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Clack, Clack, Clack.
The Ping-Pong ball clattered over the basement floor. “Yes!” I cried as I
watched Mindy chase after it.
It was a hot, sticky June afternoon. The first Monday of summer vacation. And
Joe Burton had just made another excellent shot.
That’s me. Joe Burton. I’m twelve. And there is nothing I love better than
slamming the ball in my older sister’s face and making her chase after it.
I’m not a bad sport. I just like to show Mindy that she’s not as great as she
thinks she is.
You might guess that Mindy and I do not always agree on things. The fact is,
I’m really not like anyone else in my family.
Mindy, Mom, and Dad are all blond, skinny, and tall. I have brown hair. And
I’m kind of pudgy and short. Mom says I haven’t had my growth spurt yet.
So I’m a shrimp. And it’s hard for me to see over the Ping-Pong net. But I
can still beat Mindy with one hand tied behind my back.
As much as I love to win, Mindy hates to lose. And she doesn’t play fair at
all. Every time I make a great move, she says it doesn’t count.
“Joe, kicking the ball over the net is not legal,” she whined as she
scooped out the ball from under the couch.
“Give me a break!” I cried. “All the Ping-Pong champions do it. They call it
the Soccer Slam.”
Mindy rolled her huge green eyes. “Oh, puh-lease!” she muttered. “My serve.”
Mindy is weird. She’s probably the weirdest fourteen-year-old in town.
Why? I’ll tell you why.
Take her room. Mindy arranges all her books in alphabetical order—by
author. Do you believe it?
And she fills out a card for each one. She files them in the top drawer of
her desk. Her own private card catalog.
If she could, she’d probably cut the tops off the books so they’d be all the
same size.
She is so organized. Her closet is organized by color. All the reds
come first. Then the oranges. Then the yellows. Then come the greens, blues, and
purples. She hangs her clothes in the same order as the rainbow.
And at dinner, she eats around her plate clockwise. Really! I’ve watched her.
First her mashed potatoes. Then all her peas. And then her meat loaf. If she
finds one pea in her mashed potatoes, she totally loses it!
Weird. Really weird.
Me? I’m not organized. I’m cool. I’m not serious like my sister. I can be
pretty funny. My friends think I’m a riot. Everyone does. Except Mindy.
“Come on, serve already,” I called out. “Before the end of the century.”
Mindy stood on her side of the table, carefully lining up her shot. She
stands in exactly the same place every time. With her feet exactly the same
space apart. Her footprints are worn into the carpet.
“Ten-eight and serving,” Mindy finally called out. She always calls out the
score before she serves. Then she swung her arm back.
I held the paddle up to my mouth like a microphone. “She pulls her arm back,”
I announced. “The crowd is hushed. 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.
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