Free Brooke by V.C. Andrews Page B

third, and my third baseman, an eleventh grader named Stacey, made a fine pickup, which was followed by a throw good enough to beat the runner out at first base.
    We went in to bat.

    â€œYou’ve pitched before?” Mrs. Grossbard asked me.
    â€œYes,” I said.
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell me that was your usual position?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I replied.
    â€œUsually, my girls don’t hesitate to tell me what they
think
they’re good at,” she remarked. “Modesty here is as rare as poverty.”
    I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I smiled and nodded and took my seat on the bench.
    Our first batter hit a weak fly ball that fell just behind the shortstop, who happened to be Lisa Donald. She fell reaching for the ball, and we had a runner on base. Our second batter struck out, but our third batter hit a hard drive between first and second. We had girls on first and third when our cleanup hitter, a chunky girl named Cora Munsen, swung and hit a hard line drive right into the hands of the second baseman, who dropped it. We had the bases loaded, and I came to bat for the first time in my new school.
    All eyes were on me, some hoping I would look foolish, most just curious. I saw Mrs. Grossbard’s nod of approval at the way I held the bat and took my stance. My heart was pounding. I had to step out of the box for a moment to catch my breath, collect myself, and step back.
    The first pitch was too low and the second too wide, but the third was slow and down the middle, my favorite pitch. I timed it just right and hit the ball hard. It rose and rose and went over the centerfielder’s head. The school’s baseball field was bordered in the back by a small hill. The ball hit the crest of the hill and began to roll down, but it was so far away from the center fielder, she could never get a throw back to relay another before I had rounded the bases.
    My first time up, I had hit a grand-slam home run.
    And Mrs. Grossbard cheered as hard as anyone I had ever had cheer for me at my public school.
    Afterward, everyone was talking about my hit. Girls were coming over to introduce themselves in the locker room, and by the time we all left the gym area to board our small, plush school buses, there was hardly a student at Agnes Fodor who hadn’t heard about the longest home-run ball ever hit at the field. By the end of the day, talk about my hit was so exaggerated that the story going around school was that my home run had cleared the hill.
    Mrs. Grossbard came out to speak to me before I boarded the bus.
    â€œTomorrow,” she said, “you sign up for the softball team, okay?”
    â€œSure,” I said.
    â€œHeck,” she said, “we might even win a game.”
    Bursting with excitement, I hurried onto the bus, eager to brag to my new parents about my first day.

6
I Need to Be Me

    S till filled with excitement, I charged up to the front door of my new house and entered, hardly able to contain myself. I was about to run up the stairs to my room to change my clothes, when Pamela stepped out of the living room.
    â€œGood. You’re home on time. Come right in here,” she said, indicating the living room.
    â€œI was just going to put my books away and change,” I said. “I wanted to tell you all about . . .”
    â€œJust step right in here now,” she said with a firmer voice. “You can do that later. There is someone here I want you to meet immediately.”
    Obediently, I walked down the hall and entered the living room. A short, bald man with a face as round as a penny stood there gaping at me with big, watery gray eyes. He had a dark brown blotch on his otherwise shiny skull. It looked as if someone had splattered beef gravy on him because it spreadin thin lines toward the back of his head and his temples.
    â€œThis is Professor Wertzman, Brooke. I’ve hired him to start you on piano lessons. Contestants need to show