All Shook Up by Shelley Pearsall Page B

and with two people on base, I went up to the plate. Behind me, I could hear the team captain and a few of the other guys call out, “Go on, Boston dude, hit one out of here.” I shaded my eyes against the sun and looked out at the field, which was pretty pathetic. The pitcher for the other team was good, but the outfield was dotted with their last picks, including Digger, who was standing in the farthest part of the field among the tall wet grass and fuzzy weeds. If I could smack one that distance, I was all set.
    The ball came sailing toward me, like a fat and juicy grapefruit curving through the air. I swung hard. The crack of the ball meeting my bat sounded like a soda can exploding.
    Note to pitcher: In Boston, I’m a very good hitter.
    The ball flew toward the outfield, and Digger was just about the only person who had any chance at it, and not much chance at that. I watched him stretch upward so that sky and glove were connected for a brief minute, and then in one slow-motion frame it all began falling apart. Digger started tipping backward, landing heavily on his butt in the grass, and the ball sailed easily into the outfield. My team went nuts, clapping for me and laughing at Digger, who was just getting up and brushing off his wet, grass-covered gym shorts. Home run.
    As I jogged around the bases, I could barely keep a big smile from cracking across my face. When you run the bases, it’s better to look as if it isn’t a big deal, as if this is something you do every day. People take you more seriously that way. So I kept my lips pressed together and my eyes focused on the brown dirt gliding under my feet.
    Score one for Ivory’s horoscopes.
    And then, a few hours later, another unexpected surprise followed the first one. I was reaching for some ketchup and napkins on the condiments table when somebody called out, “Hey, Boston dude.” I turned around slowly, half expecting some object to come flying toward my face, because the entire cafeteria experience at Listerine still made me jumpy. But instead, I saw the team captain from gym class strolling over with his tray.
Dave, right?
I tried to reach back in my memory for the name. I was almost positive it was Dave.
    “Good hit,” he said.
    “Yeah, thanks.” I put on my home-run straight face again and glanced down at my tray to make sure there was nothing embarrassing on it, like cooked carrots or a fruit cup. It looked okay.
    And right there in front of Charles W. Lister’s smiling portrait, I was invited to sit at the vending machine tables. I mean, it wasn’t a formal invitation delivered on a silver platter or anything. Dave didn’t say,
Come join the popular kids next to the Cheetos.
He just nodded in the direction of the vending machines and said, “Some of us sit over there if you’re looking for a table.” And then he headed that way.
    It took me a few minutes to decide whether or not the invitation was good for that particular day—or some future date. Kind of like those coupons you get at amusement parks:
good on your next visit.
Would I look desperate if I raced over to the table right after being invited? Or if I waited a day or two, would the guy forget he had invited me?
    Note to self: If you wait, there is also the possibility that your next game could be a complete disaster. You could trip over home plate or something.
    I casually headed toward the tables, hoping somebody would spot me and wave me to an open seat. Nobody did. Dave was sitting in the middle of a table directly in front of the soda machine. The words ICE-COLD PEPSI were right above his head. Six or seven other guys sat around him.
    “Can I sit here?” I asked a guy on the end who was chugging a carton of chocolate milk and had four more lined up next to his tray.
    “What?” The guy turned toward me with an annoyed expression. The kind of look you would give an irritating fly that had suddenly begun buzzing around your food. My hands began to sweat as they held