Free Wing Ding by Kevin Markey Page B

Velcro emerged from the gritty brown cloud. One after another, the rest of our teammates stumbled out behind them. Caked in grime, they looked as if they’d just crossed the Sahara Desert. Any second now, I expected camels to appear.
    Real camels would’ve been nice. They have long eyelashes to protect themselves from sand-storms.
    Right then and there, Skip Lou decided to move practice off the diamond.
    â€œThis is ridiculous,” he snorted. “Follow me.”
    We gathered up our stuff and trudged out of our sand pit. It felt good to breathe clean airagain. Not to mention being able to see.
    Slingshot fell in beside me.
    â€œDid you get the green light from Stump’s parents?” he whispered.
    I checked over my shoulder. Stump moped along by himself at the back of the pack.
    I nodded.
    â€œExcellent,” he said. “I’ll get the supplies after practice. Everybody’s coming to my house tonight to make what we talked about.”
    Suddenly Mr. Bones let out a yelp and ran toward the buzzing trees. Launching himself through the air, he scrabbled three feet straight up the nearest trunk before gravity pulled him back to earth. He turned a back flip and landed on his feet. For a second the bugs fell silent. Then they started up with the horror music again, even louder than before.
    â€œThat dog should be in a circus!” One of the workers laughed.
    A real circus would’ve been nice. They always stretch huge nets beneath the high wire. We could’ve used nets to catch the locusts. Mr.Bones sure didn’t have any success. I called him away from the trees.
    â€œIs he smiling?” Gasser asked as Mr. Bones trotted over to us. “He looks like the cat who swallowed the canary. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he has something up his sleeve.”
    â€œExcept he doesn’t have sleeves,” I said.
    â€œWhatever did happen to that coat he used to wear?” Velcro asked. “You know, the plaid one?”
    â€œUgh,” I said, remembering the horrible little doggy jacket Mr. Bones had gotten for Christmas. The thing made him look ridiculous, like a throw pillow with a head sticking out one end and a tail wagging at the other. He’d proudly worn it all winter long. “Don’t mention the coat,” I said. “He’ll want it back.”
    Skip Lou led us to an open area at the edge of the Rambletown Park playground. Telling us to hang tight for a minute, he went over and talked to the leader of the work crew. The conversation involved a lot of nodding and pointing.
    As they spoke, we watched a steady stream ofcars pull into Rambletown Park. People jumped out, carrying bags and boxes, and headed for a large open area a few hundred yards beyond the playground.
    Tugboat squinted his eagle eyes. His face brightened. “Kites,” he said. “They’re setting up for the festival!”
    â€œI brought mine!” the Glove announced. He unfurled a gray-blue kite in the shape of a shark. “Anybody else?”
    â€œTied to my bike,” I said.
    The other guys nodded. Almost all of us had remembered kites.
    Before we could say anything more, Skip Lou returned and proceeded to arrange the blue buckets in a row on the wood chips about fifteen feet from where we stood.
    He turned and faced us.
    â€œListen up, guys,” Skip Lou said. “We’re going to break into two teams to practice throwing. Never hurts to work on accuracy.”
    He didn’t mention any names. He didn’t need to.

CHAPTER 14
    â€œT he game is called bucket ball, and the rules are simple,” Skip said. “Each player gets six throws. You score one point for hitting a bucket, two for landing a ball inside. Hit all three buckets twice and you pick up five bonus points for your team. I deliberately set the buckets close. At this distance, the wind shouldn’t be much of a factor. Winners earn bragging rights. Everybody else gets