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 something 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.