Free Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle by Nan Marino Page A

wonder if Kebsie’s in trouble. Maybe she’s trying to tell me something. Maybe “neato” is a secret code word. Maybe she’s really trying to say, Help! I’m being abducted by evil Soviet spies who are forcing me to tell national secrets! But something lumpy inside me knows this is wishful thinking. There are no signs of worry or trouble in this note, and Kebsie doesn’t know any national secrets.
    This is a letter from someone who’s too busy to write because she is probably walking around her new neighborhood using the word neato .
    All this time, I thought I was something special. I guess I was just someone to hang out with while Kebsie Grobser lived on Ramble Street. I was nothing to her.
    There’s no name for the feeling inside of me. The emptiness I got from missing Kebsie seems like good times compared to this new feeling.
    I rip up the letter and promise myself that I’ll never, ever write to her again.

Chapter Eighteen
The War Comes Home to Ramble Street
    T HE NEXT DAY, my own team pulls a fast one on me.
    We’re lined up at home plate when MaryBeth Grabowsky drops a bombshell. “Janie Lee and I were talking about it last night. We think it would be a nice thing to give Muscle Man another chance to kick.”
    Janie Lee jumps up and down in agreement.
    â€œI’d be okay with that,” says John Marcos, and MaryBeth smiles.
    â€œBut it’s our turn. We’re up. He shouldn’t be up until he earns it,” I protest.
    â€œThe score is 43 to nothing. What harm would it do?” asks Big Danny.
    Harm? What harm? It would change the rules of kickball. Rules that we live by and think are important. What if we changed other rules? The entire game would be different. What if, instead of running to first base, we ran to third? Or maybe it’s ten strikes and you’re out. Where does it end?
    â€œThis is wrong.” I stare at the pitcher’s mound, where Muscle Man is patiently waiting.
    The team puts it to a vote. I am outvoted.
    It looks like I’ll have to strike Muscle Man out all over again.
    John Marcos signals for me to pitch a slow ball.
    I answer with my fastest pitch.
    â€œAre you gonna call it?” I ask him. “What strike is this?”
    John Marcos throws the ball back at me. “Call your own strikes.”
    And that’s what I do. “Steee-rike one,” I say in my best umpire’s voice.
    â€œHold on a sec, Tammy. I’m not warmed up.” Muscle Man drops to the ground and begins doing push-ups. He then moves into a weird combination of jumping jacks and deep knee bends.
    Jeez. The kid thinks he’s a junior version of Jack LaLanne.
    â€œWhenever you’re ready, Jack.” I smirk.
    Muscle Man kicks at the air a few times. Finally, he gives me a nod. And I throw the ball.
    My next pitch is exactly the same as the first one.
    Even though he’s seen this pitch before, Muscle Man kicks way too soon. His foot sticks out in front of him, and he holds it there while the ball rolls over home plate.
    I look at John Marcos to see if he’s going to call this one. When he doesn’t, I shout, “Steee-rike two.”
    John Marcos picks up the ball, slow and with one hand, and tosses it back in a lazy way. The ball stops midway between the pitcher’s mound and home base.
    Muscle Man himself has to run after it. “Your pitching is really good today, Tammy,” he says as he tosses me the ball.
    â€œStill think you can beat us all?” I ask, to remind my team exactly why we’re doing this.
    Muscle Man doesn’t answer. He’s too busy looking at something way in the outfield. Ready or not, I throw my next pitch.
    He doesn’t even try to kick. For a second, I think the moment I’ve been waiting for is finally here. “Do you give up?” I shout, but Muscle Man only stares past me. John Marcos stands alongside him, and the ball drifts over toward the