I Live in Your Basement by R. L. Stine Page A

meetings. No one
likes it.
    Jeremy and I jogged through the teachers’ parking lot to the playground
behind the building. The softball diamond stood behind the row of swings.
    A bunch of kids were already there. I recognized Gwynnie Evans and Leo
Murphy.
    The Franklin twins were arguing as usual, standing nose to nose, screaming at
each other. They’re weird guys. You can never put them on the same team.
    “You can start now!” Jeremy shouted. “The all-stars are here!”
    He took off across the grass. Leo and some of the other kids called out to
us.
    I slowed to a walk, breathing hard. Jeremy is a lot better athlete than I am.
    Gwynnie stood on the pitching mound, swinging two bats and talking to Lauren
Blank. Gwynnie is always trying to prove that she’s better in sports than any of
the boys.
    She’s big and strong. She’s at least half a foot taller than me, and she’s
got much bigger shoulders. She’s always pushing kids around and acting tough.
    No one likes her. But we always want her on our team because she can hit the
ball a mile. And if some kind of argument breaks out, Gwynnie always wins
it because she can yell the loudest.
    “Let’s get started,” Jeremy declared.
    “Who’s choosing up sides?” I asked. “Who are the captains?”
    Leo pointed. “Gwynnie and Lauren.”
    I took off running to the pitcher’s mound. Gwynnie dropped one of the bats to
the ground. She had the other one in her grip.
    I guess she didn’t see me.
    As I ran up to her, she pulled the bat back—and swung it with all her
might.
    I saw the bat move.
    But I didn’t have time to duck or move out of the way.
    The bat made a loud THUNK as it slammed into the side of my head.
    At first, I didn’t feel a thing.
    The ground tilted up.
    But I still didn’t feel anything.
    Then the pain exploded in my head.
    Exploded… exploded… exploded.
    Everything flashed bright red.
    So bright, I had to shut my eyes.
    I heard myself shrieking. Neighing like a horse. A shrill wail I never heard
before.
    And then the ground flew up to swallow me.

 
 
2
     
     
    I woke up staring at the ceiling.
    A blue ceiling light—blue as the sky—blurred then sharpened, blurred then
sharpened above me.
    Mom’s face floated into view.
    I blinked once. Twice. I knew I was home.
    Mom’s eyes were red and wet. She had her black hair pulled back tightly. But
several strands had fallen loose and hung down her forehead.
    Her chin trembled. “Marco—?”
    I groaned.
    My head ached. Everything ached.
    I’ve done it, I thought. I’ve broken every bone in my body.
    “Marco—?” Mom repeated in a whisper. “Are you waking up, dear?”
    “Huh?” I groaned again.
    Something was sitting on my head. Weighing me down.
    Tyler? Why was the dog sitting on my head?
    My arms ached as I slowly raised my hands to my head.
    And felt a bandage. A heavy bandage.
    I lowered my hands. The room began to spin. I gripped the couch cushions,
holding on for dear life.
    I stared up at the blue ceiling light until it came into focus. The den. I
was lying on the soft leather couch in the den.
    Mom floated into view again, her chin still trembling. She pulled a blanket
up nearly to my chin. “Marco? You’re awake?” she repeated. “How do you feel?”
    “Great,” I muttered.
    Talking made my throat hurt.
    She stared down at me. “Can you see me, dear? It’s me. Your mom.”
    “Yeah. I can see,” I whispered.
    She wiped one eye with a tissue. Then she stared at me some more.
    “I can see fine,” I told her.
    She patted my chest over the blanket. “That’s good, dear.”
    I groaned in reply.
    Please don’t say, I told you so! I thought. I crossed my fingers, even
though it hurt to cross them. And I prayed. Please don’t say I told you so.
    Mom’s expression changed. She frowned at me. “I told you not to play
baseball,” she said.
    “It wasn’t baseball,” I choked out. “It was soft-ball.”
    “I told you not to play,” Mom said sternly.