Free Wall Ball by Kevin Markey

lightly kissed my head. “I’ve got a good feeling. I think winter is on its last legs.”
    I looked out the window. A thick white blanket covered the lawn.
    “I don’t know about legs,” I said skeptically. “Stilts maybe.”
    Real stilts would have been nice. We could have used them to walk over all that snow.
    After breakfast I bundled into my Inuit parka, pulled on my ski hat and my down-filled mittens, and laced up my mukluks. Then I zipped Mr. Bones into his silly coat. We went out into the frosty morning and started shoveling the driveway. At least I did. Mr. Bones bounded around the yard poking his furry head under the snow in search of buried tennis balls.
    It took me about an hour to clear a path down to the street. As I neared the end, Slingshot and Stump showed up. Slingshot wore a backpack. Stump carried a giant duffel bag. They had the look of foxes with keys to the hen-house.
    “What’s in the bags?” I asked.
    “Top secret,” said Stump.
    “C’mon,” said Slingshot. “Let’s go.”
    “Go where?” I asked, leaning on my shovel. I couldn’t tell if it was the work I’d done or the weather, but I actually felt warm. I unzipped my coat.
    “School,” said Stump.
    “Maybe you haven’t heard,” I said. “School’s canceled.”
    “All the better,” said Slingshot, “to test my invention.”
    “What invention?” I asked.
    “The one that’s going to keep Orlando from running into the wall.”
    This sounded interesting. “Let me ask my mom,” I said.
    “We already did,” Stump assured me. “Talked on the phone while you were shoveling. Everything’s cool.”
    I turned and looked back at the house. Mom waved from a patch of sunlight on the porch. “Good luck,” she called. I noticed she wasn’teven wearing a coat. Maybe the paper was right. Maybe the weather was warming up at last.
    With that the three of us rushed off, Mr. Bones scampering in our tracks.
    All along the route to school, grown-ups cleared sidewalks and laughing kids built snowmen and snow forts. Sunlight glinted off the fresh white stuff, making the day blindingly bright. People smiled and waved and said things like “Enjoy it while you can.”
    In other words, a perfect winter scene.
    Except it was April.
    Obviously none of these people played baseball.
    When we got to the school yard, we found Orlando and the rest of the Rounders pegging one another with snowballs. Gabby was there, camera slung around her neck as usual. A few tourists milled around the base of Mount Rambletown, but the crowd was much thinner than it had been earlier in the week.
    Slingshot led us across the parking lot to the mountain. He shrugged off his pack and set it down in the snow.
    “What’s the idea?” I asked.
    “The idea,” said Slingshot, “is to give Orlando some traction.”
    “I like it,” said Orlando. “But how?”
    “With these,” said Slingshot. He unzipped his pack and pulled out two sheets of sandpaper.
    “What’s he supposed to do with those?” I asked. “Rub splinters out of the outfield wall? The goal is to stop Orlando from hitting the wall. Not make his collisions smoother!”
    “He’ll need more than sandpaper for that,” Ducks agreed.
    With a shake of his head, Slingshot reached into his pack again. Out came a pair of shoes with spikes on the bottom.
    “Those are golf shoes,” said Tugboat.
    “Borrowed from my dad,” said Slingshot.
    “Uh, Slingshot,” piped up Ocho. “I hate toremind you, but we’ve got a baseball game coming up. Do you think this is the best time for Orlando to learn golf?”
    “No, no, I get it,” said Orlando. “Golf spikes will bite into the crusty snow. I can dig in and stop from slipping. But I still don’t get the sandpaper.”
    Slingshot smiled and pressed a sheet of the gritty paper over the spikes on one shoe, rough side showing.
    “Extra gripping power,” he said. “Like snow tires for your feet.” He stuck the other sheet of sandpaper on to the other shoe