was hard to rally up any excitement for the afternoon’s game, because my heart had already taken as much as I thought it could in one day. But then I saw Garland back at the Grill, and he was always good at making hope float on top again.
“Sunshine!” he said.
“Hey, Garland. Where’s Triple?”
“You beat him this time,” Garland said. “Peter made him forget all about the onions.”
I took the pistachio‑shell bag out of my pocket, the one that had Peter’s deluxe meal inside, and set it on Garland’s prep area, trying to be casual and not revealing the heartbeat that wanted to jump out of my skin.
“Do you know who Phoebe Susan is?” I asked.
“Is that Miss Houston’s name?” Garland tied and retied his apron strings, and that’s when I knew how deep June’s once-upon-a-time was. Even Garland didn’t know.
And then my shine turned back on a little, and I danced around the Grill doing the onions and prepping the mustard. When Triple hopped into the Grill, all three of us twirled around each other until Garland said that we both better get out of there because “Three’s a lot of love, but three’s also a crowd.”
So I grabbed Peter’s dinner and Triple’s hand, and we headed out to the game.
“Here,” I said, handing Triple the bag. “This is for Peter, the perfect vegetarian meal for a turtle.”
“Pistachios?”
“Look inside,” I said. “It’s Rockskipper grass, straight from the outfield, so it’s the most paid-attention-to lawn in all of Ridge Creek. And if you ever need any more, just go see Marcus in the bullpen. If you call him the Skipper, he’ll do anything you want.”
“Awesome,” said Triple, and he stuck that dinner right in his pocket.
The sun beat down on the scene, on the line milling around June’s box office and under Ferdie’s words, which seemed so far from the words of Opening Day. The hot pavement seared through the soles of your sneakers if you stood in place for too long, so everyone had a little extra bounce in their step.
“How was the creek today?” I asked, afraid he’d bring up Twang, afraid he’d be upset that I’d missed another day for high-fives and turtle practice.
“Oh, Derby, it was awesome,” Triple said. “Charlie came by looking for a new one today. She said she had to start over because her mom left the lid of the tank open and her best racer escaped.”
“Well, that’s a real shame,” I said.
And I only sort of meant it. Triple had me and Garland as examples for how to treat people nice, and that was it. I didn’t want him to grow up like a jerk, but I did want him to beat Charlie Bell.
“I know,” he said. “Such a shame.”
“Derby!” For the umpteenth time that day, my name spilled out of a Plogger’s mouth, and mostly in a way that said Hello and How are you and Nice to see you.
“Hi, Lollie,” I said, and thought an extra Blue cow, just in case a laugh might be coming on. “Betsy. You guys remember Triple, right?”
Triple seemed a little bit stunned by the two of them, because he turned the color of Heavens to Betsy itself. “Hey,” he said, and ran up into the stadium.
“Do you want to sit with us tonight? We like the first‑base side, and I know you guys are good bosses over there on the other,” I said, not meaning bossy in a bad way, but it’s what came out first.
“Sure,” Lollie said. “Right, Betsy?”
“That’d be nice.” She squeezed my hand on our way up to the seats, and as nice as Lollie was, it was even nicer to share a secret with only Betsy.
So the four of us got our Rockskippers posters and sat in the seats behind the first base dugout—Triple, Lollie, Betsy, and I. When Marcus caught my eye from the bullpen, he looked real confused. I just shrugged and laughed and was glad I could use the Heritage Inn bathroom for the rest of the summer without some kind of inquisition.
“Too bad Marcus won’t be around, since he’s so busy fixing up the grass,” Betsy said when she saw me looking his way.
My loyalty to Marcus ran deeper than I could reach, because I blurted out, “Turf management, that’s what it’s called. It’s not some old lady’s gardening club.”
Those Plogger ponytails whipped around in perfect precision, like they had planned a routine to start when someone said turf management. Triple looked at us like he’d rather be over there in the bullpen, and the three of us girls laughed, all together.
“It’s so hot out here,” Lollie said, after the laughing ran out. Betsy and I looked at each other, and I knew it was because this hot was nothing compared to the hot it had been in June’s house. Where Marcus knew all about the outside, Betsy knew all about the inside.
“She needs a better fan, right?” I asked Betsy. “Or an air conditioner for her window or something?”
“She sure does. It’s not right to be so lonely and miserable at the same time.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We can fix one of those parts, at least.”
That’s when Lollie grabbed Betsy’s elbow to convince her it was time to start the wave, time to rally for the Rockskippers. So that’s when I added a wrinkle to our plan to rally behind June. We could fix up the outside of her home, and we could cool down the inside. Ridge Creek was no place to be in the summer without air conditioning, especially if you lived in a real home that didn’t have wheels and didn’t have a fryer.
And then, as I stood up and sat down on the count of Betsy and Lollie’s wave, watching Marcus rake the field free of bumps, I saw Ferdie across the way. Something in that moment stuck, and I wondered if I could make that something work.
I also wondered where I could find a bunch more pennies to wish on.