Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle by Nan Marino Read Free Book Online Page A

one of just the two of us.
    I shut my eyes and imagine the picture is of me and Kebsie. I have the perfect image of us eating hot dogs on the field trip to Teddy Roosevelt’s house. That day, Kebsie plopped herself down at the picnic table and did imitations of Mrs. Webber. When I was the only one who laughed, Kebsie told me I was cool. That was the moment I decided I liked her better than anyone.
    I hold the picture close and try real hard to burn the image of me and Kebsie into its frame. When I open my eyes, Vinnie and Tim are still staring at me, smiling in front of Vinnie’s car.
    My secret powers need work.

Chapter Eleven
Just My Luck
    A CLAP OF thunder makes me jump. I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s 10:05, a whole five minutes after game time. By now, the other kids are probably standing around waiting for me. After all, I am the pitcher.
    The basement has a door leading to the outside. If I open it right, slow but steady, I can avoid it making a groan, and Shirley will never know I’m gone.
    I run straight through the puddles that have gathered on the sidewalk. Soon I’m standing on the Rattles’ front lawn.
    I am alone.
    The sight of the empty field knocks the wind out of me, just like when John Marcos accidentally kicked a lowflying ball straight into my stomach two summers ago. But that breathless feeling from the ball went away after a few minutes. This one stays with me, growing deeper with each new crack of thunder.
    No one else cared enough to come. A few measly thunderbolts and some flashes of lightning kept them all away.
    I glare up and down the block, searching for a sign that someone will join me. But the street is empty. I pay special attention to the old house right across the street, where Muscle Man lives.
    Talk about luck. He couldn’t have planned better weather. The pouring rain gives him more time to figure out a way to weasel out of this.
    Of all people, he should have been here. Even if no one else showed up, he should be standing in the rain along side me. He was the one who threw down the challenge.
    â€œCome on, Muscle Man!” I shout to his house, which is shut up tight. “Right now! Come on out and show the world what you’re made of!”
    A rattle of thunder and a few quick flashes of lightning are my only answer.
    â€œLet’s go! You got a game to play!”
    The ball sits in a puddle by first base, exactly where John Marcos threw it down the night before. I pick it up and bounce it a few times.
    At the next house over, a door opens. Mrs. Grabowsky steps outside. “Tammy, sweetie, go home. No one is playing today.”
    â€œOh, no. You’re wrong, Mrs. Grabowsky. They’re just late, but they’re coming.” I bounce the ball again. It makes a splat sound against a puddle.
    â€œGo home. You’ll catch your death of cold,” she says.
    â€œIs MaryBeth coming out?” I pop up the ball with my knee and catch it on the way down.
    Mrs. Grabowsky shakes her head. “No, MaryBeth is not coming out.”
    â€œToo bad. Tell her she’s going to miss a good game.”
    â€œTamara Ann Simpson, if you don’t go home this minute, I’m going to call your mother.”
    It figures. That’s what happens when you’re a trouble person. People pick on you for doing nothing. All I’m doing is minding my own business, waiting for the game to start.
    I slam the ball into the biggest puddle I can find. It sends water flying up so hard that even I jump.
    â€œYou’d better be out here tomorrow, Muscle Man, or I’ll come and get you,” I shout across the street with Mrs. Grabowsky watching me.
    â€œI mean it, Tamara. This is your last chance.” Mrs. Grabowsky has her hands on her hips now, and I know I don’t have much time left.
    Before she can make any phone calls, I head home.
    I stay down in the basement for most of the day, listening to Tim’s Jimi Hendrix records