Kristy at Bat Read online

  Claudia, by the way, is not the world’s best student. She doesn’t care much about science or math or spelling. What does she care about? One word: art. Claudia’s dream vacation would have to be Art Camp, where you’d spend every second of every day creating things. I know she’d be thrilled if she had the chance to learn from some of the world’s best artists. I don’t know who the pros would be — is that Picasso guy still alive?

  Claudia could probably be an Art Camp counselor. She’s such a talented artist. In fact, Claudia, who is Japanese-American with dark eyes and long, glossy black hair, is a work of art herself. She’s an incredible painter and sculptor, as well as great at coming up with looks that say “I’m a creative genius.” Me, I wouldn’t have the guts even to think about wearing some of the things she walks around in.

  As vice-president, Claudia really has no official duties. She was voted into office mainly because we use her room for meetings. She has her own phone and her own number, which means we don’t have to worry about BSC calls tying up anyone’s family line. Claudia is a terrific hostess. She always makes sure to have plenty of munchies on hand. She’s the Junk Food Queen of Stoneybrook — but don’t tell her parents. They have no idea how many pounds of snacks are stashed away in Claud’s room, along with the Nancy Drew mysteries she’s addicted to but forbidden to read.

  Have I made Claudia’s parents sound strict? They are, but they’re very loving too. They worry about Claudia’s problems in school, but they never make her feel bad about not living up to her sister’s reputation. Janine, Claud’s older sister, is a certified genius. She’s still in high school, but she’s taking college classes.

  “Ahem!” I heard someone clearing her throat, which jolted me out of my daydreaming and back to the meeting.

  “Aren’t you going to ask if there’s any new business?” asked Stacey McGill, who is the club treasurer.

  “Oh, right!” I said. I hate it when I have to be reminded of my presidential duties. “Any new business?”

  “Dues day!” crowed Stacey, holding up a battered manila envelope.

  We all groaned. Stacey loves to collect dues, and we love to give her a hard time about it. It’s not the money; it’s just the principle of the thing. Stacey makes a great treasurer, since she’s excellent in math. She always knows exactly how much we have and how much we need. We use the money to pay part of Claudia’s phone bill and my transportation costs (a fancy way of saying we buy gas for the Junk Bucket since Charlie drives Abby and me to meetings) and for items with which to stock our Kid-Kits. Once in awhile, when there’s what Stacey likes to refer to as a surplus in the treasury, she allows us to throw ourselves a pizza party.

  Stacey has blonde hair and blue eyes, and is always the most elegant person in the room, at least in this town. She has a sophisticated style, which may be because she grew up in Manhattan. Her parents are divorced, and her dad still lives in the city, where she visits him often. But her real home now is here in Stoneybrook, where she lives with her mom. (Stacey is an only child.) She and Claudia are best friends, at least in part because they share a love of shopping and fashion.

  In fact, Stacey’s dream vacation would probably be Fashion Camp. Top models and magazine editors would teach campers the basics of how to tell one black dress from another, where to shop for the best accessories, and when to wear which designer perfume. Stacey would be in paradise.

  Stacey’s not all fads and trends, though. She has her serious side. And part of that has to do with the fact that she has diabetes, a lifelong disease that prevents her body from processing sugars correctly. She has to be very careful about what she eats. Plus, she has to test her own blood several times a day and give herself injections of insulin, a hormone that her body doesn’t produce properly. Yikes! Any of the rest of us would probably become full-time whiners, but not Stacey. She just deals with it.

  She passed the envelope around the room, and everybody stuck their dues into it. The last place it landed was on Jessi’s lap. Jessica Ramsey, the club’s junior officer, was sitting on the floor as usual. I still wasn’t used to seeing her sitting there alone, though. Until recently, she’d have been joined by Mallory Pike, her best friend and our other junior officer. (Jessi and Mal are both eleven and in sixth grade, unlike the rest of us, who are thirteen and in eighth.) Mallory is now an honorary member, like Dawn. Why? Because she went away to boarding school. She has a new life now. I know she and Jessi are in constant touch through phone calls, letters, and e-mail, but it’s not the same. Jessi looks a little lost these days.

  Jessi is African-American. She has cocoa-brown skin and dark eyes and the long, lithe build of a dancer. She’s been studying ballet for years, and she’s good. She even spent a few weeks at a special ballet program in New York not long ago (that was probably her version of Dream Camp). Jessi has a younger sister and a baby brother, and her aunt Cecelia lives with her family.

  Mallory, who has reddish-brown hair, glasses, and braces (she hates all three), comes from a much larger family. She has seven younger sisters and brothers! She wants to be a writer when she grows up. (Famous Authors Camp would be the place to send her for a dream vacation. She’d adore learning from people like Katherine Paterson or Eric Carle.) I think Mal is really enjoying boarding school. It’s a good change for her, since she hadn’t been happy at SMS lately.

  That’s it! Now you’ve met every member of the BSC — oh, except for our associate members, Shannon Kilbourne (who goes to private school but lives in my neighborhood) and Logan Bruno (Mary Anne’s boyfriend, remember?).

  Just as our meeting was ending that day, the phone rang. It was my mom, calling to put the BSC on alert. “You and Watson will be away next week,” she reminded me, “and Nannie’s going to be extra busy with her business, and Sam and Charlie both have baseball practices to attend. I’m going to need the BSC.”

  My mom knows where to turn when she needs excellent sitters. I was leaving her in very capable hands. The BSC rules — even when its president is on vacation.

  “Okay, now let’s try a little baserunning drill. Remember to relax. I’m not keeping score here. I just want to see what each of you can do.” Coach Wu smiled at us, the girls who were gathered for softball team tryouts.

  I smiled back. I wasn’t having any problem relaxing. I knew I had a place on the team, and I knew Coach Wu liked me. The tryouts were basically just another day out on the field, as far as I could see.

  But some of the other girls seemed much more nervous, especially the ones who were trying out for the first time. I noticed that they were putting a lot of effort into looking good for Coach Wu. They sprinted fast, threw hard, dove for catches. I could understand why they were doing it, but I was glad I didn’t have to.

  I did have to admit that some of them looked pretty talented. I’ve played — and coached — the game long enough to know when someone has “it” out there on the field. And a lot of those girls did. In fact, some of them probably had more “it” than I do. I love softball, and I’m good at it, but I’m no all-star. I’m just a dependable, all-around player. Which is fine with me.

  Coach Wu led us through about an hour and a half of drills. It was another warm, sunny afternoon, and I was enjoying the feeling of using my softball muscles again after the long winter. I wasn’t exactly at the top of my game. In fact, I fumbled a couple of easy catches and I wasn’t hitting well. I wasn’t running too fast either. But hey, it was early in the season. I knew it would all come back as soon as we started regular practices.

  Finally, just as I was starting to feel warmed up, Coach Wu said we were done. “I’ll need some time to go over my notes,” she told us as we gathered in a circle around her. “I’ll post the results on Thursday. As usual, we’ll have two teams — first and second string. For those who don’t make the first-string team, don’t worry. You’ll still see plenty of playing time. And I spend equal coaching time with both teams.”

  I nodded. I knew that was true. The second-string
team was basically the middle-school version of a junior varsity team. They played against other schools, just like the first-string team. And there were always some good players on second string. They just weren’t quite as good as the ones on the first-string team. I looked around at the other girls, wondering which ones would have to deal with the disappointment of finding their names on the second-string list. There was one girl who didn’t have a great arm, and another who had seemed confused about some of the rules of the game. Both of them were probably destined for second string. As for the rest, Coach Wu was going to have to make some tough decisions over the next two days.

  It’s not easy being a coach sometimes. I know, from my work with the Krushers, that you can’t please all of your players all the time. Everybody wants a chance to shine. But as a coach you have to think about putting together the best team possible — and you have to balance that with the idea of giving every player a chance to show his or her stuff.

  I met Coach Wu’s eyes and smiled. She nodded back at me. Then she thanked us all for coming out and wished us luck. Most of the girls drifted off, but I volunteered to help Coach Wu carry equipment back into the school.

  As we lugged bags full of bats and bases across the field, I told Coach Wu about Dream Camp.

  “How exciting for you!” she said. “I’ve always thought that would be so much fun. You’re really lucky.”

  “So it won’t be a problem missing practices that week?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “We’ll work it out, Kristy. Some of the other girls may be going away then too. We’ll start slow.”

  “Great,” I said, relieved. So that was settled. And softball tryouts were over. Now I could turn my attention full-time to being excited about camp.

  Which is exactly what I did. Camp was only days away by then, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What would it be like to be around Bill Bain? To hear his stories about the glory days of baseball, to watch him run the bases, to catch a ball he’d hit? I could hardly imagine.

  That night at dinner, Watson and I talked so much about camp that the rest of my family finally told us to go finish our food in the den. And on Wednesday, I bored my friends at the BSC meeting, going over the daily schedule I’d received in the mail and showing them pictures of the uniform I would be issued.

  “Enough already,” said Stacey, rolling her eyes.

  Claudia told me that the uniform looked “too much like, well, too much like a uniform. Why can’t they be more creative?”

  Even Abby, who actually likes sports, was tired of hearing about camp.

  But I wasn’t tired of thinking about it. I even dreamed about it. On Wednesday night I had this great dream about being discovered by a scout for the New York Mets. I was going to be the first female player in the major leagues!

  I was so busy being excited about camp that I completely forgot about softball tryouts. Until Mary Anne slid into the seat next to mine at lunch on Thursday and mentioned that she’d seen the team lists posted near the gym.

  “Cool! Did you happen to notice what position I’m playing?” I asked. I was secretly hoping that Coach Wu was going to use me at first base, which is my favorite position.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t look too closely,” she admitted. “I figured you’d already seen the list.”

  I finished my tuna sandwich, made a few gross remarks about that day’s hot lunch (my friends expect that from me), and headed off to check the lists before the bell rang.

  Only one other person was standing by the bulletin board near the entrance to the gym. It was one of the girls I’d seen at tryouts. “Hey!” I said, strolling up to her.

  “Hi,” she said a little shyly.

  “Did you make the team?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Second string,” she said. I could tell she was disappointed.

  I gave her an encouraging smile. “Excellent,” I told her. “It’s a great place to work on your skills.”

  She gave me a small smile in return.

  “Let’s see how I did,” I said. I glanced up at the first-string list and ran my finger down it. Bummer. Coach Wu hadn’t put me at first base.

  Or second.

  Or third.

  In fact, I wasn’t even in the outfield.

  My name was not on the first-string list.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Hmmm,” I said. The girl was still standing there. Suddenly, I felt hot all over. Then cold. What was happening here?

  “Um — aren’t you Kristy Thomas?” asked the girl.

  I nodded.

  She pointed to the middle of the second-string list. There, next to the words “Left Field,” was my name.

  It had to be a mistake.

  Second string?

  “We’ll have fun,” said the girl. “Oops, there’s the bell. I better run.” She took two steps backward, then stopped. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  I hadn’t even heard the bell. My head was spinning. “What? Oh, sure, sure, I’m fine,” I answered.

  She gave me a funny look. “See you, then,” she said.

  I had the distinct feeling that she was embarrassed for me.

  I couldn’t blame her.

  I felt embarrassed for me too.

  I stood there for a good five minutes after she’d left, just thinking. Trying to make sense out of it.

  I’d been playing baseball just about all my life. One of my first memories, in fact, is of my dad tossing a Wiffle ball to me while I stood at the ready with my little plastic bat. I must have been about three.

  Ten years of baseball and where was I?

  Second string.

  It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. Sure, I’d had a bad day at the plate that afternoon. And yes, I had to admit I wasn’t exactly Miss Golden Glove in the field either. But Coach Wu had seen me play before. She had to know I had the skills.

  “Kristy!”

  I turned — and saw Coach Wu herself, standing there looking at me.

  “Coach —” I began. Suddenly I had this horrible feeling that I might start crying.

  “Would you like to come into my office and talk for a moment?” she asked. Gently, she steered me toward her office, opened the door, led me in, and sat me down.

  “I can see that you’re a little surprised about — about the way I’ve chosen to make up the teams,” she began.

  I nodded.

  “Kristy, please understand,” Coach Wu continued. She was standing near me, and she put her hand on my shoulder. “I see you as a vital member of the softball program here at SMS. You’re an excellent team player. You know the game backwards and forwards, and you’re wonderful at helping other girls understand complicated plays.” She paused.

  “But?” I said. “I know there’s a ‘but’ coming somewhere.” Suddenly I could speak again.

  Coach Wu sighed. “You’re right, Kristy. And here it is. But — there were a lot of other players out there on Tuesday who were showing greater skill and determination than you were. It just wouldn’t be fair to those girls if I put you ahead of them.”

  I sat back in my chair and blew out a breath.

  She was right.

  I pictured myself on the field that day. It wasn’t just that I was rusty or out of shape from the winter. I had been slacking off, making assumptions. I hadn’t pushed myself. I hadn’t done my best. Or had I? Was that actually the best I could do? Maybe I really was just a second-string player.

  Coach Wu was talking again, about how much she needed me on the team and how much the team needed me. But I could hardly even hear what she was saying. Instead, I heard the same two words echoing in my head:

  Second string.

  Second string.

  Second string.

  The worst part was telling everybody. Actually, I should take that back. I didn’t have to tell everybody. Some people found out for themselves. Logan, for instance. He approached me in the hall on Friday, gave me a little sock on the arm, and said, “Tough break.”

/>   That was the “guy” way of handling things. Mary Anne, who was with Logan at the time, demonstrated the “girl” way. She reached out to hug me, tears in her eyes. “Oh, Kristy, you must feel terrible,” she said in a choked-up voice.

  “It’s not that big a deal,” I said, disengaging myself from her hug. “I’m still on the team, after all.” I was trying to sound tough and brave.

  “Right,” said Logan. He didn’t sound convinced. He plays sports, and he knows what second string means.

  Second string means second best.

  I had spent a long time thinking about that on Thursday night. I had told my family at dinner, then excused myself before they could start trying to make me feel better. Up in my room, I’d gone over everything: the way I’d played the day of tryouts, the way I’d been so sure I’d make the first-string team, the things Coach Wu had said. I felt like a total jerk. A loser. I was mad at myself for not working harder at tryouts, mad at Coach Wu for not giving me more of a chance, mad at — at the world.

  All my excitement about Dream Camp had flown out the window. What fun would it be to play with baseball’s heroes if I was no more than a second-string player? I’d probably be laughed off the field. Suddenly, the idea of baseball camp left me cold. But I couldn’t back out now, just a few days before we were due to leave. It was too late. And Watson was counting on me.

  At our BSC meeting on Friday afternoon, my friends tried to cheer me up. “You’ll still be playing softball every day,” said Abby. “Isn’t that really the most important thing, just to be out there playing the game?”

  I gave her a Look. “Sure,” I said. “Right. I know you’d feel that way if you were put on the second-string soccer team.”

  Abby turned pale. Then she blushed. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You’re right. That would totally bum me out.”