Super-sized Slugger (9 page)

The cafeteria was
even noisier than usual, three days later—so loud it was almost giving Cody a headache. In addition to the usual lunchtime pandemonium of trays clattering and coins clanging into vending machines and paper bags rustling, it seemed every kid in the place was yakking away at a decibel level that rivaled a Justin Bieber concert.

“Let me guess,” Cody said dryly, tossing his lunch bag on the table. “Everyone's talking about the big food drive to help the homeless.”

Willie looked around and shrugged. “You gotta admit it's pretty exciting,” he said. “It's not every day you have the police crawling all over the place and students being questioned.”

Cody nodded. Willie was right—you couldn't blame the kids. “The Great York Middle Crime Wave,” as it had been dubbed, was all anyone was talking about.

Even though there had been a few thefts in previous weeks, most of the school considered the start of the crime wave to be the day Cody and Nicky Evans had reported their cell phones missing in gym class. Later that same day, a girl in eighth grade had reported that her cell had been stolen from her locker.

By the next morning, a computer from the computer lab was missing, and two teachers had reported having their wallets stolen from their handbags. And just the day before, Ms. Wratched had arrived at school early in the morning, snapped on the lights to her classroom in the science wing, and let out a loud, piercing scream. At first her fellow teachers had ignored her, thinking she'd simply seen another mouse scurrying across the floor. That sight had become rather commonplace with all the construction work going on outside. It was disrupting the habitat of critters big and small and causing them to seek shelter elsewhere.

When Ms. Wratched's fellow teachers finally decided to investigate, they found her standing in the front of the room with a shocked expression, staring at a gaping space on the wall where a flat-screen TV had been. Now all that remained were a few wires dangling forlornly from where the unit had been ripped from the wall.

In addition, at least ten other students had reported their cell phones or iPods stolen in the past few days. In fact, so many were now missing that when a student went to the main office to report a theft, the bored-looking secretary didn't even look up, but simply pointed to a notebook under a cardboard sign that read: HAD SOMETHING STOLEN? LEAVE YOUR INFO HERE.

Now the entire student body was buzzing about whether the thefts were an “inside job” perpetrated by a York Middle student or students, or whether a nefarious gang of professional thieves had descended on the normally quiet school.

“I'm going with professional thieves,” Willie said now, munching on a cookie. “There's too much stuff missing. It can't be just kids.”

Connor snorted and shook his head. “Have you been watching that dumb
Ocean's Thirteen
movie again?” he said. “Why would a bunch of slick thieves target our little school? Huh? How much money are they going to get for a computer and a few crappy iPods and cell phones?”

He took an enormous bite of his turkey sandwich and continued. “Even the TV from Ms. Wratched's room would be small change for your average master thief. He's not risking ten years in the slammer just for that.”

Now it was Willie's turn to snort. “Oh,” he said, “listen to the star of
Criminal Minds
.”

“Make fun all you want,” Connor said. “But it's true.”

Suddenly, they heard a loud “OOOH! OOOH!” from the far end of the table. Everyone turned to find Marty with his hand raised.

“I have a theory, if you'll permit me,” Marty said.

Jordy rolled his eyes. “Marty, you don't need permission to speak here,” he said. “And you don't have to sound like such a dweeb. Who talks like that? ‘If you'll permit me'?”

A week earlier, Cody had finally coaxed Marty into leaving the geek table at the back of the cafeteria and sitting with his Orioles teammates. But Marty still seemed in awe of his surroundings and had only recently worked up enough nerve to join the conversations. Most days he preferred to keep his head down, nibbling like a tiny woodland creature at the weird sandwiches he brought for lunch, including the hummus-and-cream-cheese-and-onion sandwich that was now grossing everyone out.

“Okay,” Marty said, looking around and dropping his voice conspiratorially. “I think Connor's right. I think it's someone right here in school. He walks among us. He talks like we do. He knows our every move.”

“You make him sound like an alien,” Willie muttered.

“Or an angel. Or a demon,” Jordy said.

Marty smiled, revealing a pasty brown mouthful of gunk and tiny green clumps stuck to his teeth. The other boys winced. Well, Cody thought, now we know the cream cheese had chives in it.

“Oh, no, my friend,” Marty said. “He's not from another world. Far from it. He's a living, breathing York Middle student. He might even be sitting in this cafeteria right now. Not at this, um, particular table, of course.”

“Well, that's a relief,” Jordy said.

“The point is that it's probably someone we'd never suspect,” Marty continued. “Someone who looks totally innocent. Someone like, I don't know, Nicky Evans.”

“Nicky Evans stole his own cell phone?” Willie said.

Marty shot him a withering look.

“I'm just using him as an example, Einstein,” he continued. “It's someone who doesn't draw attention to himself. But someone who knows where everyone keeps stuff.”

Cody finished his lunch and crumpled his brown bag into a ball, staring pensively at Marty. “You keep saying
he
,” Cody said. “What if the thief is a girl?”

“Highly unlikely,” Marty said. “Girls are more likely to engage in crimes such as shoplifting and things of that nature. Everybody knows that.”

“There he goes again,” Jordy said. “Sounding like a college professor.”

Connor said, “And how would a girl rip that big TV off the wall in Ms. Wratched's room? And carry it away? It must've weighed fifty pounds.”

Oh, I know a girl who could do that, Cody thought. She'd probably fly through the air, karate kick it off its bracket, and catch it on the way down.

“Mark my words,” said Marty, craning his skinny neck and letting his gaze sweep dramatically from one side of the cafeteria to the other. “The thief walks among us.”

“Then I wish the thief would steal that disgusting sandwich of yours,” Willie said. “It's making me sick.”

Eddie Murray Field
was all dressed up for the first game of the play-offs. The green grass was freshly mowed, the infield dirt had been raked, and the batter's boxes and base lines gleamed with a new coat of lime. Fancy red, white, and blue bunting hung from the outfield fences too, just as it did from major league stadiums that hosted the World Series.

At precisely 6:30 p.m., county executive Morris Slaughter picked up a portable microphone and strolled out to home plate to welcome the overflow crowd. Slaughter was resplendent in a dark pin-striped suit, crisp white shirt, and bright pink tie, which matched his complexion, courtesy of a recent weeklong vacation in Aruba.

“Whoa!” Jordy whispered in the Orioles' dugout. “Somebody forgot the sunscreen!”

“The man is a walking ad for skin cancer!” Connor said.

Slaughter smiled, revealing two gleaming rows of even, professionally whitened teeth. He cleared his throat and began. “Ladies and gentlemen, it's a wonderful evening for baseball! And as your two-time county executive, it gives me great pleasure to welcome you to this wonderful facility, for this long-awaited game…”

“He makes it sound like the Super Bowl,” Willie murmured.

“…between the Orioles and the Red Sox!” Slaughter concluded with a flourish.

At this, the Orioles looked at each other with puzzled expressions.

“Uh, aren't we playing the Braves?” Willie said.

“Sure looks like them in the other dugout,” Jordy said. “Know how I can tell? 'Cause it says B-R-A-V-E-S on their jerseys.”

As the rest of the Orioles cracked up, a nervous-looking aide walked up to the beaming county exec and whispered in his ear. Slaughter's smile faded, and he raised his hands to the crowd apologetically.

“Ahem,” he said, “of course, I meant the long-awaited game between the Orioles and
Braves
.”

This elicited a loud sarcastic cheer from the Braves' dugout as well as from their family and friends in the bleachers, which in turn caused the veteran politician's face to turn from pink to a deep shade of red.

“And now,” he went on hurriedly, “if you'd rise and join me in the singing of our national anthem…”

The crowd rose, but for maybe fifteen long seconds, there was only silence. County Executive Slaughter stood awkwardly at home plate, his hand over his heart, glancing around to see what the holdup was. His aide looked as if he might faint. The problem was soon diagnosed: the sullen teenager working the sound board forgot to hit the PLAY button. Finally he did, and the first strains of the anthem crackled over the loudspeakers, to everyone's enormous relief.

“Men,” Coach said when it was over, “I hope our game goes smoother than the pregame ceremonies.”

“There are five-car pileups on the Beltway that go smoother than that,” Willie muttered.

Robbie set the Braves down in order in the first inning, showing off a good fastball and changeup. As the Orioles came to bat, Cody noticed that the same pitcher who had smirked at him in the first game was back on the mound for the Braves. The kid's name, Cody had learned, was Logan Morrissey. And Logan had turned out to be an okay kid. He was in Cody's gym class and always picked Cody first when they were choosing up sides.

Today Cody wasn't worried about any of the Braves smirking at him. The teasing had stopped out here, just as it had in school. The reason wasn't hard to figure out: Cody had dropped a few pounds. Oh, no one was ever going to ask him to model tight jeans for Old Navy. But he didn't look like that Terry Forster guy—what did they call him, a big tub of goo?—in his uniform anymore.

But with or without smirking, Logan was throwing just as hard as Robbie, and the game quickly settled into an old-fashioned pitchers' duel. The Orioles managed just two hits over the first five innings: a single up the middle by Dante in the second inning, and a bloop double down the right-field line by Yancy in the third. But the Braves weren't doing much better against Robbie and Mike Cutko, who came on in relief in the fifth inning and continued to shut them out.

Cody was growing increasingly frustrated. He had grounded out to shortstop in the second inning, completely fooled by a Logan changeup. In the fourth inning, trying to get something going for his team, he had swung for the fences, taking such a mighty cut at another changeup that he nearly fell down while lifting a harmless pop-up to the third baseman.

“Hey, Babe Ruth!” Willie said when Cody had returned to the dugout with his head down. “You're swinging out of your shoes!”

As the Orioles came to bat in the bottom of the sixth inning with the score still tied at 0–0, Coach tried to keep their spirits up.

“Murderers' Row was just taking a little siesta, men!” he shouted. “The bats are gonna wake up right now!”

Instead, Murderers' Row kept right on snoozing. But, luckily for the Orioles, they got some major help from the Braves' defense when Robbie led off with a bouncer to second that the second baseman bobbled. Jordy moved him over with a weak ground ball to the first baseman. And Connor followed with an even weaker grounder back to the pitcher, moving Robbie to third.

Two outs, yes, but now there was a runner on third. The Orioles couldn't believe their good fortune.

“It's all that clean living, boys!” Coach shouted from the third-base coaching box. “We haven't even hit the ball out of the infield, and we can win it right now!”

Not only that, but Cody, one of their best hitters, was striding to the plate.

Cody gave his bat a quick pep talk—since Marty had busted him, Cody had gotten good at doing this without moving his lips. As he dug in against the Braves' new pitcher, he kept reminding himself:
No Babe Ruth swings.
All we need is a base hit.

The first pitch was in the dirt for a ball. He swung at the second pitch, a low fastball, and fouled it off. The third pitch was outside.

The count was 2–1. He'll probably come with something right over the plate now, Cody thought. He stepped out and tapped the dirt from his spikes. As the noise from the Orioles' dugout and the stands grew louder and louder, Cody could feel the adrenaline coursing through him. He dug in again and waggled the bat menacingly.

The pitcher peered in for the sign. He nodded and came to the set position, ready to deliver. Cody took a deep breath, waiting, waiting…

Suddenly a voice rang out. “TIME!”

It was Marty, coaching at first base. He stood there with his hands raised until the umpire granted him the time-out. Then he motioned for Cody to join him for a conference. Over in the third-base box, Coach stared at Marty as if he'd lost his mind.

Marty met Cody halfway down the line and draped a skinny arm around his teammate's shoulders. “Just hear me out on this, okay?” he said. “Don't go all Mount Vesuvius until I'm finished.”

Cody was dumbfounded. “This better be good,” he said.

“You should bunt,” Marty said quietly.

“Ex-
cuse
me?”

“Bunt,” Marty repeated. “B-U-N-T.”

“I know how to spell it,” Cody said. “But why would I do it?” He stared at Marty for a moment with a puzzled frown. Then he said, “Tell me the truth. Are you insane?”

“Au contraire,”
Marty said calmly. “Here's why you bunt. Number one, they won't be expecting it from a big kid. Number two, Robbie's pretty fast—he should score easily. Number three, the pitcher doesn't look like a very good fielder, so you'll probably leg it out for a hit. Even with your, um, less-than-blazing speed. No offense.”

“Oh, none taken!” Cody snorted. “Why would I be offended?”

“And number four,” Marty said, “let's face it, you haven't exactly been knocking down the fences tonight.”

Cody couldn't argue with that. But
bunt?
Here? In this situation?

“Trust me, big guy,” Marty said, giving him a whack on the butt, big-league style. Then he trotted back to the coach's box with a self-satisfied smile, like someone who had just saved the planet from a deadly disease.

Walking back to the plate, Cody conducted an internal debate with himself. Bunt or swing away? Should I listen to the little geek? Within seconds, he had made up his mind.

He took a couple of mighty practice swings and dug into the batter's box again. As the noise grew once more, the pitcher squinted in for the sign and nodded. But as he rocked back to deliver, Cody suddenly squared around, the bat held loosely in front of him, waist-high. The pitch was low and outside, perfect for what he was about to do. He dropped the barrel of the bat on the ball, pushing it down the first base line. With a little bit of backspin on it, the ball seemed to die perfectly.

As he took off for first, out of the corner of his eye, Cody could see Robbie racing for home. The pitcher and the first baseman both charged the ball. But each hesitated for a split second, thinking the other had it. Finally the first baseman scooped it and made a high, hurried throw to the catcher as Robbie slid across the plate.

“SAFE!” the umpire yelled.

Game over. Final score: 1–0 Orioles. As they raced from their dugout, whooping and cheering, Cody grabbed Marty in a bear hug before the two were mobbed by their teammates.

Suddenly, they felt the presence of someone looming over them.

It was Coach. He didn't look very happy.

“Marty,” Coach said as the jubilation quickly subsided, “are you the coach of this team now? Huh? Did I die and leave you in charge?”

Marty froze, eyes wide with alarm. He tried to stammer out a reply. Then Coach's face broke into a big grin, and he clapped Marty on the back, nearly causing him to pitch forward.

“I'm just messing with you, son!” Coach said. “That bunt call was pure genius! That's using your head! That's taking what the other team gives you!”

Marty clutched his chest and pretended to keel over. “You got me good, Coach,” he said. “Can a thirteen-year-old have a heart attack?”

Now everyone was laughing and high-fiving. The Orioles were still undefeated. One more win and they'd play for the championship. And all because of a bunt, Cody thought.

He looked over at Marty, who was now explaining his strategy to his rapt teammates.

Maybe Coach is right, Cody thought. Maybe the little nerd really
is
a genius.