It’s a tense moment.”
“Joe, stop acting like a jerk,” she snapped. “I have to concentrate.”
I love pretending I’m a sports announcer. It drives Mindy nuts.
Mindy pulled her arm back again. She tossed the Ping-Pong ball up into the air. And …
“A spider!” I screamed. “On your shoulder!”
“Yaaaiiii!”
Mindy dropped the paddle and began slapping her shoulder furiously. The ball clattered onto the table.
“Gotcha!” I cried. “My point.”
“No way!” Mindy shouted angrily. “You’re just a cheater, Joe.” She smoothed the shoulders of her pink T-shirt carefully. She picked up the ball and swatted it over the net.
“At least I’m a
funny
cheater!” I replied. I twirled around in a complete circle and belted the ball. It bounced once on my side before sailing over the net.
“Foul,” Mindy announced. “You’re always fouling.”
I waved my paddle at her. “Get a life,” I said. “It’s a game. It’s supposed to be fun.”
“I’m beating you,” Mindy replied. “That’s fun.”
I shrugged. “Who cares? Winning isn’t everything.”
“Where did you read that?” she asked. “In a bubble gum comic?” Then she rolled her eyes again. I think someday her eyes are going to roll right out of her head!
I rolled my eyes, too — back into my head until only the whites showed. “Neat trick, huh?”
“Cute, Joe,” Mindy muttered. “Really cute. You’d better watch out. One day your eyes might not come back down. Which would be an improvement!”
“Lame joke,” I replied. “Very lame.”
Mindy lined up her feet carefully again.
“She’s in her serve position,” I spoke into my paddle. “She’s nervous. She’s …”
“Joe!” Mindy whined. “Quit it!”
She tossed the Ping-Pong ball into the air. She swung the paddle, and —
“Gross!” I shouted. “What’s that big green glob indent out of your nose?”
Mindy ignored me this time. She tapped the ball over the net.
I dove forward and whacked it with the tip of my paddle. It spun high over the net and landed in the corner of the basement. Between the washing machine and the dryer.
Mindy jogged after the ball on her long, thin legs. “Hey, where’s Buster?” she called out. “Wasn’t he sleeping next to the dryer?”
Buster is our dog. A giant black Rottweiler with a head the size of a basketball. He loves snoozing on the old sleeping bag we keep in the corner of the basement. Especially when we’re down here playing Ping-Pong.
Everyone is afraid of Buster. For about three seconds. Then he starts licking them with his long, wet tongue. Or rolls onto his back and begs to have his belly scratched.
“Where is he, Joe?” Mindy bit her lip.
“He’s around here somewhere,” I replied. “Why are you always worrying about Buster? He weighs over a hundred pounds. He can take care of himself.”
Mindy frowned. “Not if Mr. McCall catches him. Remember what he said the last time Buster chomped on his tomato plants?”
Mr. McCall is our next-door neighbor. Buster loves the McCalls’ yard. He likes to nap under their huge, shady elm tree.
And dig little holes all over their lawn. And sometimes big holes.
And snack in their vegetable garden.
Last year, Buster dug up every head of Mr. McCall’s lettuce. And ate his biggest zucchini plant for dessert.
I guess that’s why Mr. McCall hates Buster. He said the next time he catches him in his garden, he’s going to turn him into fertilizer.
My dad and Mr. McCall are the two best gardeners in town. They’re nuts about gardening. Totally nuts.
I think working in a garden is kind of fun, too. But I don’t let that get around. My friends think gardening is for nerds.
Dad and Mr. McCall are always battling it out at the annual garden show. Mr. McCall usually takes first place. But last year, Dad and I won the blue ribbon for our tomatoes.
That drove Mr. McCall crazy. When Dad’s name was announced, Mr. McCall’s face turned as red as our
“Joe, stop acting like a jerk,” she snapped. “I have to concentrate.”
I love pretending I’m a sports announcer. It drives Mindy nuts.
Mindy pulled her arm back again. She tossed the Ping-Pong ball up into the air. And …
“A spider!” I screamed. “On your shoulder!”
“Yaaaiiii!”
Mindy dropped the paddle and began slapping her shoulder furiously. The ball clattered onto the table.
“Gotcha!” I cried. “My point.”
“No way!” Mindy shouted angrily. “You’re just a cheater, Joe.” She smoothed the shoulders of her pink T-shirt carefully. She picked up the ball and swatted it over the net.
“At least I’m a
funny
cheater!” I replied. I twirled around in a complete circle and belted the ball. It bounced once on my side before sailing over the net.
“Foul,” Mindy announced. “You’re always fouling.”
I waved my paddle at her. “Get a life,” I said. “It’s a game. It’s supposed to be fun.”
“I’m beating you,” Mindy replied. “That’s fun.”
I shrugged. “Who cares? Winning isn’t everything.”
“Where did you read that?” she asked. “In a bubble gum comic?” Then she rolled her eyes again. I think someday her eyes are going to roll right out of her head!
I rolled my eyes, too — back into my head until only the whites showed. “Neat trick, huh?”
“Cute, Joe,” Mindy muttered. “Really cute. You’d better watch out. One day your eyes might not come back down. Which would be an improvement!”
“Lame joke,” I replied. “Very lame.”
Mindy lined up her feet carefully again.
“She’s in her serve position,” I spoke into my paddle. “She’s nervous. She’s …”
“Joe!” Mindy whined. “Quit it!”
She tossed the Ping-Pong ball into the air. She swung the paddle, and —
“Gross!” I shouted. “What’s that big green glob indent out of your nose?”
Mindy ignored me this time. She tapped the ball over the net.
I dove forward and whacked it with the tip of my paddle. It spun high over the net and landed in the corner of the basement. Between the washing machine and the dryer.
Mindy jogged after the ball on her long, thin legs. “Hey, where’s Buster?” she called out. “Wasn’t he sleeping next to the dryer?”
Buster is our dog. A giant black Rottweiler with a head the size of a basketball. He loves snoozing on the old sleeping bag we keep in the corner of the basement. Especially when we’re down here playing Ping-Pong.
Everyone is afraid of Buster. For about three seconds. Then he starts licking them with his long, wet tongue. Or rolls onto his back and begs to have his belly scratched.
“Where is he, Joe?” Mindy bit her lip.
“He’s around here somewhere,” I replied. “Why are you always worrying about Buster? He weighs over a hundred pounds. He can take care of himself.”
Mindy frowned. “Not if Mr. McCall catches him. Remember what he said the last time Buster chomped on his tomato plants?”
Mr. McCall is our next-door neighbor. Buster loves the McCalls’ yard. He likes to nap under their huge, shady elm tree.
And dig little holes all over their lawn. And sometimes big holes.
And snack in their vegetable garden.
Last year, Buster dug up every head of Mr. McCall’s lettuce. And ate his biggest zucchini plant for dessert.
I guess that’s why Mr. McCall hates Buster. He said the next time he catches him in his garden, he’s going to turn him into fertilizer.
My dad and Mr. McCall are the two best gardeners in town. They’re nuts about gardening. Totally nuts.
I think working in a garden is kind of fun, too. But I don’t let that get around. My friends think gardening is for nerds.
Dad and Mr. McCall are always battling it out at the annual garden show. Mr. McCall usually takes first place. But last year, Dad and I won the blue ribbon for our tomatoes.
That drove Mr. McCall crazy. When Dad’s name was announced, Mr. McCall’s face turned as red as our
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