Day for the Rockskippers meant Opening Night for Garland’s Grill, so all of Ridge Creek tumbled out into our side of the parking lot for cheeseburgers and play-by-playing after the game. The Rockskippers had won, 4–1, which meant it’d be as crowded as the creek on a blazing day. Everyone had room for snacks and chatter when we were the champs. And even though I was happy about my fellow southpaw’s win, I was happier that I wouldn’t have to sneak him any free shutout sweet‑potato fries just yet.
Garland made Triple wash up real good and leave Peter in the Rambler, and even though I didn’t think he’d want to find Peter relaxing in the kitchenette’s sink, it was where that turtle was. Triple turned Twang back into an instrument, since Peter had a place to hang out for a while, and that’s when I remembered the blue rubber band.
“Here,” I said, and flicked it in his direction.
And because it was also in my pocket, I sweetened myself up a touch with the Christmas Nutmeg and splashed some water on my face before we left the Rambler.
“Hey!” Triple said. “Peter!”
“Easy, Triple. He’s probably used to being wet.”
The two of us walked to the Grill, which took about as much time as a bowling ball takes to split the pins. Triple did his acoustic act up and down the line and I ducked inside to help Garland. Even though Triple was a small thing, only two Clarks fit inside the Grill if you didn’t want an elbow in your side. I flung orders and Garland flipped burgers, and while I stacked the baskets, he steamed the buns. All of his Aren’t we luckys vibrated real loud in my ears, and I tried not to sweat all over the sweet‑potato fries. We’d perfected this cramped choreography of the Grill long ago, so I stepped in time as best I could.
“Southpaw!”
Mr. Bell’s untied sneakers were the only thing I could see, so I bent down to catch a better picture through the tiny pickup window, grateful to suck in real Ridge Creek air instead of the steamy onion sauna of the Grill. And then I stuck out my left thumb.
“Real nice stuff out there, Mr. Bell! Bummer about that line drive Lump missed, or else I’d be fixing you a bunch of sweet‑potato fries, right?”
“Well, the season’s young, young’un!”
The way he pitched right back to me made Charlie laugh a little. She’d been hiding behind him like she was shy, even though Triple always made her sound bossy and too much like Betsy Plogger for her own good. I snuck a smile at her anyway.
“Three cheeseburgers and three sweet potato fries, and that’ll be all,” he said. “And does your banjo man out here take requests?”
“He’s a little light on variety, but you can try.” Talking about Triple like that turned Charlie’s shy to smug real quick, so maybe he wasn’t too far off about her after all.
But then the line shifted and I wished I hadn’t blamed Lump Emmett for wrecking the shutout. Because there was Marcus, right behind Charlie and her daddy that whole time.
He stared at me and I stared back, and my mouth kind of froze in the I want to say something way, but nothing came out. He didn’t call me a flycatcher or anything, so I bet he was just as stuck on words as I was. And Garland bumped my hip, reminding me that I had broken time in our tune.
Then Marcus laughed.
So did I.
And we were back.
“Hungry?” I asked, knowing the answer. “So, grounds crew? You should’ve told me.”
“Starving. All they’ve got in the bullpen is pistachios and chewing tobacco, and that stuff will rust up your teeth.”
“And your mom would have a fit, right?” I wrote up a ticket for Marcus’s favorite—two hamburgers with extra mustard, extra pickles, and stuffed with onion rings—and reached it over to Garland.
Garland swung around. “No way this order belongs to anyone besides my man Marcus Emmett!”
“Hey, Garland,” Marcus said. “Welcome back.”
“How’s your mother?”
“Real good. She’s real good. Says she’s been perfecting a new pie recipe for the Rally, if you’ll be there.”
“Well, of course,” Garland said. “The best kind of food is the dessert kind, right?”
He never said anything about the Rally being fun, but he was real into the food. That’s probably because the Rally had every kind of pie anyone could ever imagine, and Garland was pretty good at imagining. The best-tasting baked thing won a ribbon and bragging rights for the whole next year, and the Ridge Creek ladies thought that was better than any kind of pennant. Last year Estelle Hooch’s chocolate chip cookies beat out every single one of the pies, including Candy Plogger’s Famous Apple. Candy didn’t take that too well, but those cookies were even better than June’s.
All the Rockskippers skipped warm-ups and batting practice on Rally Day and let kids try to knock them into the dunk tank or smack water balloons into the backs of their jerseys, right in the numbers. It was a way for all of Ridge Creek to feel like a Rockskipper for a day, and the players were real good sports about it, even if they didn’t play too well later on account of all those pies.
Garland couldn’t wait for the pies, and Triple was even more excited, since the Rally was when the turtle race happened. The whole day was kind of like a church potluck, but without the church and with a lot more reptiles. It was mostly in the stadium parking lot, but some parts stretched to the inside, like the race-around-the-bases and the kids’ softball game. With an actual game later, it was a real busy day for the grounds crew, who’d always been a crew of just one.
“The Rally. Big day for you now,” I said down to Marcus once Garland twirled back around to the burgers.
“I know.” And then Marcus bent down and picked up a penny.
“This year?” I strained to see if it was shiny in his palm. Marcus looked up at me and smiled, which was a loud and clear yes.
“See you there,” I said. I handed Marcus his two hamburgers with extra mustard, extra pickles, and stuffed with onion rings, and off he went.
Remembering Marcus on Franklin’s cart was like catching the faintest glimpse of myself. I wondered if I would help at the box office if it were June who was gone—and what about the rest of the year? Had anyone sat with her on the porch eating oatmeal raisin cookies since Christmastime? My gut sank lower, right to the spot where sadness goes.
It struck my brain then that I didn’t really know much about June Mattingly through the other seasons. She’d been here for me, summer after summer after summer, but I’d only ever offered her endless burgers and fries in return.
“Derby? Hello? A milkshake?” And as quick and quiet as those thoughts had come, they floated away like the swirls of a just-blown-out candle, because Betsy was next in line.
“Sure. A nice vegetarian option, of course,” I said.
With a Triple and Twang tune in my head—something about racing turtles and turtledoves—the rest of the short night in the Grill seemed like it was exactly what Garland loved: food, family, and fun. But my heart jumped along with the grease splatters when I thought about the Aren’t we lucky part.
I didn’t think we were very lucky at all. Lucky is having one good girl cousin and vegetarian french fries. All we were was tired and sad and smelling like onions.