [>]
16. THE MOST DIFFICULT SITUATION I CAN
THINK OF [>]
17. BILL [>]
18. MY OWN PERSONAL TIME ZONE [>]
19. EVEN MORE FAMILY TROUBLE [>]
20. THINGS ARE LOOKING BETTER—NO
I TAKE THAT BACK [>]
21. WANTED: A TOWN FULL OF STRANGERS [>]
22. REHAB [>]
23. WHY THE PACKERS MIGHT NOT
TOTALLY SUCK [>]
24. THERE AREN'T NO MIRACLES ON
SCHWENK FARM [>]
25. WIN WASN'T CAPTAIN FOR NOTHING [>]
26. GETTING TO KNOW THE NEW NORMAL [>]
27. BIG TRIP #2 [>]
28. DAY OF THANKS [>]
29. EASY LIVES [>]
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS [>]
1. The Jorgensens' Labor Day Picnic
EVERY LABOR DAY, the Jorgensens—they own Jorgensens' Ice Cream—set up a little ice cream stand right in their yard, which means you can spend the entire Labor Day picnic making yourself ice cream sundaes if that's what you want to do, and for years when I wasn't playing softball or chasing the Jorgensen kids or trying to keep up with my brothers, I'd sit myself at that little booth making one sundae after another until it was time to head home for evening milking, and then a couple miles into the drive I'd bring that whole sundae experience back up, right there on the side of whatever road we happened to make it to. Lately, though, I have a little more self-control. Now I only eat three or four, without marshmallows because I finally figured out that they shouldn't really be part of the whole sundae thing, while I'm hanging out at the pig roast watching guys poke at the fire because apparently it's a law that if you're a guy you have to spend a bunch of time doing that. Then maybe I'll grab one more between innings when I'm not pitching.
That's the other great thing about the picnic: the softball game. Randy Jorgensen has a huge backyard he mows all year for this, and he borrows bases from Little League so it's official and all. He even got an umpire's getup at a garage sale somewhere, and a friend of his who owns a pig farm works every year as umpire after he's got the pig going in the pit.
My mom used to pitch the game. She pitched all through college, and her team was pretty good from what she's told me. Then one year she threw her back out, which isn't that hard to believe considering she doesn't get much exercise these days and, well, she weighs a whole lot more than she used to. She threw out her back so much that she couldn't walk or anything, Dad had to drive her home in the back of the pickup as she lay there like a piece of plywood if plywood could holler to slow down, and she had to spend three weeks on the living room floor until she healed. Which isn't such a swell thing to be doing when you're supposed to be teaching sixth grade and it's the first three weeks of school.
So she's not allowed to pitch anymore. But at least she started exercising again—not for softball but just to lose some weight—which means puffing around the farm fields, swinging her arms in this way that makes me glad she's not walking where anyone can see her. I guess she figures that an elementary school principal, which she is now since she moved up from teaching sixth grade, shouldn't be quite so heavy.
The softball game is always kids against the grownups, from little tiny kids still in diapers to old farmers who get their grandkids to run because they don't have any knees left. There's always lots of arguing about where the teenagers should go. This year Randy Jorgen
sen made a big plea for Curtis, trying to get him on the grownup side on the grounds that he's one of the tallest people there, which is true, but seeing as he's only going into eighth grade he really does belong on the kids' team.
After Mom hurt her back, Randy tried pitching but he took it way too seriously, and the next year Mom suggested me, and now I guess it's just tradition. Which is nice because I don't play school softball seeing as I run track, and this fall of course I was playing football, which is another whole story in and of itself, so this is how I get my softball fix. Plus I'm not too biased. Mom says I'm Switzerland, which I think she means as a compliment.
Besides, it's not like competitive softball. You mostly just try to get the ball across the plate slow enough for whoever's trying to hit it, and keep it dry from the guys who hit with a beer in their other hand. Some little kids hold the bat out like they've never held a bat before, which some of them haven't, and I'll toss the ball as gently as I can against the bat, which in this game counts as a hit, and the kid will be so surprised they'll just stand there while everyone starts hollering, and their mom will have to take them by the hand to run around the bases, and in the meantime the catcher, who's usually Randy's wife, Cindy, will toss to first but just happen to overthrow, and so the kid will continue on to second just totally amazed, and the second baseman will fumble eight or nine times with a bunch of moaning, and the kid will make it to third, and sometimes if there are enough errors the kid will score a home run and walk around on a cloud for the rest of the afternoon.
With other folks, of course, I'm not so nice. Mom always takes a couple turns at bat even though she shouldn't because of her back. All the younger kids in the outfield think this is hilarious, their principal standing there in her big floral shorts and her big pink T-shirt, looking a lot more like a beach ball than a batter. But the older kids know enough to back up. One year she hit the ball so hard it took twenty minutes to find it. I guess she needs to get her softball fix in too, and also needs to teach those kids a lesson or two about mouthing off.
Then there's Curtis, who's always a huge part of the game, and I'm not just talking about his playing. My little brother might not talk to grownups much, or to me, but with little kids he's just amazing. I don't know if it's because they can tell, the way dogs can sometimes, that he's safe and he'll be really nice to them, which he will. Or maybe he's just a lot more comfortable with kids than older folks, and they pick up on that. But wherever he goes where there are little kids, like this picnic, they just flock to him. As soon as Curtis and this girl he was hanging out with sat down on the edge of the softball field, a half-dozen little kids started climbing on him and giggling and asking him questions, and he settled into it like being a human playground was his calling in life. Whenever the littlest kids went up to bat, he'd run the bases with them if they wanted, and in the outfield he'd make sure they got to tag out their dads and uncles, who often tripped really dramatically right before the base so it'd be easier for the kids to get them.
And then when it was Curtis's turn to hit, the kids got so excited they were just exploding. Curtis after all was a state MVP in Little League, which everyone in town knows including the dead people, and when he walked up to home plate, the kids started zipping like bugs around a porch light, and all the folks in the outfield went way back, knowing what was coming, and I switched from nice-girl-tossing-the-ball-against-the-bat to big-sister-you-can-eat-this-one mode.
I pitched a fast one and Curtis swished a strike, and the little kids went bonkers like this was the World Series or something, and then he smashed right through my second pitch and it was clear that all those folks in the outfield hadn't gone back nearly far enough, and he ambled off toward first base because that ball was a couple hours from being found.
A bunch of little kids, though, took that ambling personally. They ran up and started tugging on his arms, and his legs even, shrieking at him to run, and then another bunch of kids, his defenders, decided that this first group shouldn't be so bossy and so they started pulling Curtis the other way because I guess they decided that walking would make him happier. Until finally you couldn't even really see Curtis, just a dozen little kids hollering and waving their arms and giggling hysterically, pulling him in every direction.
You know the expression "fall down laughing"? I actually did. I was laughing so hard, standing there on my little pitcher's mound, that after a while my knees didn't work and I had to lie down and try to breathe as I watched Curtis getting dragged around the bases. It was, hands down, the funniest thing I've ever seen.
Anyway, that's a very long story that doesn't have much to do with anything. But even now that memory makes me grin, Curtis and all those little kids wriggling together ... It's hard to believe, sitting here in the hospital writing this down, that I ever felt so happy. That once, not so long ago, my life actually seemed okay.
2. An Extra Hand at Evening Milking
ONE OF THE ANNOYING THINGS about dairy farming—I mean, there are a ton of annoying things, like the smell, although you get used to that pretty quick, and the fact you spend your so-called summer vacation bringing in hay and worrying about the weather, and that Dad never spends any money to fix anything so all our equipment is just a hair from being completely broken—but one of the most annoying things is that you have to milk the cows twice a day no matter what. It's not like you can take a day off and go somewhere and they'll milk themselves. You have to be there every morning and every night. If you're even a couple hours late, their udders get too full of milk and the cows can get really sick. Which is why we had to leave the Labor Day picnic after only five innings. Although one nice thing is that the Jorgensens are friends with a bunch of dairy farmers so it's not like we were the only ones skipping out early. Randy and Cindy are pretty used to it.
Anyway, we were still pretty late getting home, which the cows weren't too shy about telling us, and even from inside the Caravan I could hear them mooing up a racket when we pulled in. I was so busy watching the cows push against the gate to get milked and figuring that I should probably offer to help Dad before he flat-out told me to that I didn't even look toward the house, which is why when Mom said, "Isn't that Brian?" my heart stopped for a second.
You see, our world of cows and busted equipment and twice-a-day milking doesn't have one thing to do with the other world—the real world, I think of it—of normal families and popular girls and good looks and Brian Nelson. There wasn't a reason I could think of for him to be sitting on our kitchen step with school starting the next morning, plus the cows making a racket and Smut wagging her tail all over the place and practically crawling into his lap, she was so glad to see him. But there he was.
"Hey there, Mr. Schwenk, Mrs. Schwenk," he called out with his nice manners as we piled out of the Caravan.
"Hey there, Brian," said Dad. "Whatcha doing here?"
Brian shrugged. "Just passing by." Which was impossible because our farm is something you pass only if you're headed to nowhere. "Hey, Curtis."
Curtis hunched down, staring at the ground. "Hey," he whispered, his ears bright red. Like I said, Curtis isn't so great with anyone over the age of ten. Or eleven, maybe.
"You gonna give us a hand with the milking?" Dad asked Brian in that way he has.
"You don't have to—" I started to say really fast, but Brian just shrugged again.
"Sure." He came over to the back of the Caravan, where Mom was unloading the buckets of food we hadn't eaten and our lawn chairs from the softball game.
"Hey, D.J.," he murmured, coming up beside me to take a load.
"Hey," I said, wishing like anything that my ears weren't turning bright red too. "How's your arm feel?" I asked. Quarterbacking an entire game, which is what he'd done Friday for the Red Bend–Hawley scrimmage, can really wear you down.
"Not bad," he said, swinging it a little. "How about your ribs?" During the scrimmage a couple Hawley players had kicked me pretty hard. That sort of roughing up comes with the
territory in football, especially when you've got two teams that hate each other as much as Red Bend and Hawley. Especially when you happen to be a girl playing varsity in her very first game, a girl with two older brothers who are pretty much football legends around our two towns.
I shrugged. "Okay. The bruising's fading." I said this kind of quietly because I didn't want Mom hearing I even had rib bruises and getting all fluttery on me. Besides, it wasn't Brian's fault that so many other Hawley guys were jerks.
After we'd unloaded the Caravan, Brian came right into the barn with me and Curtis and Dad, helping put the feed out, which goes super fast with four people, and opening the doors so the cows could go to their places they all have memorized, the cows so happy to be eating grain and getting milked at last.
Dad was in a pretty good mood—he'd had a couple beers at the Jorgensens', and it's always a boost to have extra hands with milking—and he kept chattering away about the picnic, how Brian should have been there to see Curtis and me play. Brian shot me a look, and we grinned at each other because Dad can be a little over the top. If I didn't know Brian so well, I'd be just about dying. But it was okay.
"You should come with us next year," Dad offered, like the only thing Brian would want to do on Labor Day was play softball with a bunch of smalltime farmers and ice cream store folks from Red Bend when he could be off doing something much cooler with the kind of pretty girl that guys like Brian date.
"Sorry, but I'll be at college," Brian said, sounding sorry even.
"That's right, isn't it. Gonna play college ball?"
"I hope to. Sir."
Which got everyone on a discussion of Win and Bill, my two big brothers, and the University of Washington and the University of Minnesota, how those two teams were going to do and how much better both of those teams were—how much better both schools were, from the way Dad talked—with Schwenks playing football for them.
Through all this talk, I couldn't help thinking how nice it would have been to have Brian at the Jorgensens' picnic, poking at the pig roast and talking football and playing in the game. Maybe if he wasn't from Hawley. Or maybe if he was from Hawley but I was a normal girl so you could see why he'd be hanging out with me. Not that we were Officially Dating or anything like that, although we'd talked about it a little, and we'd even tried making out once, in such an awful way that I still winced thinking about it. I mean, Brian had tried to make out with me but I didn't figure out what was going on and ended up giving him a bloody nose. Which is a pretty good way to make sure you never date a guy, I think, doing that.