My sister kept her mermaid for almost two weeks. She took it into the bathtub with her, slept with her and everything until Mrs. Sanchez finally decided that while a green tail was nice, a black one wasn’t, and took the mermaid apart.

Boy was THAT a bad move. M.A. threw a fit and Mrs. Sanchez ended up calling my dad at work because my sister locked herself in the bathroom and couldn’t unlock it again. My dad had to come home and take the door off its hinges and M.A. was grounded for two weeks. Mrs. Sanchez was pretty pleased about that.

Mrs. Herman liked my DNA write up and even posted it on the bulletin board in class, so I was back to passing Biology and staying eligible for baseball. In fact, I got moved from right field to second base, and Gina told me that when I wrote Mr. G my thank you note I ought to invite him to one of my games. I asked her why I couldn’t just run over and thank him and invite him and she said something about good manners and respecting his privacy—all that grown-up stuff that means you’re going to do it THEIR way.

So I had to get a card from the drugstore and Gina helped me figure out just how to write it so I didn’t sound too stuffy. Here’s what I wrote: Dear Mr. G, Thanks a million for helping me out with the DNA extraction and thus helping me save my grade. I’m glad you knew what to do, and also that M.A. didn’t freak you and Ms. Sidle out too much. My team, the Panthers, are playing over at Kroeger field next Saturday, and if you would like to come watch, I’d sure like that. Here’s one of my Snack Shack coupons because M.A. says you like popcorn. Hope you can make it, and thanks again, Peter Samuel Meyers.

I asked Gina what kind of sense it made to put a letter in the mail and have it go all the way to the post office just to be sorted and sent back to an address only two doors down, but she just rolled her eyes and sighed.

*** *** ***

Man I was tense. The Rangers were good; better than I remembered, and they had a pitcher who was slaughtering us. He was a big moose of a guy—Gunner they called him—and damn, the name fit. He had two pitches, a fastball and this other one, and while we could get a hit or two off the fastball, that weird pitch of his was killing us.

It was like he held it back, just a few seconds, and that made everybody overswing almost every time. That pitch would come sailing in just a second or two behind where you THOUGHT it was, and well, let’s just say it wasn’t pretty. The Rangers were up by two runs, and our dugout was one gloomy place. Both Allan and I had struck out twice, and he was on his way to do it again when I heard a voice coming through the chain link.

Mr. G.

I scooted over on the bench and kept my head down; coach has a rule about not talking to anybody through the netting because it distracts us, but the way I was feeling I didn’t much care. In a minute Allan was going to be out and then it would be my turn to stand at home plate.

“Are you all right, Peter?”

“I’m okay,” I told him. I wasn’t, of course, but I wasn’t going to talk about it. At least Mr. G had made it to the game, even if it was a stinker. For a minute he didn’t say anything, and I could hear the jeers for Allan out at home plate. It felt like Mr. G’s racing roaches were in my stomach now.

“I’ve been watching. The pitcher’s got a flick.” Mr. G. told me. I looked up; he was sort of a shadow through the netting, but I liked the sound of his voice. He wasn’t frustrated, like dad was, or soothing, like Gina. Mr. G sounded thoughtful.

“A flick?”

“A flick. He’s got a way of delaying his pitch by about a second before release. It’s a nifty little trick to throw a batter’s timing off.”

Outside the dugout I heard the umpire call the second strike on Allan. People in the Rangers bleachers were getting loud. And mean.

“Yo! Shoot him down, Gunner!”

“Easy Out! Easy Out!”

I started pulling my batting gloves on. Mr. G cleared his throat and I looked at his shadow on the netting again.

“You can count it out, Peter.”

“Mr. G, I’m going to strike out. I’ll see it and I try not to swing but I’ll just end up swatting air every time.” I didn’t mean to sound like a whiny baby, but it was just, you know, a downer.

I wanted to do good for Mr. G.

I wanted to win.

He sighed. “You can count it out—listen to me. I’ve been watching, and the flick is a ‘one, two-two, THREE’ flick. The stutter in the second count is the delay. Say it—‘one, two-two, THREE.’”

“One two-two THREE,” I mumbled. Mr. G laughed a little.

“Again, Peter. Think about the pattern. One, two-two, THREE. Swing on the three like there’s no tomorrow, and I guarantee you’ll wipe the smile off that pitcher.”

“Mr. G—“

But he was gone. The crowd outside was really loud and Allan was slogging back to the dugout. Nobody came near him, and I felt the roaches back in my gut when coach called my name.

It was like, a million miles to home plate. I looked over and saw Jose camped out on third and Tran doing his lead off on second, trying to rattle his baseman, but it wasn’t working; the Rangers looked like they knew they had this sewn up.

“Batter up—“ the umpire called to me, and I braced myself over home. I looked at the backstop, just to see if I could spot dad and Gina and MA, but instead I saw Mr. G. standing there. I looked at him and he winked at me.

A serious wink.

And you know it’s really weird, but all I could think was ‘one, two-two, THREE’ when I looked towards the mound where Gunner was eyeing me up. I braced, let my fingers find the right grip on my Easton, (one, two-two, THREE) flexed my knees a little (one, two-two, THREE) and nodded.

Slow, like a movie that’s winding down until you can see each one of the little boxes, the windows going by and DAMN I could feel my blood pumping because Mr. G was abso-fricken-lutely RIGHTitwasonetwotwoTHREEandhereyouGOGunnereatTHAT
youSONOFA---

“Run Peter, RUNNNN!!!!” M.A. was screeching like a wild thing. I freaked, dropped the bat and gunned it for first and I tell you I was flying on the wave of the crowd behind me. Allan told me later that there was so much noise from the bleachers that the chain link of the dugout was shaking from it. All I remember is hitting the bag and feeling like all the air had been squeezed out of my lungs. Out in left field the Rangers were still trying to relay the ball home.

My coach was yelling, Jose was in, Tran was in and now we had a tie game.

*** *** ***

We didn’t win; we tied. After my run, Jim Tichner struck out but we held the Rangers off from scoring anything more. I grabbed every guy I could and told them about one, two-two THREE and most of them got it. We started hitting; pop flies mostly, but it broke Gunner. He knew his streak had fizzled and that was good enough for me, especially when they pulled him and got the relief in there.

Afterwards, Dad and Gina took us to pizza—we invited Mr. G along and I was really glad he came too. I didn’t think he was going to, but M. A. took his hand and told him she would show him how to work the jukebox, and that kind of won him over I think. So we all went off to Pizza and Pipes to celebrate.

Pizza and Pipes is kinda weird, but they honestly do make the best pizza in the world. Even M.A. likes their pizza, and trust me, to get my little sister to eat in a public restaurant is like, a very big deal. She won’t eat McDonalds, and Burger King and the people at Del Taco probably hate her guts because she’s so picky about her French fries. But for some reason Pizza and Pipes always gets her food right, so Dad and Gina and I feel pretty safe bringing her with us her.

The walls have this red and gold wallpaper that dad says looks like it’s out of a bordello, whatever that is. And they have a big dining room and at one end there’s this big old organ with gold pipes on the wall. Usually Mr. Zigler, the organ player is there, but he’s got the night off tonight because his handmade sign is there, taped to the pipes: Closed for Spiritual Renovation. Bless you for coming and please enjoy the Pizza. M.Z.

Mr. G is looking around with this gleam in his eye, as M. A. tells him about Mr. Zigler.

“Mr. Zigler was a player inna church but he got really sick for a long time but now he plays for pizza. He has a long ponytail and when he’s here I always ask him to play Wizard of Oz for me because we both like it, and he lets me sing even though nobody can hardly hear me because the organ is so loud, but that’s okay because Mr. Zigler told me the angels always hear me every time I sing. Do you want to touch it?”

Mr. G looks at me and I sigh. “Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and Mr. Zigler lets the kids play on the organ if they want when he’s not here—it’s turned off.”

“Fascinating,” I heard him say, and after we all ordered pizza, he let M. A. lead him back to the organ. I rehashed the game with Dad for a while, and Gina listened in too. Then the pizza came, so I had to go get M.A. and Mr. G.

They were on the carpet, looking at the something under the keyboard, and it was weird to see them lying on the floor side by side looking up—like they were knocked out or something. Nobody else seemed to pay too much attention, but I was starting to crack up. Mr. G looked comfortable. M.A. was wiggling her feet.

“What else does the label say, Mary Alice?”

“B-r-a-t-t-l-e-b-o-r-o-m-a-s-s-1-9-2-6. What’s that?”

“Well, Brattleboro is a town in the state of Massachusetts where Mr. Zigler’s organ was made. Can you tell me what year that was?”

“1-9-2-6.” My sister says. “Right?”

“Very right. That means this organ is eighty years old,” I hear him tell her.

“Is that as old as you, GilGrissle?”

I get down on my hands and knees to let my sister have it. “M. A! Get real, Mr. G isn’t old! Eighty is like, Grandpa John’s age! You hurt his feelings!”

M.A. looks over at Mr. G. lying on the carpet. I can see his mouth is twitching like he’s going to laugh, but I’m still embarrassed for my sister. She reaches over and touches his beard, then scooches over to whisper in his ear. Mr. G nods all serious-like, taking her apology. “That’s all right, Mary Alice. It’s not easy to know how old people are sometimes. I’m fifty this year.”

“I’m gonna be six,” she tells him in this sad voice. “So I’m pretty old too.”

“Doofus,” I tell her and start pulling on her leg to drag her out from under the organ bench. “The pizza’s here.”

*** *** ***

We had pepperoni and black olive, and M. A. had a little tiny pizza with pineapple and M & Ms on it (don’t ASK, it’s just one of those things that Dad and Gina and I just . . . whatever, you know?) Dad and Mr. G. talked about baseball and got into some terrific stories while I listened and just felt good.

Sometimes I feel like I’m almost there when grown-ups talk—they don’t mind me listening to them, and once in a while they ask me stuff too. It’s weird and good at the same time, like when Gina tells me how tall I’m getting, or when I think about Kylie Arnstein . . . but that’s private.

Anyway, we’re all sitting there around the empty plates, feeling good and full when M.A. comes up with her hands cupped around something. She’s grinning at us, and Mr. G and I have a pretty good idea of what she’s holding. She grins up at Mr. G. and I can see the gap where she’s lost one of her front baby teeth.

“Guess what I got!” she says it like she’s singing. Mr. G. and I look at each other and I grin, because this is too easy.

“It’s a bug,” I tell her. M. A. pouts a little, but doesn’t open her hands.

“Yeah, well guess the kind?” she orders. Mr. G. shifts to look at her, looking at her hands carefully.

“A moth?”

“Nope.”

“A cricket?” My dad asks. M.A. shakes her head, still grinning.

“An ant?” Gina tries.

“Nope!”

“A cock—er, a water bug?” I ask, thinking about what could possibly be here at Pizza and Pipes. Dad and Gina kind of wince at each other and I can see Mr. G. fighting a grin. M.A. steps closer to him, almost against his knees now as he sits on the padded bench. She holds her hands higher.

“It’s not a running bug. I found it by the door because it wanted to come in and it’s a curly spider.”

“A curly spider?” Mr. G. asks and then M.A. opens her hands almost right under his nose.

FUCK!!

I mean, I am sorry, but Jesus!! My sister is holding a frigging SCORPION in her grubby hands and it’s HUGE!! It’s big and yellow-brown and it’s sitting in her hand and all I can think is she’s gonna DIE because it’s like the size of golf ball!!

I hear Gina give a little scream, and my dad shouts, “Holy HELL! Mary Alice DROP IT!!” She looks at all of us and I can see her get scared right then and there; my baby sister knows she just did something bad and so she jumps a little and the scorpion runs up her arm. It stops at the edge of her sleeve and M.A. is whimpering now, looking down at it with eyes so big I think they’re going to pop.

Dad jumps up, but Mr. G. stops him. “Dan, sit down and DON’T. MOVE. Mary Alice, honey, can you hold still? Very, very still?”

She’s whimpering now, and I’m frozen, staring like a dummy at the thing on my sister’s arm. It’s waving one of its big ugly claws, but it’s just sitting there. Mr. G. reaches out and lays his hand right in front of it. The thing doesn’t move. I can hear Mr. G talking softly. There are people coming over now, and somebody else is starting to yell.

“Shhhhh, shhhh, It’s going to be all right. Are you okay Mary Alice? Did you pick him up all by yourself?” Mr. G. asks.

“I-I-I s-saw him by the door!” she sniffles, and she’s starting to shake a little. “He walked right on my hand. I thought he liked me!”

“He probably does because you’re warm,” Mr. G. says and I can’t get over how cool and relaxed he is. If you didn’t look in his eyes and see how all scary-sharp they were you’d think everything was hunky dory. “But we don’t want to scare him if we can help it. I’m going to scoop him up, all right? Gina?”

“Gil—“ She mutters.

“Might want to get ready to go 911, just to be safe. Peter, keep everybody back for me, okay?”

Something I can do—I get up and start waving people to step back. They do it, too, which surprises me, but then again, maybe it’s just because Mr. G. seems to know what he’s doing. He slides his other hand behind the scorpion and begins to scoop. One, two, three and he’s got it, it’s off Mary Alice who runs to Gina and hangs on to her.

Me, I’m frozen, looking at Mr. G, and I see the scorpion flick it’s tail just as Mr. G shakes his hand and lets the bug fall onto one of the pizza plates. He turns one of the clear plastic cups upside down over it, and bang, just like that, it’s over.

Scorpion’s trapped. We’re safe.

I can’t believe it. I stare up at Mr. G. and then something makes me look down at his hand and I can see the sting there, a little red hole on the edge of his hand right in the middle of a white circle. Like a bee sting almost, but I know it’s not. It’s a scorpion sting, and Mr. G. took it instead of letting it happen to my little sister.

He let it sting HIM instead of M. A.

I can’t say anything, my throat’s all choked up. Mr. G. looks at me. “Can I have some of the ice out of your drink, Peter?”

I fish it out; hand it over while Gina soothes M.A. who decides to start crying now, and Dad is carrying the scorpion outside. People are talking all loud and relaxed, and I watch Mr. G put the ice on the edge of his hand and my stomach is suddenly really really tight with what could have been.

“Mr. G—“ I start, and I don’t know what to say. He smiles at me and right then and there I feel like I just walked through a doorway from being a kid to being, well, almost a grown up.

“It’s going to be fine. For me, it’s equivalent to a bee sting,” he tells me in a low voice, “and I don’t want you to worry about it, all right?”

“Okay,” I told him, and I took a deep breath. “Thank you Mr. G. For all of it. I know it doesn’t mean much because I’m a kid and all, but . . . thank you.”

And right then M. A. wriggled away from Gina and sort of launched herself at Mr. G. and hugs him hard. And it was weird and good, because I watched her do it and wished I could have hugged him too, but I‘m just too big for stuff like that now.

I guess I really had finally stepped through that doorway.

END