Free Keeping Score by Linda Sue Park Page A

them back into their envelopes, and returned them to the shoebox. She pressed her lips together hard.
    There were two possible reasons why she hadn't heard from Jim in so long. And neither was good news.

    The first reason was easier to talk about.
    "I mean, I thought we were friends, but maybe I'm wrong," Maggie said as she and Treecie walked home from school the next day. "Maybe to him I'm just some—some pesky little kid, but he had to be nice to me because my dad got him his job."
    "What are you talking about—of
course
he likes you!" Treecie said. "If it was because of your dad, do you think he'd have spent hours and
hours
scoring games with you? Don't be ridiculous. He could have given you a—a Hershey bar or something if he just wanted to be nice!"
    Maggie had to smile. Treecie, loyal and reassuring and annoyed all at the same time.
    "Still, maybe it was stupid of me to keep writing to him," Maggie said. "I—I don't know why—"
    "I do," Treecie said. "Baseball."
    "Well, sure, but—"
    "No, listen. I mean, I like baseball and I love the Dodgers and all that, but when you two talk about baseball, it's almost a whole different game. The stuff in your scorebooks—it's like some secret code or something, that nobody else could figure out. What I mean is, you talk about baseball different to him than anybody else. And you miss that."
    Maggie looked at Treecie gratefully and nodded. It was true. Ever since Jim had left, she had been going to the firehouse less often. Not that she didn't like the other guys; they were her pals, especially George, and she still listened to games with them from time to time. But it wasn't the same without Jim there.
    "Anyway, maybe it's not his fault," Treecie said.
    "What do you mean?"
    "Well, suppose he's not an ambulance guy anymore. Suppose he got transferred into some supersecret spy job, and he's not allowed to write to anyone. Or he's ... he's behind enemy lines or—wait, I know!"
    Treecie stopped walking and grabbed Maggie's arm, her eyes wide. "He's been captured! He's a prisoner-of-war, and he's being kept in some awful jail, and the—the warden's daughter is really smart, and she sneaks him extra food, and they've fallen in love, and she's figuring out a plan to help him escape!"
    "C'mon, Treece, this isn't a movie," Maggie said.
    Still, Treecie had said aloud what Maggie had been thinking: The second possibility was that Jim
couldn't
write to her.
    He's still alive,
she thought.
If he wasn't, we would know—Dad would have heard.
    Not dead, then. Hurt? Or captured?
    And how could she find out?
    She asked her dad first. Dad said he hadn't heard anything about Jim, so the next time Maggie passed by the firehouse, she spoke to George.
    "Yeah, Maggie-o, I did hear somethin'," he said. He set down the sandwich he was holding and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "I mean, it wasn't me, it was his sister."
    George went on to explain that Jim's sister in New Jersey had phoned to say she had received a letter. "She told me things are a little tough for him. But he—he's doin' okay, I guess." He paused for a moment, then picked up the sandwich and waved it at her. "Bologna?" he said.
    Maggie shook her head.
    "You sure? Aw, go on."
    Maggie saw the ragged edges of the bread and the semicircle shapes of George's bites, and it didn't look the least bit appetizing. "No thanks, George."
    He shrugged. "Okay," he said. "Guess that means more for me."
    Maggie said goodbye and headed home.
    The relief that she felt on hearing that Jim had been in touch with his sister was tangled up with other not-so-good feelings. Of course it was normal for Jim to write to his family, but she couldn't help feeling jealous of this sister she'd never met.
    And if he was still writing to other people, did it mean Treecie was wrong—that Jim wasn't a real friend after all?
    Maggie thought about the games they had scored together, their long conversations about baseball, the