The Orioles and Red Sox were just finishing their pregame warm-ups at Eddie Murray Field a few days later when a voice behind the backstop bellowed, “Where’s the great Connor Sullivan? I need to talk to him right now.”

“Uh-oh, Melissa Morrow,” Willie Pitts said to Connor. “I’d recognize that foghorn anywhere.”

All Connor knew about Melissa was that the other guys thought she was a big, fat pain in the butt.

Actually, she wasn’t big or fat at all, and she could even be considered kind of pretty—if you liked girls with freckles, Chiclets-white teeth, and mounds of red hair. Connor was beginning to think he did.

But Melissa had a way of speaking to you that made you feel dumb—dumber even than Mr. Corbacio made you feel in science class when you messed up on a cells, tissues, and organs quiz. So when she marched up to him waving a notebook, Connor was fully prepared to feel as if his IQ had dropped forty points.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“You probably don’t know I’m the sports editor of the school newspaper,” she began.

“What, you don’t think I know how to read?” Connor said.

Melissa didn’t miss a beat. “I’m sure you manage to get by—somehow.”

“Something I can do for you?” Connor said. “Maybe you noticed we’re about to play ball.”

Melissa made a big show of looking amazed.

“You mean all these dorky-looking boys in their polyester uniforms, with the bats and the balls and the gloves—they’re here to play baseball?”

“Bossy and sarcastic—an intoxicating combination,” Connor said with a smile. He felt good today, ready to play, encouraged by the pep talk his dad had given him. Even Melissa’s presence wasn’t going to dampen his mood.

“Look,” Melissa said, “I just want you to know we’re publishing one more edition of the York Tattler before summer vacation.”

“Thanks for the memo,” Connor said, pulling a bat from his equipment bag. “I’ll be sure to pick up a copy. Maybe I’ll find someone to read it to me.”

“You should,” Melissa said. “Because I’m doing a big story on you.”

Now it was Connor’s turn to look surprised.

“Me?” he said. “Why waste space on me?”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Modest,” Melissa said. “Everyone knows you’re the best player in the league. Best hitter, best shortstop, surefire all-star, blah, blah, blah. And I hear you’re going to the Brooks Robinson camp, too.” She smiled and put both hands on her hips, gazing at him intently. “No doubt about it,” she went on, “inquiring minds want to know all about the great Connor Sullivan.”

For a moment, Connor was speechless. He pretended to examine his bat, waiting for his brain to process what he’d just heard.

“What if I don’t want you writing about me?” he said finally.

Melissa shook her head sadly, as if talking to a particularly slow third grader. “Ever hear of the First Amendment, bonehead?” she said. “Freedom of the press? That ring a bell anywhere?”

“Freedom of the press, freedom of the press…” Connor said, scratching his head. “No, that’s a new one for me.”

Melissa shot him a sour look. “Anyway, I’ll be coming to the rest of your games,” she said. “And I’ll be taking pictures for the story and shooting video for our Web site. Probably have to interview you once or twice, too.”

Great, Connor thought. A couple more conversations like this and my IQ will be down to zero.

“Nobody wants to read about me, Melissa,” he said. “I’m a pretty boring guy.”

“Uh-huh. Right,” Melissa said.

“Don’t believe me?” With that, Connor shouted to Jordy Marsh and Willie Pitts, who were loosening their arms along the sideline. “Guys, aren’t I the most boring person you ever met?”

Willie grinned and nodded. “Dude, you’re like walking anesthesia,” he said.

“You’re putting me to sleep right now,” Jordy added.

“Nice try, hotshot,” Melissa said, poking a finger in Connor’s chest. “But you’re my Tattler story. Go out there and make us both look good.”

She turned on her heel, strode over to the bleachers behind home plate, and found a seat. Connor watched her pull a tiny video camera from her backpack and fiddle with the lens.

As the Red Sox took the field, he couldn’t decide who was making him more nervous: Melissa Morrow, or the big kid warming up on the mound, Billy Burrell.

If Melissa threw a fastball as hard as Billy did, Connor decided, it would be no contest.