Free Game Changer by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page A

Not anything that you’re doing!”
    “Then I must have . . . homework,” KT said, even though she couldn’t quite remember if she did or not.
    Mom went back to angrily stomping away.
    “I can’t even look at you right now,” she called over her shoulder. “Do what I told you!”
    KT gazed down at the toppled trophies before her, and at the half dozen she’d left standing. She swung both arms out, knocking down every singleone.



Chαpt e r tε n
    It was a tense ride in the car.
    Dad drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Mom squeezed her hands together so hard her knuckles turned white.
    “Max’ll do fine,” Dad said.
    In the backseat KT seethed.
    Why are they making me go watch some stupid thing with Max? KT wondered. Why aren’t they insisting I get back to practice?
    Her parents were fanatical about the importance of practice. They routinely left work early to get her to her club-team practices. Dad had even driven her there once when he’d had a 103-degree fever and had to stop twice by the side of the road to lean his head out the door to vomit.
    But KT couldn’t say anything else about softball practice.
    She couldn’t, because all of her sports trophies had vanished.
    She couldn’t, because when she’d gone up to her room, she’d looked for her list of goals on her bulletin board—about pitching for the University of Arizona, about winning a gold medal in the Olympics—and it had vanished too.
    In its place had been a row of report cards.
    All with straight As.
    Her pictures of the 2004 and 2008 Olympic softball teams were missing as well, along with the hand-lettered sign that said, IT’S COMING BACK! IT HAS TO! AND I’LL PLAY IN THE OLYMPICS IN 2024!
    She’d quickly logged on to her laptop—no messing around with the iPod this time—and still couldn’t find the Rysdale Invitational website.
    She couldn’t find the “Bring softball back to the Olympics!” Facebook page.
    She couldn’t find the Amateur Softball Association website.
    At that point Dad had barged into her room—just home from work, judging from his suit and tie—and said, “I don’t want to hear a single word about the argument you tried to start with your mother. Or anything else. You are not going to ruin this day for your mother or Max or me. You are getting in the car, and you are getting in that car now !”
    KT got.
    Mom and Dad are acting strange, but they’re not acting like they think there’s anything strange going on, KT thought. They’re acting like they think everything is normal.
    She thought of Mom holding up that stupid honor-roll trophy and saying, “They’re right here, right where they’ve always been.”
    Like that was all KT hadever earned.
    How could Mom have forgotten all of KT’s softball trophies? How could Mom have forgotten KT’s softball practice?
    How could the softball field and the gym have disappeared? How could the entire softball team—and the coach—have failed to show up for practice? How could Mr. Horace have told me I wasn’t on a team? How could this whole day have been so mixed-up and confusing?
    Dad turned onto the street in front of the school.
    “The lot by the academic entrance already looks full,” he said. “You want to try out front?”
    “Sure,” Mom said.
    Academic entrance? KT thought scornfully.
    But the front parking lot was full too. Dad ended up having to park three blocks away.
    Mom spun around in her seat, glancing at KT for the first time since she’d slid into the car.
    “You didn’t change?” she cried in dismay.
    KT looked down at her clothes, which were admittedly a little sweaty after her day of jogging, pitching, exercise-biking, and weight training. And after running to and from school.
    “I like these clothes,” KT said.
    “But—,” Mom began.
    Dad put his hand warningly on Mom’s arm.
    “Brenda,” he said. “Don’t fight this battle right now. KT’s here, she’s supporting her brother, she’s showing school