The Key to the Golden Firebird by Maureen Johnson Read Free Book Online Page B

“Thanks.”
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    Palmer was in the exact same position in front of the television that she’d been in when May left, even though four and a half hours had gone by.
    â€œBrooks come home?” May asked, peeling off her damp jacket.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œShe call?”
    â€œNo.”
    And that was it from Palmer.
    May went upstairs to her tiny room. Her wallpaper was covered in pictures of white horses with pink ribbons in their manes. Most of her furniture was unfinished light pine, which tended to splinter a bit along the edges of the drawers. One snagged her favorite sleeping shirt, one of her dad’s old University of Maryland shirts, as she pulled it from the drawer. She carefully picked the splinter out of the worn fabric, pulled the shirt over her head, and crawled under the quilt.
    She turned off her bedside lamp and stared up at the shadow of her blinds, rippling across the ceiling. Someone drove by in a car with way too much bass, and the room thumped and rattled until it passed by.
    â€œI suck,” she said out loud. “How could I fail?”
    The phone rang. Probably her mother’s midway-through-shift call to check on them. May clawed around next to her bed for the phone and answered it. The person on the other end breathed heavily into the phone. She allowed this to go on for a minute or so.
    â€œWhat’s up, Camper?” she finally asked.
    â€œDo you like scary movies?” the voice whispered.
    â€œDo you like getting hot coffee poured in your lap? Because that’s what’s going to happen the next time I see you if you don’t stop it.”
    Pete cleared his throat.
    â€œI forgot to ask you when you wanted to start,” he said. “Monday?”
    â€œOkay.” May yawned. “Monday.”
    â€œSix?”
    â€œFine.” After a moment she remembered to add, “Thanks.”
    â€œNo problem.”
    â€œGood night, Camper.”
    Shaking her head at the great unfairness of it all, May hung up and dropped the phone beside her bed.

2
    Even though Palmer was only a freshman, she was already the pitcher on Grant High’s varsity softball team. This would normally be a rare and remarkable accomplishment, but really, no one expected less from the little sister of Brooks “Solid” Gold—shortstop, Grant’s record holder for most hits in a season and in a career, two-time All State selection, with the team-best batting average of .692.
    Palmer intended to do even better than her sister. Along with the formal daily practice at school, she did a separate workout at home. Her father had helped her design this routine. It was based on his college workout, and he’d modified it carefully for her. She followed it religiously. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays she worked on her pitching. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays she stretched and ran a few loops around the neighborhood.
    Since it was Monday, Palmer slipped on her fleece jacket (which she wore all year round, except in the most excruciating heat, to keep her body warm and prevent injuries), grabbed her small bucket of softballs, and went out into the backyard. First she set her face in her standard pitching grimace—she narrowed her eyes, sucked in her round cheeks, and tipped her head to the side. (It was actually her imitation of Dirty Harry. She thought it made her look a little older and more imposing.)
    Then she started to throw.
    Twenty wrist-snap pitches close to the pitch back. A series of fastballs, ten inside and ten outside. A few rise balls, a dozen drop balls and screwballs. Last, she worked the changeups, the balls that actually slow down as they travel. These were the hardest, but they were also some of her best. She wrapped the whole thing up with a dozen very fast, very accurate throws, aimed directly at the center of the net.
    With the formal practice over, she allowed herself to throw whatever she liked as her brain tried to process