“And then I ran into Mandy, and she gave without taking,” Amanda said.
We were still giggling, and we’d made about a six-inch tower, when Amanda’s dad came in. “Ready to play some ball?”
I looked at the Lego table.
“We can finish it another time,” Amanda said.
Mr. Lasky didn’t make us put away the Legos, like my mom would’ve. “Mandy tells me you want to play baseball.”
“I guess. Everyone says I’m kind of small for sports.”
“Anyone can learn if they try,” Mr. Lasky said.
I hoped he was right and followed him downstairs.
At first, it seemed like I was going to be the exception to Mr. Lasky’s statement about anyone. He lined me up in front of the batting tee, which Amanda said made it easier, and he showed me how to stand.
I hacked into the air with my bat.
“That’s okay. Look at the ball,” he said.
“Tell him to choke up on the bat,” Amanda said. She had been sworn to silence about instructing me.
“And choke up on the bat,” Mr. Lasky said.
On about my fifth try, I hit it so it sort of dribbled off the tee and onto the ground.
“That’s good. Bunting isn’t allowed in T-ball, but if it was, that was a good one. Just try and swing through it.”
After Mr. Lasky worked on my swing so long that my elbows hurt from holding up the bat, with Amanda forgetting herself and shouting stuff like “Tell him to rotate his hips!” I actually hit one that went a few feet.
Then another one. Then about ten more, including one glorious one that sailed over my mother’s car as it pulled into the Laskys’ driveway.
I dropped my bat and ran up to her. “Did’ya see that?”
“I did. Wow. That was incredible.”
Tim—that’s what Mr. Lasky had told me to call him—walked up to Mom. “Kid could be a ballplayer.”
Mom looked dubious. “He’s kind of small.”
“He’s got good instincts, good reflexes, follows directions, which is more than a lot of kids. And nothing teaches teamwork like being on a team. Little League tryouts are in December. I could prep him.”
Mom smiled like she wasn’t really listening. “I wouldn’t want him to get hurt.”
Tim laughed and gestured to Amanda. “Why don’t you kids go over there and throw a few while the adults talk.”
Amanda led me over to her pitchback. She stared throwing the ball and catching it, always catching it. “Now you.”
“I can’t.”
“Even Casey can catch a ball.” She threw the ball at an angle so when it bounced back, it came to me.
I caught it, then threw it again, copying the way she wound her arm back, then threw the ball over her head. It went a little farther than I’d planned, but I still got it. The next time, I ran back right after I threw it, so I was ready. That’s when I realized Mom and Tim were watching.
“Good job!” Tim yelled.
“Is he really any good?” Mom’s voice carried even though she tried to whisper.
“He’s good. It’s his first time, right? He was afraid of the ball at first.”
I pretended not to hear, concentrating on throwing and catching, throwing and catching. Finally, Amanda intercepted the ball. “My turn!” After she threw it, she said, “I knew you were afraid of the ball.”
“I was not.”
“You aren’t anymore.”
“Never was!”
“Mandy!” Tim said.
“Topher!” Mom said at the same time.
We both burst out laughing. Our parents stood there, staring, with no idea what was so funny.
Then Amanda pitched it, and I caught it again. “Sorry, Mandy!”
I loved arguing with her. It wasn’t like fighting with my brother or even people at school. It was more like a sport. Or like having a friend.
3
Sometimes my brother, Matt, called us Chrisandamanda. Not in a Brangelina type of way, but just because when you saw one of us, you usually saw the other. I went over to Amanda’s house or she came to mine almost every day after school. At her house, we played ball, and I actually was kind of good. I thought Amanda would be bored with the baking and art projects at my house, but she seemed to enjoy it.
Mom also read us stories, including The Ugly Duckling.
After it was finished, Amanda said, “Aren’t most people born pretty or ugly?”
Mom looked at Amanda, probably taking in her chubby, freckled face. “Not necessarily. Some people are just late bloomers. That’s what the story’s about.”
Sometimes, Mom took us to the park near school to feed the real ducks. We saved our bread crusts all week for the cute little ducklings who swam in the canals. The bigger ducks were black-and-white spotted, with warty red things on their bills.
“Why are they so ugly?” I asked once.
“They’re Muscovy ducks,” Mom said. “That’s just what they look like.”
“So the ducklings are going to turn into those big ugly ducks?” Amanda said.
“Just like in the story,” Mom said.