Free Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle by Nan Marino

though my team is clueless, I know his plan.
    I hope, for Janie Lee’s sake, that the strikeout is quick and painless.
    â€œWhenever you’re ready, J. Lee,” shouts Muscle Man.
    Janie Lee nods, and he throws her the first pitch.
    It’s not the fast, get-down-to-business pitch that I would have thrown. It’s a slow, easy ball. A baby pitch. Even Muscle Man, who has no pitching technique at all, can do better.
    Janie Lee kicks it, but instead of hitting the ball head-on, she nicks the top of it. The ball hardly goes five feet. Muscle Man is all over it. He’s got the ball in his hands before Janie Lee can take three steps toward first base.
    Even Janie Lee knows she’s out. She snivels. For a moment, it looks like she’s going to cry. And it’s a sad fact that whenever a Grabowsky girl sheds a tear, every boy on Ramble Street scampers to her side.
    â€œRun!” I shout.
    â€œGo to first base, Janie Lee!” yells John Marcos.
    â€œTry your best, sweetie,” adds MaryBeth.
    Janie Lee heads to first base, running as fast as her five-year-old legs can carry her.
    Muscle Man races toward her, except instead of moving at top speed, he moves in an exaggerated slow motion.
    â€œI’m coming at you,” he says, but he hardly steps off the pitching mound.
    It’s all pretend, and everyone knows it except for Janie Lee.
    The truth is that he can tag her out seven times if he tried and three times if he only half tried.
    Janie Lee reaches first base. Still out of breath from her long run, she throws us all a big Grabowsky smile.
    â€œWay to go, Janie Lee!” shouts Big Danny.
    â€œYou did it, honey!” screams MaryBeth.
    Muscle Man runs to first base and high-fives Janie Lee, as if they’re on the same team. The other kids jump up and down, like it’s the winning run in the World Series.
    Muscle Man and Janie Lee race toward the group with their hands up in the air. Big Danny, Benny Schuster, Conchetta Marchetta, Billy Rattle, Greg McGinty, and, of course, MaryBeth, all high-five them.
    It’s like one big love festival, and I’m the only one not feeling it. It’s incredible. The kid doesn’t even lose when he’s losing.

Chapter Seventeen
Kebsie’s Letter
    I CARRY K EBSIE’S letter with me all day. After fifty days of missing her, it feels good to have her around, even if it’s just in paper form.
    Something inside me isn’t in a hurry. So I keep her letter with me. And wait.
    I wait until after everyone gets called home for dinner and the kickball game is done for the day. I wait until after Shirley fixes me a Swanson’s TV dinner. I’m so busy thinking about the letter in my pocket that I hardly taste any of it, even the apple cobbler, which is my favorite part, even though Shirley never cooks it right and it always sticks to the aluminum tray. I wait until Marshall and Shirley are sound asleep and the only things awake on Ramble Street are the crickets.
    I slip out my window and onto the garage roof. All this time, I didn’t know what I was waiting for. But as soon as I see it, I know instantly. I was waiting for the moon.
    The moon is only a quarter slice, and there are a few clouds in the way. My flashlight batteries are wearing out, but one good bang sends a light beaming.
    I open Kebsie’s letter slowly and carefully.
    Dear Tamara,
    Thanks for the charm. I am doing good. I will tell you where we are sometime soon. I am with my mother.
    MaryBeth got another Barbie doll? That ’ s neato. Tell MaryBeth congratulations.
    From your bf,
Kebsie
    I read it again and again before the words sink in.
    â€œTell MaryBeth congratulations?” “Neato?” That’s not the Kebsie Grobser I know. Tell MaryBeth that Barbie dolls are stupid. Tell MaryBeth to make sure she gets her dolls muddy. Tell MaryBeth to wipe that prissy look off her face. Those are things that Kebsie would say in a letter.
    I