the pie on the porch. The only place that made sense to go was back to the stadium, and so I slipped through FILLING and BELLIES because it was closest to the bullpen, closest to Marcus.
I could tell a real storm was on its way because the last slivers of the thick morning air didn’t have anywhere to escape to, and it drew out the sweat from my face. The clouds hung low and gray and awful, like they were settling in for a story. Soon enough there’d be nothing but mugginess and noise—rowdy Rockskippers both throwing heat and complaining about it.
That soon enough came real quick, when the clanking and cursing and a motor that sounded less in tune than Miss Houston’s bad notes interrupted the quiet.
“Marcus Theodore Williams Emmett!”
There he was, head stuck under the hood of Franklin’s cart as if it were just another day fixing up busted cars at the body shop. His arms were caked with red mud and dirt, and each clank I’d heard was Marcus kicking the cart. At least those clanks covered up the curses.
“This crusty old thing won’t start up.” Marcus ignored the way I’d hollered all of his names like I was his mama or something.
“Here,” I said, and used all the muscle I could squeeze into my arms to lift that hood so Marcus could tinker with the guts.
“This can’t happen before the second game of the season. Franklin would never . . .”
“Maybe it’ll get rained out anyway.” I didn’t want that to happen, but it did feel like that was the type of weather that best suited our moods.
I thought about all of the mess in June’s front yard, the mess that wouldn’t exist if Franklin was there to take care of it, the mess that must have reminded her every time she stepped outside. And I thought about my own family’s mess, the one with wheels, the one that reminded me every day that we had a table for four and were only three.
I’d been there watching Marcus try to fix that engine for who knows how long—and that’s when I remembered my promise to Triple. “The high-five,” I said.
“Derby, not right now,” said Marcus. “I’m kind of busy.”
“No, Marcus—it’s Triple. I ditched him before I even got to the creek.” I kicked Franklin’s cart myself, but it didn’t feel as good as cursing might have. “Can I have some old grass clippings? Peter could use some.”
“Peter?”
“It’s Triple’s . . . Triple’s new champion turtle.”
“You know, Lefty, they’re not just old grass clippings. The turf industry is way more complex than some old lady’s gardening club.”
It was like standing in front of Franklin Mattingly himself, like he’d stood his ground right here in Marcus, right in the bullpen at the James Edward Allen Gibbs Stadium. I inhaled a deep breath of fumes and fertilizer, but before I could say anything, Marcus rambled on.
“Did you know that Carlton Bell and Javy Avelar and Samson Brickhouse all like the pitcher’s mound raked differently? Did you know it matters? A turf specialist makes sure his team can play to win.” Marcus stomped down on that rake. “Twisted ankles on divots in the outfield? That’s on me, Derby.”
“Did he teach you how to mow the creek ripples in the outfield?” I hoped for me and June and all of Ridge Creek that the answer was yes.
“You know, I think when Franklin first created those ripples he was just out joyriding on his mower. You know, for the pure love of grass and turf,” Marcus said. “It was the rest of us that pictured our place for skipping rocks right here in the field.”
It was funny, the way Marcus was all of a sudden such an expert in something so important to baseball when he didn’t even want to play it. And that’s when I realized.
“That’s why you’re the Skipper, Marcus,” I said. “That’s why Franklin named you that.”
“Why’s that?”
“You know that’s what they call the manager of a ball club, right?”
Marcus looked at me like I’d asked him to plant daisies in the outfield.
“Seriously, Marcus? You really have been ignoring everything Lump’s been teaching you about baseball all these years, haven’t you? No wonder he dropped his glove in left field and bolted that day.”
“The skipper is the manager?” Marcus’s voice was so small I had to stare at his lips to understand for sure what he said.
“He’s the leader, the strategy-thinker-upper, the boss man. In charge of all this . . .” I waved my arm toward the rest of the broken and beautiful stadium. “That’s you.”
Marcus’s face crumpled into a look that mixed sheer happiness with needing to throw up, and I let him have a minute. This time it wasn’t because I was one of those friends who understood the quiet, but because something had caught my eye as I swept my palm out toward home.
The Rockskippers hadn’t shown up for work yet, and if Ferdie was around, he was doing a pretty good job of ignoring us. I had thought Marcus and I were the only ones there. But high above the field in the bleachers, in the closest thing we had to the nosebleeds and right where the sun set every night, sat . . . somebody.
Marcus mumbled something about the Skipper and the ripples and if I didn’t mind could we just meet up later after he finished his very important job. I didn’t pay him much attention or answer him or even take that handful of grass for Peter. I was too busy trying to figure out what Garland, who never, ever entered the stadium, was doing up there.