you.
Chαpt e r F o υrte3 n
KT was busy that evening. After assembling and eating a dry, tasteless peanut-butter sandwich, she put all of Max’s stupid trophies back in the shrine—her first step toward getting back into Mom and Dad’s good graces so that maybe they’d cut back her grounding sentence. She took a shower, then sent Facebook messages to every single person within a fifty-mile radius she could remember playing softball with or against in the past six years: “Want to have the most fun in your life? Want to use the skills you learn in school for something that’s actually worthwhile? Join my softball league! If you’re interested, let me know!”
She sat back in her chair and watched the screen. She hit the refresh symbol.
Nothing.
Silly, it’s hasn’t even been a full minute, she chided herself. Give them some time to let the idea sink in. It’s not like they know about the real world.
Wait—what if some of them did know about the real world? For all KT could tell, maybe her whole club softball team had been zapped into this bizarre land at once, all of them suddenly living alternate lives. Or maybe some of her friends from school knew about the real world, just not the friends she’d talked to today. How could KT find out if they knew? How would they know that KT knew too?
KT stared at her computer screen for a moment. Then she began to type out a second message to her whole club team: “I’m thinking of calling my softball league the Rysdale Invitational, Part Two. What do you think of that? Does it remind you of anything?”
That should do it.
She came up with similar coded messages for girls from school, girls from previous teams, girls she’d met at softball camps or played against. “Maybe we’ll all eat a dozen hot dogs afterward!” she wrote to Letty Rodriguez, a tiny girl who’d astonished the rest of KT’s fourth-grade team by polishing off that many hot dogs at the end-of-season cookout.
“Maybe we can all use glitter-covered gloves!” she wrote to Hanna Ding, who’d had an unfortunate accident involving her catcher’s mitt and her little sister’s craft project right before a big game in sixth grade.
“We’ll only hire bald umpires,” she wrote to Keshia Washington, a girl she’d hung out with at softball camps three years in a row. They’d shared a running joke about how none of the umpires in the school leagues had any hair.
KT lifted her hands from the keyboard. So many memories. So many inside jokes, so many disasters, so many triumphs. Were they all still true if nobody butKT remembered? She rubbed her eyes, and put her fingers back on the keys. She typed: “Please tell me you remember too. Please.”
She didn’t send that message. She left it on the screen, the cursor still blinking. She clicked back to her Facebook news feed and hit the refresh button.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
She heard the garage door, then Mom and Dad and Max talking downstairs. She should go down, watch some ESPN with Dad, wait until his team was winning, and then, during a commercial break, suggest that maybe it really wasn’t necessary to ground KT for two whole weeks.
She heard the TV coming on, an overly loud announcer’s voice calling out breathlessly, “Which of these poets will make it to the semifinals?” before someone—probably Dad—set it back to a normal volume.
Poets? KT thought. Oh, yeah, there’s probably no ESPN anymore, either.
Of course. Something else she loved that had vanished from this world.
She heard someone climbing the stairs, and quickly reached over and turned out her light. She couldn’t face talking to Dad or Mom or Max anymore tonight. She sat perfectly still in the dark, barely daring to breathe. The footsteps paused outside KT’s door, then moved on.
KT let out her held breath, and tiptoed over to her bed and lay down. She would go to sleep. Maybe thatwas all she needed to do to escape this world. Maybe she’d
Chαpt e r F o υrte3 n
KT was busy that evening. After assembling and eating a dry, tasteless peanut-butter sandwich, she put all of Max’s stupid trophies back in the shrine—her first step toward getting back into Mom and Dad’s good graces so that maybe they’d cut back her grounding sentence. She took a shower, then sent Facebook messages to every single person within a fifty-mile radius she could remember playing softball with or against in the past six years: “Want to have the most fun in your life? Want to use the skills you learn in school for something that’s actually worthwhile? Join my softball league! If you’re interested, let me know!”
She sat back in her chair and watched the screen. She hit the refresh symbol.
Nothing.
Silly, it’s hasn’t even been a full minute, she chided herself. Give them some time to let the idea sink in. It’s not like they know about the real world.
Wait—what if some of them did know about the real world? For all KT could tell, maybe her whole club softball team had been zapped into this bizarre land at once, all of them suddenly living alternate lives. Or maybe some of her friends from school knew about the real world, just not the friends she’d talked to today. How could KT find out if they knew? How would they know that KT knew too?
KT stared at her computer screen for a moment. Then she began to type out a second message to her whole club team: “I’m thinking of calling my softball league the Rysdale Invitational, Part Two. What do you think of that? Does it remind you of anything?”
That should do it.
She came up with similar coded messages for girls from school, girls from previous teams, girls she’d met at softball camps or played against. “Maybe we’ll all eat a dozen hot dogs afterward!” she wrote to Letty Rodriguez, a tiny girl who’d astonished the rest of KT’s fourth-grade team by polishing off that many hot dogs at the end-of-season cookout.
“Maybe we can all use glitter-covered gloves!” she wrote to Hanna Ding, who’d had an unfortunate accident involving her catcher’s mitt and her little sister’s craft project right before a big game in sixth grade.
“We’ll only hire bald umpires,” she wrote to Keshia Washington, a girl she’d hung out with at softball camps three years in a row. They’d shared a running joke about how none of the umpires in the school leagues had any hair.
KT lifted her hands from the keyboard. So many memories. So many inside jokes, so many disasters, so many triumphs. Were they all still true if nobody butKT remembered? She rubbed her eyes, and put her fingers back on the keys. She typed: “Please tell me you remember too. Please.”
She didn’t send that message. She left it on the screen, the cursor still blinking. She clicked back to her Facebook news feed and hit the refresh button.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
She heard the garage door, then Mom and Dad and Max talking downstairs. She should go down, watch some ESPN with Dad, wait until his team was winning, and then, during a commercial break, suggest that maybe it really wasn’t necessary to ground KT for two whole weeks.
She heard the TV coming on, an overly loud announcer’s voice calling out breathlessly, “Which of these poets will make it to the semifinals?” before someone—probably Dad—set it back to a normal volume.
Poets? KT thought. Oh, yeah, there’s probably no ESPN anymore, either.
Of course. Something else she loved that had vanished from this world.
She heard someone climbing the stairs, and quickly reached over and turned out her light. She couldn’t face talking to Dad or Mom or Max anymore tonight. She sat perfectly still in the dark, barely daring to breathe. The footsteps paused outside KT’s door, then moved on.
KT let out her held breath, and tiptoed over to her bed and lay down. She would go to sleep. Maybe thatwas all she needed to do to escape this world. Maybe she’d
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