I guess I shouldn’t have used the side door, because Sister Mary Margaret jumped through the ceiling when I walked in. “Good heavens, child! Weren’t you taught to knock?”

I’m in the middle of saying I’m sorry when I notice that what Mary Margaret’s doing is counting money. Lots of money. Not hundred-dollar bills or anything, just lots of kind of rumpled tens and fives and ones. And I’m thinking that maybe it’s money from Mass offering or something, but I’ve never actually seen anyone give a ten at Mass before. And there are lots of tens.

So she’s standing there with her back against the table, spreading her arms out, leaning on her fingertips, trying to hide the stacks of money. And I’m trying not to stare or be too nosy, but it’s hard. I force myself to look away, and say, “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

She blinks at me like she’s completely forgotten she was laid up with the flu. “Oh. Yes, thank you.” Then she sighs, “Oh, this is ridiculous,” and turns back to the table to gather the cash. “It’s my bingo winnings, Samantha.”

I say, “Bingo winnings?” because Grams has played bingo before but she usually only goes up or down a couple of dollars.

Mary Margaret stuffs all the money into an empty cracker box and whispers, “Indian bingo. It’ll be our little secret, all right?”

I shrug and say, “Sure,” and in my mind I’m picturing Sister Mary Margaret with a fat wad of cash, putting on dark glasses and a big hat, sneaking over to the valley to play Indian bingo while the rest of her friends play quarter stakes at the parish hall.

Mary Margaret clears her throat. “So, shall we get to work?” Then she notices the time. “You’re over thirty minutes early. No wonder you caught me off guard!”

“I went over to the church, but it’s all locked up.”

“Oh, that’s right. The Sisters.” She shakes her head. “It should be interesting, to say the least. Are they ready, then?”

I shrug and say, “I guess so,” and as we’re going into the kitchen I kind of whisper, “You’ll be glad when they’re gone, won’t you?”

Mary Margaret laughs. “It’s like the circus has come to town and they’re using our church as the big tent.” She smiles at me and says, “I know they’re here to help, but, yes, I’ll be glad when they’re gone.”

We set up the food and clean up the kitchen, and when we’re all done, we still have about ten minutes to spare. Mary Margaret says, “Could you open the doors when it’s time, Samantha? I’ll be back shortly.”

“Shortly” turned out to be five minutes before the kitchen was supposed to close. And since Brother Phil never showed up and Sister Josephine was nowhere to be seen, I had to run the whole show all by myself again.

When Sister Mary Margaret finally does come back, she says, “Oh, Sammy, I’m terribly sorry! It was unavoidable. You run along—I’ll finish up here.”

When I walk by the church, I notice that the main door’s propped open. So I go over and stick my nose inside, and there’s Brother Phil at a card table with a strongbox and a stack of tickets. It looks like he’s concentrating real hard on writing something so I walk up kind of quietly so as not to disturb him. Then I see that he’s not writing anything, he’s drawing, and what he’s drawing on is money. I clear my throat. “How’s it going, Brother Phil?”

He jumps and practically breaks the table in two trying to cover up the beard he’d put on Andrew Jackson. When he realizes it’s only me, he rolls his eyes and says, “Give me a heart attack, why don’t cha?”

I laugh. “Sorry.”

He straightens out the table and says, “They giving you a comp?”

“A comp? What’s a comp?”

“A complimentary pass.”

“Not that I know of.”

“I thought maybe after all the work you’d been doing for them they’d slip you a ticket. I don’t think they’re giving out any comps. What do they think? They’re gonna sell this place out?” He squeaks around in his folding chair a minute trying to get comfortable. “Ha! That would be a first.” He leans forward and whispers, “I think Mayhew’s giving me this job just to see if the drawer’ll come up short. Have I got a big surprise for him—every penny’s going to be there. Every single one.”

Someone walks in the door to buy a ticket so I say, “You show him, Brother Phil,” and wave good-bye.

He winks at me like it’s our little secret that he won’t be taking any money from the box, and then says, “Tonight, tomorrow, or Saturday?” to the man waiting to buy a ticket.

I thought about Brother Phil and the rest of the St. Mary’s squad for maybe a whole block. Then I remembered Heather and her stupid meowing, and all of a sudden I just wanted to be home. Home with Grams.

I get back to the apartment building as fast as I can, and after I sneak up the back steps and past Mrs. Graybill’s door, I toss my backpack on the couch and run into the kitchen to give Grams a hug. When I’m done hugging her, she holds me out by the arms and says, “My goodness, Samantha. What brought that on?”

I kind of laugh, but she can tell what I really want to do is cry. She sits me down on the couch and says, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that homeless girl.”

“Her name’s Holly.”

“Of course. Holly.” She sighs, then holds my hand and says, “Is she the reason you were asking me what would’ve happened if I hadn’t been here to take care of you?”

I shrug and look down.

“Samantha, listen to me. Your mother would never have abandoned you. She would have taken you with her. At the time she just thought it was better for you to stay here with your friends.”

“Oh, right! This is all a big favor to me.”

Grams rubs my hand. “She’ll come back, Samantha, and I don’t think it’ll be that much longer.”

I jump up. “I don’t want her to come back. I never want to see her again!” I sit back down and say, “I just want my mitt back.”

“Are you sure Heather’s got it?”

I roll my eyes, “Oh, I’m sure.” Then I tell her about the meowing and how embarrassing it was, and how the thought of Heather putting on my mitt made me want to crush her into kitty litter.

Grams sighs. “I suppose you don’t want me to interfere?”

“It wouldn’t help. They’ve already checked her locker and Tenille’s locker, and since no one actually saw her take it, what else can they do?”

Very quietly Grams asks, “Why do you think Heather wanted to take your mitt?”

I shrug and say, “To get to me.”

“And why does she want to get to you?”

“You know why she wants to get to me! She hates me!”

Grams gives me a little smile. “And why does she hate you?”

I just shake my head. “I don’t know, Grams. I was trying to keep away from her. Really I was! I just want her to leave me alone.”

Grams pats my hand and says, “Samantha, Heather hates you because you always come out on top. You are a winner in spite of her.”

I let out a sound like a blown-out tire. “Oh, come on, Grams! Heather thinks I’m the world’s biggest loser.”

Grams just keeps smiling. “That’s what she says, but in her heart she knows it’s not true. Think about it, Samantha—in all the run-ins you’ve had with her, who’s come out on top?”

So I think about it and say, “I have. But she always seems to turn it back around.”

“And that’s exactly what she’s trying to do right now. Don’t let her! I’m not saying stoop to her level—just get past Heather. And don’t worry about revenge. Things have a way of coming around all by themselves. Sometimes it takes longer than we want it to, but in the end it always does.” She pats my hand and says, “The way to rise above Heather is to play your best tomorrow despite what she’s done to you. You’re a winner, Samantha. Prove to yourself that she’s inconsequential in your life.” She gives me a mischievous little grin. “And if you want to hurt her more than she’s hurt you, that’s easy. Win tomorrow!”

I think about what she’s said and it’s like Grams has just put a little pocket of sunlight inside me. And the longer I sit there, the warmer I feel and the brighter things look. When she smiles at me and says, “Ready to help me fix dinner?” I get up and say, “Sure.”

At dinner I ate all my rice and peas and didn’t even try to slip Dorito any of my fish. And when bedtime rolled around I snuggled up on the couch and lay there in the dark, thinking about the things Grams had said. Then I reached over and pulled up my backpack, and just sat there for the longest time with it in my lap.

Finally, I zipped it open and took out Brandon’s mitt. At first I just stared at it, thinking. About my dad, about my mitt. About where in the world both of them were while I was sitting up in the middle of the night thinking about them.

Then I thought about Brandon and how getting goose-bumps over his mitt was the stupidest thing my arm had ever done. Well, except for the time it went and waved at a guy stealing money out of a hotel room, but that’s another story.

I mean, Brandon had probably just tossed Marissa the mitt and said something like, “Here, she can use mine,” without even thinking about it. He’d probably lent it out lots of times—it was no big deal. Especially to a hotshot swimmer like Brandon.

Then I thought about the first game and about how maybe, with Marissa’s secret play and a little luck, we could pull it off again.

So I got down to business. I put on Brandon’s mitt. I pushed and flexed and tightened it until it felt really comfortable. And I guess I fell asleep working the mitt because when I woke up in the morning, I was still wearing it, only I was using it more like a Teddy bear than a softball glove.

And for once Grams didn’t have to beg me to get up. I knew it was time. Time to go to school. Time to look the beast square in the eye.

Time to play ball.