Kristy and the Walking Disaster

  “I do!” Jamie replied. “How much does it cost?”

  “Four hundred dollars.”

  “Okay.” Jamie reached into his pocket. He pretended to give Gabbie some money.

  “Thank you,” she said. Then she handed Jamie the water and he drank it right out of the pitcher.

  “Mmm, yummy. May I have —”

  “Zonk! Zonk!” cried Nina. She and Myriah were tearing toward Gabbie and Jamie and the pitcher. Every time Nina zonked Myriah, Myriah replied, “Boi-oi-oi-oing!”

  “You guys!” Mary Anne said desperately. “Look out!”

  Too late.

  Myriah and Nina crashed into Jamie and Gabbie. Water splashed everywhere.

  “I think,” said Mary Anne, “that it’s time to play outside. May I have the pitcher and the banana, please? And would the four of you clean up the water before you put your jackets on?”

  Mary Anne had never seen so many paper towels used to clean up such a small puddle, but at least the mess got mopped up. Then she took the kids into the Perkinses’ backyard.

  “How about some catch?” she suggested, remembering my phone call about starting a softball team.

  “With Chewy around?” replied Myriah. “We better put him inside.”

  “Oh, poor Chewy,” said Mary Anne. “He’ll miss out on the fun. Let’s leave him outside for just a little while.”

  “Okay-ay,” said Myriah in a singsong voice that clearly meant she thought Mary Anne’s idea was not a very wise one.

  The kids found two bats — a wiffle bat and a regular one; three balls — a wiffle ball, a softball, and a tennis ball; and a couple of mitts.

  “I’ll be the pitcher,” Myriah announced. “Nina, you be in the outfield. Gabbie and Jamie, you’re the batters. You’re on the other team.”

  Mary Anne was impressed. Myriah seemed to know a lot about playing ball.

  “Okay, here comes the ball!” Myriah announced to Jamie, who was ready with the bat.

  Jamie took one look at the softball flying toward him, dropped the bat, put his hands over his head, and ducked.

  Guess who caught the ball? Chewy. Everone ran after him. Chewy had the time of his life. He loves games. But when the kids couldn’t catch him, they gave up. Besides, it was Gabbie’s turn at bat, and since she’s so little, Mary Anne told Myriah she’d have to pitch the wiffle ball. Then she gave Chewy a rawhide bone to keep him busy while the kids played.

  Myriah tossed the wiffle ball.

  Whack! Gabbie hit it. She looked extremely pleased with herself. But she just stood by home plate, holding the bat. “Now, what do I do?” she asked.

  “Run, you dope!” exclaimed Nina.

  “Nina, no name-calling,” Mary Anne admonished her.

  The kids barely heard Mary Anne. Myriah went after the ball, caught it, ran to home plate, where Gabbie was still standing, and tagged her sister. “You’re out!” she cried.

  Mary Anne told me later that the game went on in pretty much the same way the game at my house had gone. Jamie ducked all balls, whether he was supposed to be hitting them or catching them. Gabbie wasn’t too bad at hitting and catching — but she didn’t understand much concerning the game of softball. (What can you expect from a two-and-a-half-year-old?) Nina, like Hannie Papadakis, tried hard, but wasn’t particularly coordinated. Then there was Myriah. She was actually a pretty good player.

  “Why don’t you try out for Little League?” Mary Anne wanted to know.

  “Can’t. I’m old enough for T-ball, but not Little League.”

  “Would you like to play on a real team?” Mary Anne asked.

  “Sure!” replied Myriah, and Mary Anne was surprised when the rest of the kids said, “Sure!” as well.

  “Really?” she asked. “You too, Gabbers?”

  Gabbie nodded solemnly.

  “Well,” said Mary Anne, and she told them about my softball team.

  The kids were enthusiastic, especially Myriah. They spent the rest of the afternoon hitting balls (or ducking them) — and then rescuing them from the jaws of Chewbacca, who had long ago given up on the rawhide.

  I always step onto the Rodowskys’ front porch with a feeling of trepidation. (I like the word trepidation. It means alarm or dread, but somehow it seems less awful than those words.) The reason for the trepidation is, well, you know — Jackie, our very own walking disaster. Things happen to him. Sometimes things just happen because he’s around. Imagine Paddington Bear. Imagine the little girl Eloise from the book called Eloise. Then put all that energy and mischief inside a character as nice as Charlie Bucket from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. That’s Jackie Rodowsky.

  Because Jackie is basically a nice kid, I like to sit for him. But because I never know what’s going to happen, I feel that trepidation. I feel it the whole time I’m at the Rodowskys’. It comes over me as soon as I reach their house, and it leaves the moment my sitting job is over.

  I rang the Rodowskys’ bell.

  Mrs. Rodowsky answered the door, gave me the usual instructions, and began to put her coat on.

  “Where are the boys?” I asked.

  Mrs. Rodowsky smiled. “They’re in the rec room,” she said, lowering her voice. “Peek down there.”

  I peeked. The room looked ready for a party. Streamers crisscrossed the ceiling, and bunches of balloons hung here and there. The boys were busy blowing up more balloons and opening packages of paper plates and cups and party favors.

  “Aww,” I said, smiling. “Whose birthday is it?”

  “Bo’s.” Mrs. Rodowsky looked at me meaningfully.

  “Bo’s? … Oh, the dog’s!” I giggled.

  “He’s two today, and the boys decided they wanted to give him a party. They’ve even wrapped up presents for him, and on my way home this afternoon, I’m supposed to pick up a birthday cake — a small one — with Bo’s name on it. Can you believe it?”

  “I think it’s great!” I said. “We never did anything like that for our collie Louie, even though we loved him a lot. But maybe when our new puppy turns one, we’ll have a party for her. We’ll even invite Bo, since he’ll know how to behave at a dog party.”

  Mrs. Rodowsky laughed. “Well, I better get going. Let the boys do whatever they want for the party — within reason. Then take them outside for awhile.”

  “Okay,” I said. I walked Mrs. Rodowsky down the stairs to the rec room.

  “Bye, boys!” she called as she left through the back door.

  They barely heard her.

  “So, you guys,” I said, “what did you get Bo for his birthday?”

  All three boys looked at me in surprise.

  “Where’d you come from?” asked Shea, the nine-year-old.

  “I’ve been here for about five minutes,” I told him. “Your mom just left. I know all about Bo’s party. You look like you’re doing a great job.”

  “There’s not much left to do,” said Shea.

  “Nope,” agreed Jackie, who’s seven. “Just make the lemonade and find the birthday candles. And finish setting the table.” Jackie glanced at a folding table that had been covered with a paper doth. It looked like a table for a kid’s birthday party.

  “I’ll find the candles!” volunteered Archie, the four-year-old.

  “I’ll finish the table,” said Shea.

  “Then I guess I better make the lemonade,” Jackie said, and added, “I’m making pink lemonade. It’s more special.”

  “I’ll help you!” I said quickly.

  “No! I can do it myself. I’m not a baby.”

  “Okay, okay. Sorry.”

  This is what I mean by trepidation. I didn’t want to hurt Jackie’s feelings, but I knew (well, I was pretty sure) that letting Jackie make lemonade would lead to a disaster.

  I let him do it anyway.

  “It’s just a mix,” he said. “All you do is add water.”

  That didn’t sound too dangerous. The one thing I insisted on, though, was a plastic pitcher. Letting him fill up s
omething glass was plain foolish.

  “Kristy? Can you help me look for the candles?” Archie said then. “Shea told me they’re in a box in the basement, and, um, I don’t want to go down there by myself.”

  “Sure,” I replied. I held out my hand. “Come on, Red.”

  “Red!” exclaimed Archie. “That’s not my name.”

  “Red is a nickname for anyone with red hair,” I told him, “like you guys have.” The Rodowsky boys all have flaming red hair and plenty of freckles.

  Archie and I left Jackie in the kitchen with the lemonade mix, and Shea in the rec room, setting the table. Hand in hand, we descended into the basement. I had to admit, the Rodowsky’s basement was a little spooky.

  We had just found the candles when, from above, we heard a thunk and a whoosh. Then we heard Jackie say, “Uh-oh.”

  Archie and I didn’t waste a second. We ran up the stairs to the rec room and then to the kitchen. Shea was already there. He and Jackie were staring at a large pink puddle on the floor, and pink drips down the sides of the cabinets, the dishwasher, and the table and chairs. Jackie was blushing as red as his hair.

  “It was an accident,” he told me.

  With Jackie, it’s always an accident. And once he gets started, it’s hard for him to stop. Have you ever heard the saying that “bad things happen in threes”? Well, with Jackie, they happen more like in fifteens.

  “Come on, let’s clean up,” I said. I’d meant just for Jackie and me to clean up, but Shea and Archie pitched in, too. They’re used to helping their brother out.

  When the kitchen was clean and nonsticky again, and another pitcher of lemonade had been made (we made it in the sink and I carried the pitcher to the refrigerator), I said, “Is everything ready for Bo’s party now?”

  “Yes,” answered the boys.

  “Good. Then we’re going outside.” I was not about to wait around for another disaster, and disasters were less apt to happen outside. “What are we going to do?” asked Archie, as he and his brothers were putting on their jackets.

  “I need to practice for Little League,” said Shea importantly.

  Of course, my ears pricked up at that. “Little League?” I repeated. “Jackie, are you in Little League, too?”

  “Naw,” said Jackie, staring at his feet.

  Shea snorted rudely, but I ignored his behavior. “Go get your baseball equipment,” I told him.

  A few moments later, the Rodowsky boys were swinging bats, and tossing balls in the air. I was standing on a flat rock which Shea assured me was the pitcher’s mound. “Okay, batter up!” I called.

  “Me first! Me first!” cried Jackie. He leaped next to an old magazine (home plate).

  I pitched the ball. It was a good pitch — I mean, an easy one. If I’d been pitching in a real game, it would have been like saying to the other team, “Okay, just go ahead and score yourself a run.” But Jackie missed the ball. Not by much, though.

  Archie missed my next easy pitch, too, but then he’s only four, and also left-handed, which makes things a little more difficult.

  Shea, on the other hand, slammed the ball so hard, and it traveled so far, that even Bo couldn’t find it.

  “Home run! Home run!” shouted Shea. He jumped gleefully up and down on the magazine.

  “Kristy, Kristy, can I pitch now?” asked Jackie. “I want to try pitching.”

  “Good luck,” Shea muttered sarcastically, but I was the only one who heard him.

  Jackie took his place on the rock. He wound up his arm like professional ball players do. He threw straight to Shea — and somehow, some- how, the ball hit the house next door. Boing, boing, boing, slurp. It bounced down the roof and landed in a rain-filled gutter.

  “Jackie!” exclaimed Shea.

  “Oh, brother,” I said. “Now we’re going to have to go over there and tell your neighbors there’s a softball in their gutter.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Shea. “Four others are there, too. Our dad’s going over on Saturday to get them out. He can just get this one while he’s at it.”

  “Do you have another ball?” I asked.

  “We’ll use a tennis ball,” said Jackie, heading for the garage. “I’ll get it. I want to try batting again. I know I can hit the ball.”

  Jackie was a disaster on the ball field, just like he was anywhere else, but he was determined to play. And he did hit the ball from time to time. He reminded me of David Michael. I really admired him.

  While Jackie was getting the tennis ball, we heard a huge crash in the garage. Since I was tired of disasters, all I said was, “Whatever it is, pick it up, Jackie!”

  “Okay!” he shouted back.

  Jackie returned with the tennis ball.

  “Anything broken in there?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  A miracle.

  Jackie handed the ball to Shea, who pitched it to him.

  “Keep your eye on the ball!” I called.

  Whack! Jackie slammed the ball. “I hit it!” he yelled, and made a dash for first base.

  Shea caught it on the fly, but Jackie kept running. He ran all the way around the yard to home plate, where he was met by Shea. Shea held the tennis ball in Jackie’s face. “Fly ball,” he informed him. “You’re out. Jackie, you will never be in Little League.” He didn’t have to add, “Because no one would want you,” but that’s what he meant, and we all knew it.

  “Yes, I will,” replied Jackie stubbornly. “I will be in Little League. I’ll practice and practice. I’ll get as good as you. I’ll get better than you. I’ll be the best player in the universe.” Jackie punctuated his speech by tripping over his shoelace.

  Sheesh. He’s even worse than David Michael, I thought. But I was pretty sure I had a new member for my softball team. A few minutes later, I was positive. I noticed that the worse Jackie played, the harder he tried. He wouldn’t give up. Maybe he just needed some confidence and coaching. Watson had said those things were very important. (Watson, by the way, had been extremely flattered when I’d gone to him about organizing a team. He had also been extremely helpful and extremely nice.)

  I told Jackie about my softball team. Jackie’s face lit up like candles on a birthday cake. I kind of wished Watson could have seen that smile.

  That night I got some interesting phone calls. The first was from Jessi Ramsey. “Guess what,” she said. “Matt Braddock wants to be on your team.”

  “Great!” I exclaimed. Matt’s a terrific kid and a terrific ball player — but he was born deaf. He can’t hear or speak. You have to communicate with him using sign language. Luckily, a lot of the kids in Stoneybrook learned some sign language after they met Matt, so this isn’t much of a problem.

  Then Mallory called. “I talked to my brothers and sisters. Nicky, Claire, and Margo want to be on your team,” she said. “I tried to talk Vanessa into it, but she’s not interested. And the triplets are in Little League.”

  Next to call was Dawn, saying that two of the three Barrett kids she often sits for were interested, plus three friends of theirs (whom I didn’t know).

  The last call was from Claudia. “I haven’t found a single kid for your team,” she wailed.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I told her. “I’ve got twenty already.”

  “Wow!”

  “Yeah.”

  It was time for a planning session with Watson.

  Boy. I did not have any idea what I was getting myself into when I decided to coach a softball team, even after I talked to Watson. It seemed like such a nice thing to do — organize a team for kids who were too embarrassed or too young to be in Little League or to play T-ball. Well, it was a nice thing. I knew that. And Watson knew that, which was why he was so encouraging. But it was also … Well, you’ll see what happened.

  Anyway, as soon as I found out that twenty kids wanted to be on my team, I got to work. First, I made a few lists. The Baby-sitters Club is always doing this, and it’s very helpful. One list, the most importan
t, was of the names and ages of the kids on the team, and their special problems. It looked like this:

  Gabbie Perkins — 2½ — doesn’t understand game yet

  Jamie Newton — 4 — afraid of the ball

  Nina Marshall — 4 — probably just needs work

  Andrew Brewer — 4 — just needs work

  Suzi Barrett — 4 —?

  Myriah Perkins — 5 —? (probably just needs work)

  Claire Pike — 5 —?

  Patsy Kuhn — 5 — (haven’t even met her)

  Laurel Kuhn — 6 — (haven’t even met her)

  Karen Brewer — 6 — just needs work

  Max Delaney — 6 — just needs work

  Buddy Barrett — 7 —?

  David Michael Thomas — 7 — a klutz

  Hannie Papdakis — 7 — poor hitter

  Matt Braddock — 7 — excellent player; uses sign language

  Jackie Rodowsky — 7 — a walking disaster

  Margo Pike — 7 —?

  Nicky Pike — 8 —?

  Jacob Kuhn — 8 — (haven’t even met him)

  Linny Papadakis — 8 — just needs work

  I looked at my list. I did a little math. The average age of my team was 5.8 years — just under six. These were young kids. Of course, if they were older, they’d have joined Little League. Well, some of them would have.

  Then I made a list of questions to answer:

  Where would we meet?

  When and how often would we meet?

  Would anyone help me?

  What would be the purpose of my team?

  Does Bart Taylor think I’m cute?

  A zillion phone calls later, Watson and I had found answers to all but the last question. Thanks to Watson, we got permission to meet at the playground of Stoneybrook Elementary School. This was convenient since a lot of the kids lived nearby. We would meet on Tuesdays after school, and on Saturday afternoons.

  Some of the club members volunteered to help me. Some of them also sounded pretty uncertain. For instance, Jessi said, “I’m a dancer, not an athlete. I barely know the difference between a football and a baseball.” And Claudia said flat out, “I hate sports … but I’ll help you.” Mary Anne and Dawn were more helpful, and said, “We don’t know much about sports, but we love the idea of your team. Just tell us how to help.” Mallory was pure help: “I’ve lived with Little League for two seasons now. I know all there is to know about kids and ball games. I’ll do anything — except watch Claire have a tantrum.”