Jack just got back from a trip with his dad to Nebraska. He was bringing his new Nebraska rocks to show me.
Jack is a rock hound. That means he’s crazy about collecting and identifying rocks. In his bedroom, he has shelves and shelves full of rocks, all labeled with where he found them and what kind they are.
I personally don’t see how rocks are exciting. But the good thing is that all those rocks in his pockets slow Jack down. I’m one of the slowest runners at school, but when Jack and I race, I can almost keep up with him sometimes.
By the way, Jack liked it under the tree. He said we should turn it into a fort.
I went home after my “bike ride,” and Mom had made my favorite dinner.
I should have known that meant something was amiss.*
After we ate, my mom spilled the beans: She signed me up for summer baseball.
Only she didn’t say it like it was bad news. She said it in her excited, happy voice: “Aldo, guess what? You get to start baseball tomorrow!”
I kind of threw a fit.
I yelled that I wouldn’t do it. I begged Dad to get me out of it. (Usually I can count on Dad, but this time he took Mom’s side.) I ran to my room and slammed the door.
I’m just not going, that’s all. What are they going to do…pick me up, glue a baseball glove to my hand, and carry me to the field?
