Robbie couldn’t concentrate in school on Monday. In math class that morning he found himself gazing out the window and reliving the crazy events of the past forty-eight hours.

It seemed as if half the kids at York Middle had heard about his little throwing exhibition at the carnival. The minute he walked through the double doors, students were rushing up to congratulate him and request a play-by-play of the feat. A few had even asked for his autograph! Just before Homeroom he had run into Marty, who was wriggling like a puppy with excitement.

“Dude, you’re a living legend!” Marty had said. “Everyone’s talking about that golden arm of yours!”

“Too bad I’m not legendary where it counts—on the mound,” Robbie said, tossing his backpack in his locker. “And how did everyone find out, anyway?” He narrowed his eyes and gazed suspiciously at Marty. “Has a certain big-mouth bud of mine been telling the entire world?”

“Not me,” Marty said. “I swear. It’s everyone else on the team. Especially Connor and Jordy. Willie, too, if you can believe it. They’re talking you up, big-time.”

“Even Willie?” Robbie said. “Amazing. How’s he like that big panda?”

“Dude, he brought it to school!” Marty said.

“Wha—? You gotta be kidding me!”

The memory of that conversation made Robbie smile now. But it also made him wonder how a kid who can pump nine straight balls into a tiny hole could not be able to blow away batters.

“Yeah, how?” he heard himself say.

Suddenly another voice, deeper and richer, said, “How, Mr. Hammond? Whatever do you mean?”

With a start, Robbie realized he’d been daydreaming. Looking around sheepishly, he saw the entire class staring back at him. The teacher, Mr. Rumsey, a tall, distinguished-looking man in a white oxford shirt, sports jacket, and red bow tie, stood in the front of the classroom, an amused look on his face.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Rumsey said, “by the look of things, Mr. Hammond has not been with us for the past few minutes. At least not mentally. Possibly he has been on another planet. Or he has been thinking about a pretty young lady. Or baseball. Or his favorite video game. Anything to escape the incredible, all-encompassing tedium that is mathematics.”

The other students chuckled. Robbie felt his face redden.

“How do I know Mr. Hammond has been elsewhere mentally?” Mr. Rumsey continued, pacing back and forth in front of the blackboard. “Simple: because he was smiling. You see, my students don’t smile. No, my students come to class each and every day with the same cheerful demeanor as prisoners about to face a firing squad.”

Now everyone in the class was giggling. Mr. R. was on a roll. The students had seen this kind of self-deprecating performance from their teacher many times before. And it was always hugely entertaining.

“Yes, I am the single most boring teacher in the history of York Middle School,” Mr. Rumsey continued, his voice rising. “So it’s little wonder our young friend here zoned out earlier. And you can bet he will zone out quite a few more times before this semester is over.

“And do you know why? Because the sound of my voice is more effective than any sleep aid on Earth. Why, even now, as I listen to myself prattle on and on, I can almost feel myself slipping into a deep slumber.”

He paused in the center of the classroom. Raising his arms, he looked beseechingly at the class. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice a stage whisper, “I’ll admit it. As an educator, I am a fraud. A complete and utter failure.”

By this time the whole class was laughing uproariously. Even Robbie joined in, despite his embarrassment. The truth was that Mr. Rumsey was one of the most popular teachers in the school, one who could make even the densest math theorems sound interesting.

Well, almost interesting.

“It’s not you, Mr. R.,” Robbie said, when the class had settled down. “I was just, um…thinking about something.”

“Ah, yes, and I believe I know what it is,” Mr. Rumsey said. “I heard there was some excitement this weekend. At the carnival, wasn’t it? Something about a young man performing some sort of athletic feat that had to be seen to be believed.”

The rest of the class was smiling and looking at Robbie. His face felt even hotter.

And he thought: Even the teachers know?

“Yes, well, I can see how that could consume one’s thoughts,” Mr. R. continued. “But if you’d be good enough to put aside thoughts of your amazing evening and focus on the lesson plan at hand, calculating perimeter and circumference—oh, the excitement; be still my heart!—we’ll get on with it.”

Robbie nodded vigorously, eager to get everyone’s eyes off him. This was getting ridiculous. Even his mom and dad had talked nonstop about his throws at the carnival over the weekend. What’s next, he thought, a big story in the local newspaper? A TV crew camped on his front lawn, waiting for an exclusive interview?

It just wasn’t that big of a deal. Heck, even as a little kid, he had always had a great aim.

Well, at least BSA.

Before Stevie Altman.

Ninety minutes later, Robbie was eating lunch in the cafeteria. Marty was off somewhere completing a science project, so Robbie sat alone in the back, holding a textbook in front of his face, trying to look inconspicuous.

But he quickly found himself thinking, This is a pretty dumb thing to do if you don’t want to be noticed. What kid reads a textbook at lunch? Not even the biggest nerds in the school did that.

Marty wouldn’t even do it!

Suddenly, three brown paper bags plopped on the table, almost in unison. Robbie looked up. Smiling down at him were Jordy, Connor, and Willie.

“These seats taken?” Jordy asked.

Robbie’s eyes widened. He tried to come up with a funny, smart-alecky reply, but his mind went blank. Jordy, Connor, and Willie always sat up front, with all the cool kids. What were they doing back here in Loserville?

“No, they’re all yours,” Robbie said finally, thinking: Oh, that’s a snappy comeback. Way to think on your feet.

“Excellent,” Willie said as the three sat down. He held out his fist for a bump. “We good? Or are you still mad at me?”

Robbie returned the bump and said, “We’re good.”

Willie nodded, still smiling. The three boys rustled through their bags and pulled out sandwiches, chips, and water bottles.

“That was incredible, dude,” Jordy said finally. “The other night? At the carnival?”

Robbie shrugged. “I got lucky,” he replied. “Like Willie said.”

All three boys shook their heads.

“No way,” Connor said. “Nine times in a row isn’t luck. And you made it look so easy!”

“Throwing some heat, too!” Willie said. “Didn’t even look like you aimed!”

He clambered to his feet suddenly and imitated Robbie’s smooth, graceful windup, pretending to uncork a blazing fastball at an unseen hitter without even looking. The kids at the next table stared. The cafeteria monitor, a nervous teacher named Mrs. Niedermeyer, peered at him over her reading glasses, ever alert for trouble. Was mass rebellion in the air?

“So we want to know something,” Willie said, sitting back down. He looked expectantly at Connor.

“Oh, um, right,” Connor said. “We want to know why—seeing as how, y’know, you could do what you did at the carnival—how come you don’t—?”

“How come I don’t throw like that in games?” Robbie said, nodding. “How come I’m all over the place? How come I walk so many batters? How come I basically—let’s just come out and say it—suck at pitching for the Orioles?”

The three boys looked uneasily at each other, then back at Robbie.

“That’s what you want to know, right?” he asked.

They nodded sheepishly.

Robbie put down his sandwich. There was a faraway look in his eyes now.

“Ever see a pitcher hit a kid so hard the ball slams off the kid’s batting helmet and goes all the way back to the mound—on the fly?” he said. “So hard the helmet actually cracks in half? And paint from the helmet is on the ball?”

The three boys stared at Robbie. For several seconds, no one spoke.

Finally, Willie snorted dismissively. “Yeah, right,” he said. “Like that’s ever happened.”

Connor laughed, too. “That’s crazy!” he said. “What kid throws that hard? No kid around here.”

But Jordy kept staring at Robbie, a question forming on his lips. “Are you saying that actually happened?” he asked finally.

Robbie took a deep breath and thought: Okay, this is it. Time to tell them. Hope they don’t think I’m a big baby. Or laugh at me for being such a wuss.

He felt strangely calm, though. After all these months, maybe it would be good to get it all out.

Just then, Mrs. Niedermeyer clapped her hands briskly and announced, “People, we’re having problems with the bell today! Lunch is over! Please move on to your next class!”

Now the cafeteria erupted with the sounds of lunch bags being tossed in the trash, trays clattering, and students chatting loudly as they headed for the doors.

Jordy was still staring at Robbie when they reached the hallway.

But all Robbie said was, “See you at practice, okay?” Then he turned and walked away.

He felt like a woozy boxer who had come this close to making a big mistake in the ring.

Saved by the bell.

Again.

Well, sort of.