Free Manatee Blues by Laurie Halse Anderson

OUTFIELD, LEADS THE LEAGUE IN HOME RUNS, ACQUIRED IN THE OFF-SEASON, PLAYED FOR PHILADELPHIA FOR FOUR YEARS.
    There is a half page of statistics that Maggie probably knows, then a quote from the home run king himself:
    I LOVE FLORIDA. THE WEATHER IS GORGEOUS, THE PEOPLE ARE FRIENDLY, AND THE FISHING IS SPECTACULAR.
    Under the quote is a picture of Ronnie and his family on his boat. A red speedboat.
    “It’s him!” I shriek, pointing to the picture.
    “The guy on the boat. Remember, yesterday? That obnoxious speedboat at breakfast?
He
was driving.”
    “No way,” Zoe says.
    “Yes way,” I insist. “Wait, I can prove it!”
    I rip open my backpack and rummage around in it. I pull out the envelope from FotoHut and flip through my photos: the airport, Sunita and David, the palm trees we saw on the first day, Violet, little Key Lime struggling in the canal, and …
    “Bingo! Here he is driving the boat that was buzzing the beach yesterday! Remember? We talked to that waiter about it.”
    Maggie reaches for the photo. “I don’t believe it.”
    “See for yourself,” I say as I hand it to her.
    On the field, the Hurricanes’ pitcher winds up and throws again. Ronnie swings.
    “Strike two!”
    Maggie peers closely at the boat photos. Zoe needs just one glance. “Yep, that’s him,” she says. “No doubt about it.”
    Dr. Mac slips on her bifocals and leans over to look for herself. “They’re right, Maggie. Mr. Masters may be a great home run hitter, but he’s a lousy boat driver.”
    “I can’t believe it,” Maggie says as she hands the picture back to me. She looks a little shaken up and sad. “I thought he was a good guy. When he played for the Phillies he was always visiting sick kids in the hospital, being a great role model. I can’t believe he would do something so stupid.”
    She looks down at home plate. Ronnie waits for the next pitch. “I hope he strikes out,” she says.
    The pitcher fires a fastball across the plate.
    Crack!
    “Home run!” bellows the announcer over the loudspeaker. The crowd around us leaps to their feet, shouting and whistling. Ronnie jogs around the bases and stomps on home plate with both feet.
    “What a loser,” Maggie grumbles.

    By the end of the game, Ronnie Masters isn’t just a loser. Maggie thinks he’s the biggest jerk who ever lived in the history of the universe. Me? I’ve got a bone to pick with him.
    “I suppose you girls don’t want to stand in line for Ronnie’s autograph now,” Dr. Mac says as we leave our seats after the final out.
    Maggie tosses her empty popcorn box in the trash. “Gross. I wouldn’t touch anything signed by him.”
    “I do,” I say firmly. “Dr. Mac, will you wait for me?”
    “Are you sure?” she asks, puzzled.
    “Positive,” I assure her.
    “Why?” Zoe says. “You saw what he did.”
    “You’ll see,” I promise.
    The line in the autograph area is fairly short, probably because the Hurricanes ended up beating the Stingers, 9 to 4. Ronnie Masters and his teammates sit behind a long table, signing whatever is put in front of them.A guy in a Stingers jacket is in charge of keeping the line moving. His I.D. badge says P UBLIC R ELATIONS .
    “Next!” he calls, waving to me.
    OK, Lake
, I tell myself.
You can do this. Keep cool—don’t lose your temper. Think before you act.
    “Hi,” I say as I step up to the home run king.
    “Well, how ya doing?” Ronnie asks, flashing a million-dollar smile. “Do you have something for me to sign?”
    “I have a picture of you,” I say. “I took it myself, yesterday. This is your boat, isn’t it?” I slide my photo across the table.
    Ronnie looks at the picture. “Yes, it is. That’s a pretty good picture there. You going to be a photographer when you grow up?”
    Here we go. Be smart.
    “Mr. Masters, you were driving your boat too fast,” I say politely. “There could have been manatees out there. I want to show you something else.”
    I flip through the stack of