“Hit it! … Hit it! … No, hit — Oh, never mind,” said Max Delaney crossly.

“Don’t yell at me!” retorted his sister.

“Anyway, you never hit the ball,” Karen accused Max.

Max stuck his tongue out at Karen, and Karen stuck hers out at Max.

It was Saturday, the day after our club meeting, and it was a gorgeous afternoon. I was baby-sitting for Karen, Andrew, and David Michael. We were in the backyard and a bunch of kids had come over to play softball … or to try to play softball. Amanda and Max Delaney were there (Amanda is eight and Max is six), and Linny and Hannie Papadakis had come over, too. Linny is David Michael’s good friend, and Hannie is one of Karen’s best friends. The girls are in the same class at school.

The kids had a pretty pathetic game going. Most of them were old enough to be in Little League or to play T-ball, but I could see why they hadn’t bothered to join a team. They all worked and worked and worked — and nothing happened. I’d never seen so many kids play ball so hard with so few results.

Hannie really couldn’t hit. She never connected with the ball. Max dropped or missed every ball he tried to catch. David Michael was simply a klutz. He tripped over his feet, the bat, even the ball, and no matter how he concentrated, he somehow never did anything right, except pitch. Karen wasn’t a bad hitter. And Andrew might have been a good catcher if he weren’t so little, but he’s only four, so balls went sailing over him right and left, even when he stretched for them. Amanda and Linnie were no better than the others.

“You guys,” I said to the kids, “come over here for a sec, and let me help you get organized. I’ll give you some pointers, too, okay?” (I happen to like sports a lot.)

Karen, Andrew, David Michael, Hannie, Linny, Max, and Amanda dropped their gloves, bats, and the ball. They gathered around me.

“First of all,” I said, “Hannie, it helps to watch the ball when you’re trying to hit it. Don’t look away from it, even to look at your bat.”

“Yeah,” said David Michael knowingly, as if I hadn’t just told him the same thing the day before.

“And, Max, the trick for holding on to the ball after you catch it is to close your glove around it right away. Otherwise, the ball will fall out. And keep your eye on the ball when you’re trying to catch it, just like when you’re trying to hit it. Don’t look at your mitt or the batter. Got it?”

The kids nodded.

Then Andrew said, “What about me? I could catch those balls if I were taller.”

“I know you could,” I replied. “So let’s work on your hitting and pitching instead. The only way to make you taller is to give you stilts. Or else hold up this game for a year or two while you grow.”

Andrew giggled.

I divided the kids into teams — the four younger kids versus the three older ones. “Now!” I cried. “Let’s play ball!”

David Michael pitched to Hannie. Hannie swung her bat. She missed the ball by about two feet. Three times. He pitched to Karen. Karen hit the ball. Smack! It sailed right to Amanda, who appeared to be looking at the ball — until just before it reached her glove. Then she glanced at her glove to see how things were going. The ball flew over her head.

Everyone groaned. Even Karen, who was running bases.

I gathered the kids around me again. “We’re going to stop the game,” I announced, “and have a softball clinic instead.”

“Clinic?” repeated Amanda nervously. “You mean, like a hospital?”

“No. No, I mean when I work with each of you on your weak points — the stuff you need help with. I’ll be your coach and trainer.”

The kids looked excited. And David Michael said, “If I were in Little League, there’d be a coach to help me all the time.”

“You should join,” I told him. “The rest of you should, too. Or play T-ball.”

“I can’t,” said Andrew. “I’m not old enough.”

“I can’t, either,” said Karen and Hannie.

“Why not?” I asked. “Girls can play.”

“Yeah,” said Karen, “but no one would want me.”

“Or me,” said Hannie.

“Or me,” said Linny, David Michael, and Max.

“I don’t want to join,” announced Amanda. “I don’t like playing ball that much.”

“Well, the rest of us do,” said Hannie, who does not get along with Amanda and probably never will.

“We want to be on a team,” added David Michael. “We just don’t want to embarrass ourselves.”

“No Little League?” I asked, knowing what the answer would be.

“Nope,” he replied, and the other kids agreed with him.

Then Amanda spoke up. “Hey, Kristy, do you know Bart Taylor? He coaches his own team right here in the neighborhood. A whole bunch of kids belong. His team is called Bart’s Bashers.”

“Maybe we could join!” exclaimed David Michael.

“I could talk to Bart,” I said slowly. “Where does he live, Amanda? And who is he, anyway?”

“He’s this kid. He goes to Stoneybrook Day School. I think he’s in eighth grade, just like you, Kristy.” Amanda told me where he lives, which isn’t too far from my house.

Well, I thought, I could go talk to him. I wouldn’t like it — but I would do it. Why wouldn’t I like it? A lot of reasons. For one thing, you can never tell about eighth-grade boys. Half of them are normal, the other half are jerks. And in this neighborhood, about half of both groups are also snobs. I figured my odds. I had a twenty-five percent chance of getting a plain jerk, a twenty-five percent chance of getting a snobby jerk, a twenty-five percent chance of getting a plain snob, and a twenty-five percent chance of getting a regular, old nice guy.

The odds were not great, but I would risk them.

If only my brothers and I went to private school like the rest of the kids in this neighborhood, then the kids wouldn’t have to lord their snobbishness over us. On the other hand, we might be jerks ourselves then, and besides, I wouldn’t be in the same school with Claudia, Mary Anne, Dawn, Jessi, and Mal.

Mom and Watson came home at three-thirty that afternoon. At four o’clock, I put Shannon on her leash and walked her over to Bart’s house.

A very, very, very cute guy was in the Taylors’ yard, raking up dead grass and twigs and things. It couldn’t be Bart. Most people around here have gardeners to take care of their lawns.

The boy saw me slow down and look curiously at him.

“Can I help you?” he called.

“I’m, um, I’m looking for Bart Taylor,” I replied.

“Well, you found him.” Bart grinned.

I grinned back. So far, so good. Maybe Bart was from that normal nonjerky twenty-five percent.

Bart dropped his rake and crossed the yard to the sidewalk. “That’s a great-looking dog,” he said as Shannon put her front paws on his knees and wagged her tail joyfully.

“She’s a Bernese mountain dog,” I told Bart. “Oh, my name’s Kristy Thomas. I came by … I came by to ask you something.”

Why did I feel so nervous? I’ve talked to boys before. I’ve been to dances with boys. I’ve been to parties with boys. But none of them had looked at me the way Bart was looking at me just then — as if standing on the sidewalk was a glamorous movie star instead of plain old me, Kristy Thomas. And, to be honest, none of them had been quite as cute as Bart. They didn’t have his crooked smile or his deep, deep brown eyes, or his even, straight, perfect nose, or his hair that looked like it might have been styled at one of those hair places for guys — or not. I think it’s a good sign if you can’t tell.

“Yes?” said Bart, and I realized I’d just been staring at him.

“Oh. Oh,” I stammered. “Um, what I wanted to ask you is, well, I heard about your softball team, and I wondered whether you need any more players.”

Bart laughed. “You’re a little old,” he replied.

“Oh, it’s not me!” I cried. “It’s my younger brother, and my little stepbrother and stepsister, and, let’s see, one, two, three other kids. My stepbrother, Andrew, is only four,” I rushed on. “I feel I have to tell you that. And none of them is very good. Well, Karen’s not a bad hitter, but David Michael’s a klutz, and Linny’s —”

“Whoa!” exclaimed Bart. “Hold it. You’re talking about six kids? I could take on one more, maybe two, but not six. I’ve already got more kids than I need.”

Bart and I talked a little while longer. I decided two things. Since Bart couldn’t handle any more kids, I would start my own team. I would take on any kid who really wanted to play on a team, no matter how young or klutzy or uncoordinated he or she was. I would call the other girls in the club and tell them to keep their ears open for kids who’d want to join. Maybe Jamie Newton, or some of the Pikes or Barretts would be interested. I could talk to Watson about the team. Watson loves baseball. In all honesty, he’s not the most athletic person I can think of, but he’s a huge baseball fan, and he’s good at organizing and running things — even better than I am, and I don’t mind admitting it. If I wanted to start a softball team, Watson was the person to go to.

The other thing I decided was that I had a Gigantic Crush on Bart Taylor.