inside walkways of the James Edward Allen Gibbs Stadium cast the same kind of spell as the outfield. They smelled like peanut butter from all the smashed and salted shells, which was almost as delicious a smell as the one in Franklin’s field.
The day was still quiet, but getting louder. There were some pops and cracks of gloves as the Rockskippers began to take the field for drills, and a cluster of pigeons poked around for stray peanuts. They’d have more luck once the season was in full swing, because for now the stadium was looking almost brand-new again.
June’s tiny hut always made our Rambler look like some real queen’s quarters, but her place was just as special. Rockskippers pennants earned in seasons past covered it from the shingles to the ground—always blue and red, some more weathered than others. They were familiar and faded, like some kind of home.
I heard her singing something a little bit hushed inside her box office. And then, there she was. June came out with two lemonades and a grin. “Hey there, Sugar Sue. I’ve been waiting for you.”
I flopped into her arms and didn’t even care that I was still grassy from the outfield and wet from the sprinklers, or that a cold bottle of lemonade was giving me goosebumps where she pressed it into the back of my arm. She was easy to melt into, and just like when Franklin danced with her under the stars in the infield, she rocked me back and forth and just let me be for a minute.
“What do you think of this color, Sugar Sue?” June pulled away and smacked her lips, and all of the years between my eleven and her many more slipped away.
“Fancy, June—perfect for the first game day of the summer,” I said. “It’s almost even the Rockskipper red.”
I never talked about lipstick with Garland and Triple. Color only mattered to them when the gas gauge got to red or the evergreens weren’t so green.
“There’s this new one you might like—it’s called Christmas Nutmeg. Doesn’t make much sense to smear Christmas Nutmeg on your lips when it’s hotter than the devil’s sauna here in Ridge Creek, but it sure is beautiful.”
And that was the first time I ever thought the name Derby Christmas Clark was glamorous like hers.
“It’s gonna be a fine summer, Sugar Sue.” June disappeared into her box office. She didn’t come back out with strawberries or oatmeal raisin cookies like she did when we were on her porch, but she did have two old Rockskippers seat cushions. It looked like the cush part had long gone, but we plopped onto them, right on the front steps of the stadium.
“Did you get in real late?” she asked.
“Not too bad,” I said. “After it’d gotten dark, but we still did the ride-around.”
June sipped her lemonade, which left a little ring of red around the rim of the bottle. “Lots to see, hmm?”
“I mean, it would be impossible to get the Rambler down by the creek, so we didn’t get there yet,” I said. “Triple’s already down there, of course.”
“Because of Charlie?”
She was right about that. Charlie Bell was the littlest daughter of one of the pitchers, and she always won the turtle race at the Rally. I’d always told Triple not to get so hung up on those dumb turtles, because she had twelve whole months to train them in Ridge Creek, and Triple was stuck with not even one.
“I suppose Mr. Bell wasn’t traded during the off-season?” I asked hopefully. June laughed the kind where you throw your center of gravity out of whack, and I could have sworn I saw her tear up a little too. I wasn’t sure what was so funny.
“How’s Marcus?” I continued.
“Marcus?” June got that faraway look again, but this time it came with a smile. “Bet he’s one of the greatest friends you’ll ever count on. Been looking forward to this day all spring too, you know.”
“Opening Day?” I blew across the top of my lemonade bottle, making a sound low and slow like June’s own song.
“I mean the day you get back here—that’s the one he’s been looking forward to, Derby.”
“Oh.” I didn’t want to rush away my time with June, but it was nice to know that someone was counting on my rambling just as much as I was counting on their solid ground.
“Do you and Triple want behind-the-dugout seats again? Every game? I haven’t sold those yet, see, because I knew you were coming,” June said. “How about Garland? Can we make it three this year?”
I couldn’t remember a time that Garland had taken me to a Rockskippers game. He always worried about the Grill and the burgers and the mustard tubs, and even on the night the Rockskippers’ marquee shouted he didn’t show up.
Maybe baseball just wasn’t his sport.
“I’ll ask him, June,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure he’s as close as he’s gonna get to the bleachers right now.”
“Well, then. Two it is.”
“Two it is,” I said. “Speaking of two, how’s Franklin? I didn’t see him when I snuck in.”
June set down her lemonade bottle and put her chin in her hands. “Franklin,” she said, and left it at that, because just then someone shuffled down the stairs. Ferdie carried a big box that must have held the letters for the marquee, because he’d dropped one or two behind him. June creaked her way to standing, picking up an L and a P along the way.
“Excuse me, ladies,” Ferdie said. “I’ve just got to finish this up before this afternoon.”
“Excuse me, too,” I said. “I think it’s about time for me to find Marcus at the creek.” I picked up both of the lemonade bottles so Ferdie wouldn’t have to, and skipped down the steps toward the Rambler’s side of the parking lot.
“See you both for batting practice!” I said, and off I went.