Sharlee and Mr. Jeter arrived home just minutes after Derek.
“We won! We won!” Sharlee said excitedly. “And I hit a single and another single! And Daddy is the best coach—he told me to go to second, so I did, and then the single was a double! Right, Daddy?”
“Right, Sharlee,” her dad said with a chuckle.
“How was your game, Derek?” his dad asked. Derek looked away. “Oh,” said Mr. Jeter. “Not so good, I guess.”
“We lost,” Derek said. “And they were way worse than us!”
“What happened, then?”
“We messed up.” Derek pounded one of the sofa pillows three times to let off some steam.
“How did you personally do?”
“I did fine, but so what?”
Mr. Jeter smiled. “I know. It’s all about the team, isn’t it? Well. Sorry I couldn’t be there, son. I’ll be at the next one, though. Sharlee’s game is later that day.”
“Me too?” Sharlee asked, putting her palms together in prayer. “Please?”
“Sure!” said Mr. Jeter. “You and I, we’ll go together and root for Derek.”
“And for Avery!” Sharlee said pointedly. “Did she play good?”
“Did she play well,” Mr. Jeter corrected her.
“Well, did she?” Sharlee asked.
Derek shrugged. “She didn’t play much—just one inning. But she did okay—no worse than anybody else.”
“That’s not fair!” Sharlee said, pouting and folding her arms across her chest. “Your coach is bad—he should let her play more. Then she’d get better!”
“You’re probably right, Sharlee,” Derek allowed. “She actually hit the ball pretty well—but it didn’t work out, and the guys all blamed her for it.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Jeter, frowning. “I see. Hmmm…”
“If I’m coming to the game, I want to see her play,” Sharlee said firmly. “I think she’s cool. Who cares what those stupid boys think, anyway?”
“Now, Sharlee,” said her dad, “don’t be calling people stupid.”
“If they’re blaming her for losing, and it was their fault, not hers, then they are stupid.”
“Sharlee,” Mr. Jeter warned.
“Okay, okay. But I still want to see her play. And I’m going to make a big sign that says, ‘GO, AVERY!’ ”
“That’s a good idea,” said her dad, patting her on the back. “Now you’ve got your thinking cap on.”
“Daddy, next year, can I play baseball too?” Sharlee asked.
“Well, maybe not next year. But later on, if that’s what you want, of course you can,” Mr. Jeter said.
“Because Charlie Willis, in school? He told me girls can’t play baseball, only softball. He’s mean.”
“Sharlee,” Mr. Jeter said, chuckling in spite of his disapproval, “what Charlie doesn’t understand is that there’s nothing about softball that means it isn’t as good as baseball. It’s just that up until now, most girls have gone out for softball. It’s hard being the first to do something—it can be lonely. If Avery wants to play baseball with the boys, and go through all that, she must have a really good reason.”
“What kind of reason?” Derek asked. “I’ve been trying to figure that one out.”
“Maybe you ought to ask her,” his dad suggested. “You might be surprised by her answer, if she’s willing to share it with you.”
“I was going to ask her….”
“But?”
Derek shrugged. He didn’t want to tell his dad about Avery’s mom arguing with the coach. He wasn’t even sure she was her mom. Anyway, it was none of his business.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Something else was going on. I forget what.”
Ask her yourself, his dad had said.
Well, maybe he would.
“Ugh,” Derek muttered as he sat cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom. In front of him, strewn all over, were pieces of corrugated cardboard, tubes of glue, staplers, and toothpicks. “This is the biggest pain ever!”
Gary had given him sketches of what the mouse maze was to look like—complete with measurements in his scrawling handwriting that took Derek almost an hour to decipher.
Now, he was finding out that cutting corrugated cardboard with scissors is really, really hard. His hand was aching so badly, he had to shake it out every few minutes. If he’d had a proper tool, it might have been easier. But what did he know about tools for arts and crafts?
He’d asked his mom, and she’d told him about something called a matte knife. But did they have one in the house? Nope. And neither she nor his dad had time to drive him to the craft store or the hardware shop downtown.
His dad was grading essays, and his mom had taken paperwork home from her job. She was still trying to show her bosses how much harder she worked than everyone else, so they would give her that promotion. But every day that went by, she got more and more discouraged.
There were about thirty pieces of cardboard cut to fit the maze—but now Derek’s hand was cramping up, and he could go no further. With a moan of frustration, he headed downstairs. “Dad!” he said. “I need a matte knife or whatever. Can you take me to the store?”
“I could take you a little later, Derek,” he began. “But if you need one right now, why don’t you try asking Mr. Wheeler over at 517? He’s got all kinds of tools lying around.” Mr. Wheeler was their neighbor three doors down in Mount Royal Townhouses. He was retired, kind of—but he still did odd jobs for the neighbors who needed a little help.
“Good idea,” said Derek. He wished he could pay Mr. Wheeler to do the whole maze for him, so he could get his work done and go play ball out on the Hill. But he knew that wasn’t about to happen. Still, it was worth asking to borrow a cutting tool.
Five minutes later, he was back, matte knife in hand. Now the work went faster, but still, by the time he finished the outer walls of the maze—his target for the afternoon—it was too late to head for the Hill. The sun was already setting. Soon they’d be sitting down to dinner.
“Aaargh!” he groaned. “Why? Why me? Couldn’t Ms. Terrapin have assigned somebody else to be my partner? Did it have to be Gary?”
Derek knew Gary would wind up putting in less time than him on their project. That had been Gary’s whole plan from the beginning, of course. Because that was how he operated. Gary was a legend in his own mind, the star of his own imaginary show. And on the Gary Parnell show, there was no supporting cast. Everyone else was just there to help him shine.