I think a lot of kids like Saturday because they can sleep in. Me, I’m up earlier than I have been all week. I’m padding around my room in socks because Mom and Dad like to sleep in on the weekends. And since their idea of “sleeping in” means maybe eight thirty, it doesn’t seem like so much to ask.

Still, it sort of limits my options. I look over at my computer. I haven’t killed a soldier in days. (But I like to think that they’re still talking about the bloody rampage I went on last week!) I guess I could play it with the sound off. I’m not really in the mood, but I turn the computer on anyway.

There’s a big whopping zippo in my e-mail in-box. Of course, Mom and Dad have so many filters on this thing, it’s a wonder anything gets through. Like, St. Paul the Apostle could send me a personal e-mail telling me to study hard, and it would end up in the spam folder.

I check the spam folder. Nothing from any saints, angels, or celestial beings, but I find some funny stuff that Mom and Dad would probably not be too happy about.

After that, I click on my games. I stay off the battlefield and play a puzzle game instead. At eight fifteen, I get a text from Andy. As I’m answering that, I get another one from Tim. At least I’m not the only one up early. Tim has news, too: “CampL team at batting cages last nt. THREE big guys now!!!!”

“Any1 pitching?” I type.

“Not @ batting cage! LOL!” says Tim.

I get another text from Andy: “Did U hear?”

“Yep. 3! What R they feedin em?”

“Campbells Soup!!!!!!!”

Then one from Tim: “Andy sez they R feeding em Campbells Soup!!!”

And then I hear movement downstairs.

I punch in “CU there!!!!” because the game is on the lumpy little field in Campbeltown. I wish I really felt four exclamation points’ worth of excitement. I send it to both of them.

Andy: “CU”

Tim: “L8R”

Then I head downstairs. No surprise, they’re in the kitchen. I grab for some Pop-Tarts, but Mom is too quick.

“No way, honey bunchkins,” she says, pretending to slap my hand away from the cupboard.

“You’re gonna need the good stuff today,” says Dad. “I’m thinkin’ bacon and eggs.”

“The ‘good stuff’ really isn’t all that good for you, you know?” I say. “We learned in science that —”

Dad cuts me off by making that motorboat sound with his lips. “Gives you energy. Campbeltown has three big kids and a bunch of good hitters.”

“How do you know that?” I say, though I sort of know.

“The Lu-Lus were over at Hungry Hut last night. Said it was quite a scene at the cages.”

“You really shouldn’t call them that because —”

But Dad cuts me off with more motorboating. Mom is just smiling and pouring orange juice.

It’s funny, they love game day as much as I do. Right now, they probably love it more, but I’m glad. I remember how tense it was on the couch the other night. It’s all gone now, washed away by orange juice and motorboats. And all I have to do is step to the plate a few times today and get hit in whatever body part the pitcher feels is appropriate.

Three big kids, I think: the two from last year and a new one? Or, who knows, one from last year and the Monster Beefoid Twins? Whatever the case, there’s a pretty good chance one of them will be pitching. I’m not a fan of big pitchers. The name floats through my head: Tebow.

“Hey,” says Dad. “Hey!”

It occurs to me, sort of vaguely, that he’s been asking me something.

“Earth to honey bunchkins!” Mom says.

That snaps me out of it. “DO NOT call me that at the game!” I say.

“Call you what?” she says. She’s always trying to trick me into saying it.

“You know what,” I say. “HB.”

I’m completely serious, but Mom thinks it’s the funniest thing she’s heard all morning.

“Sausage or bacon?” Dad says. I guess that’s what he was asking.

I give him a look to let him know what a dumb question that is.

“Bacon it is,” he says.

As I turn to leave, I hear him say something else, quieter.

“Good to have you back.”