the morning, I woke up to hammering and hoots and hollers from the parking lot as the men of Ridge Creek assembled the booths and the ladies began to display their confections. But inside the Rambler, all I heard was Garland rummaging through the cabinets, rooting around for that Santa Claus mug.
“Morning, gentlemen,” I said to the boys, slipping into a seat at the table. Peter crawled around on top of it, eye-to-eye with Triple, ready perhaps for the afternoon’s race. I made a mental note to clean the table real good when the day was over, but first I’d keep my mouth shut and let Triple focus.
We both had a big day.
“How about some eggs, Derby?” Garland asked.
“Yes, please. And some coffee?” I turned to Triple, though I was really asking myself. “Are you ready?”
This got a crinkly, freckly morning grin out of him, and soon the three of us sat there in comfortable quiet, eating eggs and listening to the booms and bangs from outside.
“Looks like Peter’s hungry.” Triple grabbed one of his new drums and plopped Peter down into it, then reached for that old pistachio bag with the stadium’s smorgasbord right inside. And off he went, taking all the confidence in the world with him.
Garland shouted a Good luck! and a See you at the race!, but I was too nervous for words to come out. After Triple left, Garland gave me a look that was a little bit strange and a little bit sad, and it was a hard one to read.
“I’m going to see if Marcus needs any help,” I said. “Turf management, you know.”
Since I wasn’t really going to see Marcus, I snuck over to the Grill and twisted out a strand of lights and a garland of greenery. June needed a better wreath, and one that I could weave from spare joy might sweep away those cobwebs.
The weight of wishes and a day that would bring blisters was already bearing down, hot and humid and heavy. But the Rally didn’t know about all of that, and our front yard was already almost as exciting as a nail biter of a ninth inning.
“Goose! I need the award ribbons for the pies—where are the ribbons for the pies?” Candy Plogger screeched out orders in a voice that clamored above the rest of the clatter. Goose followed her with an armful of tools and a can of paint that dripped Rockskipper red, which made him look like a walking storage shed. Scooter followed close behind both of them, laughing and cutting up and carrying on.
That’s when I understood where Betsy might have gotten her bossy from. But because sometimes the worst in people gets flipped around, I walked over to the girls’ parking-spot nail salon.
“Good morning, you two,” I said. “Thanks for staying here to keep an eye on June.”
Lollie and Betsy were both in pink again, but not pajamas this time, and Betsy had her chopped hair floofed up and a bow stuck somewhere in the pinned-back curls. If I had been interested in having my nails painted, these two looked like experts.
“Actually, Derby,” said Betsy, “I’ve got some business to take care of, so June is up to Lollie.”
For a second, split like last night’s moon, I saw the old Betsy, the one cracking bubblegum on the porch of the Sweet Street Mart. And then she ran off, like she’d forgotten all about the letters and the late night and the real Rally plans.
“Okay,” I said, and I watched her go.
“It is,” said Lollie. “Really.”
There weren’t any more seconds to split, so I thanked Lollie again and dashed down past third base, headed to June’s. I took one more look at Ferdie’s marquee, the one that said nothing more than because we’d borrowed so many letters, and all my wishes turned into hope.
I hoped Marcus was already there.
I hoped Betsy hadn’t run off with my friendship.
I hoped Garland wouldn’t find the Franklin bucket in my queen room.
I hoped June felt loved and needed and at home.
I still hoped the sun could stay out longer and longer and that this summer wouldn’t ever end.
But when I passed the impatiens at the end of the drive and ran straight on past the weeds to the porch, Marcus wasn’t there.
He’d promised. And I don’t know if it was the heat or the heartache or the Blue cow, but I sat down on the porch, too tired to cry. I wondered how one person would pull all these weeds and pour in new dirt and clear the vines that hugged the walls.
One person can’t make up a house. June couldn’t keep up with this one, and maybe it was from loneliness more than needing muscles. But neither one of us could manage this job without the grounds crew.
It only takes one person disappearing for a whole family to crumble.
But then a rumble motored down the driveway. Marcus looked surer than he had the first time I’d seen him driving Franklin’s cart, like now he knew he belonged there.
“I had to take the long way, remember?”
Seeing Marcus reminded me of what mattered. The crumble is quick to fix when you let other people patch it up.
“I brought you some batting gloves Lump loaned me,” he continued. “I know you hate getting blisters.”
And then, all of the too-tired-to-cry from earlier caught up to me and didn’t stop.
“Pull it together, Lefty. It’s four hours until the race. We’ve got to get this done.” Marcus whacked me on the arm like any skipper would.
I’d already known Marcus took dirt real serious, but then he hauled out two huge bags of soil that were each about the size of a pillowcase.
“We’ll need one of those over by the mailbox and one down there by the porch,” he said.
I slipped Lump’s batting gloves on and dragged each bag to their new garden beds, then headed right back to the Skipper for the next call.
“These things are called sweet peas, which sounded like something June would call you, so I thought you’d both like them.” Marcus handed me a box overflowing with small purple poofs. “The guy at the store even said the more you cut, the more they grow, and I thought that would be real nice for June. I used some of my grounds‑crew money.”
I sniffed that sweet pea, and I knew Marcus was right. And then we got to work.
Marcus said I was a natural with garden tools. I think that’s probably because I’m pretty good with both a spatula and a saw, so I’m not sure why he was surprised. We yanked and dug and raked and planted, and four hands and a couple hours later, June’s storm was starting to clear out.
As nice as lemonade and oatmeal raisin cookies sounded, Marcus’s company was just as good for a break, and so we settled on the front porch steps to watch the flowers and the time.
But then Betsy skipped down the driveway, waving with one arm and hauling something heavy in the other, and I remembered all that hope.
“Sorry I’m late. I had to chase down some paint.” Betsy lifted up a bucket, and something sloshed over the edges.
“Paint?” I asked.
“The best pink.” She nodded toward June’s front door, the one whose welcome had withered. That’s when I noticed that Betsy had changed into an old Rockskippers jersey of Scooter’s, and she was ready to get to work. “Goose had all that red paint, and I asked Ferdie if he could spare any of that white we saw in the dugout, and he didn’t even look at me funny.” Betsy dug into each pocket for a paintbrush. “I bet he wondered what I needed with a bunch of billboard paint, but he gave it to me anyway and I said thank you, of course, because people are a lot nicer when you’re nice to them first.”
That’s when I hugged her.
The Skipper took charge of finishing up the planting, either because that’s who he was or because he wanted his tools back or because he didn’t know what to do with all of this niceness. But still, I squeezed Betsy so tight that I got sweet‑pea dirt all over her, and then we painted June’s door the best pink.