Free Brett McCarthy by Maria Padian Page A

plastic.
    “There you are,” she said. “Another minute and I was going to eat that last Boston kreme myself.” She nodded toward a pink-and-yellow donut box on the table. I am mad for Boston kreme donuts. I flopped into a kitchen chair and helped myself.
    “Is Michael here yet?” I asked.
    “He and Beady are finishing up your Ped-o thing in the garage,” she said. “It’s hard to get it to move on the grass, but they think it’ll work fine on ice or snow.”
    “Awesome,” I said, taking a huge bite. The pastry-chocolate-custard combo was eavenly.
    “You know, I’ve been trying to figure out what’s different this year, and it finally occurred to me last night,” said Nonna. “Diane hasn’t come by to help. I can scarcely remember a Super-Sized without her.”
    “Umm,” I replied, filling my mouth with donut.
    “What’s she up to these days?”
    “No clue.” I shrugged. “Her mother won’t let her talk to me, and I’ve been kicked out of school, remember?” The truth, the half truth, and nothing but…the half truth? I could imagine Michael’s expression if he heard this exchange.
    “Well, I miss her,” said Nonna. “I needed her in the kitchen last night. Speaking of which, start slicing dream bars. And make ’em huge.”
    The weather was perfect, and cars by the dozen started cruising up the driveway or parking along the side of the road earlier than we’d expected. Like I said, the Super-Sized was an annual Mescataqua event.
    We all had our “positions.” Nonna worked the bake-sale table, making a point of telling everyone that there was no charge for the goodies but contributions to the Domestic Violence Prevention Center could go in the glass mayonnaise jar. Two of the Kathies (who turned out to be volunteers at the Domestic Violence Prevention Center…go figure) helped people carry stuff to their cars. Michael and Mr. Beady were out back, blasting the bazooka. They’d put together “Build Your Own Bazooka” kits, complete with PVC pipe and instructions, and were trying to drum up business with exciting demonstrations. From the squeals and applause I heard, I could tell it was a big hit. But I didn’t actually see anything. I’d gotten stuck at the Ping-Pong catapult table.
    Ping-Pong balls really get on my nerves. I don’t know, there’s something about that irritating little sound they make when they bounce that crawls right up my spine. Stationing me at the catapult table, which turned out to be a seven-year-old-boy magnet, was torture.
    To amuse myself I started firing balls at little kids. Families would stroll past my table, and I’d take aim at an unsuspecting childish leg and—
ping!
—bounce a ball off someone’s socks at ten feet. Ironically, they all thought it was a big game and would come running over for more. Great.
    I was squaring off with a pretty aggressive five-year-old (he’d already nailed me twice between the eyes) when I heard a familiar voice.
    “Wow, that sure looks like fun. Maybe Brett can let you boys give it a try.”
    It was Mr. Pelletier. Merrill was with him, and another little boy I didn’t recognize. My eyes darted, looking for Diane, but I didn’t see her.
    “So what do you call this?” Mr. Pelletier said cheerfully. Heartily, like someone who’s trying to convince himself…and others…that he’s having a good time.
    “It’s a Ping-Pong catapult,” I answered, looking at Merrill and the boy. “Want to give it a try?”
    The Merrill I used to know and despise would have knocked me over for a turn with the catapults. This sort of semiviolent plaything was right up his hyperactive alley. When he wasn’t zoned out in front of the television, Merrill was whacking, bashing, tossing…you get the picture.
    Not this Merrill. He stared down at the Velcro closures on his dusty Spider-Man sneakers and shrugged at my invitation. His companion, a slightly smaller blond boy with large, owleye glasses, did no better. He looked nervously at