“Chunkster?”

“Yeah, I get that one a lot.”

“Tubby?”

“No, that’s old school.”

“Fat boy?”

“Yep. One of my new, uh, admirers loves that one.”

“Tub of goo?”

“Mo-mmm!”

“Sorry, sweetie. Just kidding. It’s just that Letterman once called someone that on his TV show. Terry Forster. A pitcher for the Atlanta Braves.”

“Well, no one’s called me that yet. Don’t give them any ideas.”

“Don’t worry, they won’t.”

Cody and his mom were at the kitchen table in their new house on Bosley Road, the sun streaming through the bay windows on a warm Saturday morning. They were just sitting down to a breakfast of orange juice, sausages, and blueberry pancakes, which Cody drowned in a puddle of maple syrup.

Cody’s dad, a detective with the Baltimore Police Department, had just left for work, pulling on his jacket and grabbing his laptop as he dashed out the door. As usual, the sight of the gun and holster on his hip made Cody’s mom wince. Even after all these years, she hated being reminded of the dangers of police work.

Maybe that was why she tried to turn everything into a joke, to help her forget the scary stuff. She was listing all the names overweight kids get called. It seemed like there were dozens, maybe even hundreds. Cody figured he’d heard just about all of them—quite a few recently, in fact. It turned out mean kids weren’t any more creative in Maryland than they were in Wisconsin.

“The point is, they’re just words,” his mom said. “Sure, they can be hurtful. But only if you let them.”

“I know,” Cody said. “But being the new kid is hard enough. When you’re heavy too, and the other kids are calling you names like Cody Porker…”

Kate Parker sighed and shook her head. “You’re right, dear. I’m sure it’s not easy. But the names will stop, once they get to know you. For now, try to ignore it.”

Cody was quiet for a moment, staring down at his plate.

“I miss our old house,” he said finally. “And my friends back home.”

“I know you do,” his mom said. She reached across the table, squeezed his hand, and smiled softly. “But this is your home now. Your dad had a job offer he couldn’t pass up. And you’ll make a ton of new friends. You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re athletic—”

“And fat,” Cody said morosely. “Kids in school remind me of that every day.”

“Uh-uh, no feeling sorry for yourself,” his mom said. “You have too much going for you. And you won’t be big forever. That baby fat will come off in no time.”

“I’m thirteen years old!” Cody said. “How long does baby fat stick around? Until you’re thirty?”

His mother smiled again and sipped her coffee. “Listen to Mr. Cheerful,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Mr. Upbeat.”

For the next few minutes, the two ate in silence. Finally, Cody put down his fork and pushed his plate aside. Today he had eaten just one pancake, instead of his usual two or three, and only one sausage.

He was tired of being the butt of jokes everywhere he went. This morning he had made the decision to start eating healthier and lose weight. He hadn’t shared this with his parents yet, although now he saw his mom gaze questioningly at the uneaten pancakes.

Cody stared out the window, lost in thought. For as long as he could remember, he had been bigger than the other kids. It wasn’t hard to figure out why. He simply—duh!—ate more. But why did he eat more? That part he wasn’t so sure about. It almost seemed as if he needed more food than other kids.

Instead of having one slice of pizza like everyone else, he’d have two or three. Instead of two chocolate chip cookies, he’d have four. He remembered being shocked at the end-of-the-year cookout at his old school in Milwaukee when, at the end of the meal, all the other kids ran off to play dodgeball. That time he had almost shouted: Wait, they’ve got more burgers on the grill! The party’s just getting started!

And maybe his mom and dad were right about the way he scarfed his food. “You eat so fast, your brain doesn’t register that you’re full,” his mom was always saying. Okay, guilty as charged on that one.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t get any exercise. Baseball was his first love, but he liked dodgeball, basketball, football, and soccer too—anything you played with a ball. And he was pretty good at every sport he ever tried.

Just like in baseball, kids who didn’t know him would tease him about being fat. They’d break out names like Wide Load and The Bacon-ater and all the rest. Then they’d watch him kick a soccer ball forty yards downfield, or throw a perfect touchdown pass on a dead run—or what passed for a dead run for a big, lumbering kid—in touch football. And suddenly all the teasing would stop—just like that. Often, the kids who were initially his biggest tormentors ended up becoming his best friends.

Cody was hoping that would happen here in Baltimore too. Sports were always his refuge from taunting. If you were a hefty kid, they were the great equalizer. But he also had to admit he hadn’t been playing outdoors as much as usual over the past few months. First he’d been busy getting ready for the big move to a new state. And since the move, he’d been spending a lot of time at the computer, chatting with his friends back in Wisconsin.

“Tell me more about how baseball practice went yesterday,” Kate Parker said, standing and clearing the dishes.

Cody’s spirits lifted immediately. Except for that embarrassing whiff when he tried to smash the ball to Mars, he wasn’t sure you could have a better first practice—especially with a brand-new team. He had definitely impressed his new Orioles teammates with that second home run, the one that cleared the fence by twenty feet and was probably still rolling somewhere.

His mom gave him a quick sideways glance as she loaded the dishwasher. “Could that be a smile I see on Ol’ Stoneface?” she said.

“It was pretty fun,” Cody said, nodding. “I like Coach Hammond. And I think he likes how I play. Most of the guys on the team seem nice too.”

No point in bringing up Dante, Cody thought. His mom didn’t need to hear any of that. She was trying to adjust to their new life here in Baltimore too, working hard to make things easy for Cody and his dad while also getting her home-decorating business up and running.

Besides, maybe the whole thing with Dante and third base would blow over. Maybe Dante would just accept that Cody was the better infielder and be content to play another position.

Yeah, right. Well, a guy could dream. And Cody knew one thing: he was almost as good at dreaming as he was at baseball.