Ann Martin: Kristy's Mystery Admirer

Kristy's Mystery Admirer

Ann M. Martin

Chapter 1.

"Concentrate, concentrate," I said softly. Then I raised my voice. "Keep your eye on the ball!" I yelled.

I must have startled Jackie Rodowsky because he swung way too low and missed an easy pitch.

"Strike two!" shouted the umpire.

"Darn," I muttered. I went back to murmuring, "Concentrate, concentrate."

It was almost the end of another game between the Krushers and the Bashers. Who are the Krushers and the Bashers? They're softball teams here inStoneybrook,Connecticut . I am the coach of the Krushers. Bart Taylor is the coach of the Bashers.

I have a crush on Bart.

Anyway, for the first time in the history of softball games between my Krushers and Bart's Bashers, it looked like the Krushers had a chance to win. See, the Krushers are not

your average softball team. The players are all kids who are too young or too scared to try out for T-ball or Little League. In other words, as you might have guessed, they aren't great players. (Well, most of them aren't.) One kid ducks every time a ball comes toward him. Most of the kids are not good hitters. We even have one player who's only two and a half years old. We let her use a special ball and bat so she doesn't get hurt, and we have to tell her everything to do. But you know what? She's a pretty good hitter for her age.

Bart's Bashers, on the other hand, are an older, tougher group of kids. (I don't know why they don't just join Little League. Maybe they like having Bart as their coach. I could certainly understand that.) The thing is, the Bashers have always beaten the Krushers easily.

Until now.

Now the score was tied, the Krushers had been playing very well, the bases were loaded, and it was the bottom of the ninth — with two outs. The only problem was that the Krushers were up, and our batter was Jackie Rodowsky, the walking disaster. Poor Jackie. I love him to bits, but he is a walking disaster. He's accident-prone, he has bad luck, and he's not too coordinated.

The pitcher looked nervous, though. After all, the game was tied, and the Bashers had never been beaten by the Krushers.

Still, this was the walking disaster at bat. "Come on, come on," I muttered, and gave Jackie the thumbs-up sign.

The pitcher threw the ball, Jackie swung his bat, and — he hit a home run! Four more runs.

"We won! We won!" the Krushers screamed.

I screamed right along with them, even though I knew the Bashers had been playing under handicaps. Their best hitter had the chicken pox, their usual pitcher was out of town for the weekend, and two good players had been benched for fighting (with each other).

Still, the Krushers were victorious, and our cheerleaders went wild. "We won! We won! We won!" they couldn't stop yelling. Then they remembered their softball manners and shouted, "Two, four, six, eight! Who do we appreciate? The Bashers! The Bashers! Yea!"

I had a feeling this was the first time our cheerleaders actually meant what they were saying.

Our cheerleaders, by the way, are Vanessa Pike and Haley Braddock, who are nine, and Charlotte Johanssen, who's eight. Haley's

brother, Matt, is a Krusher. He's profoundly deaf, but he's one of our best players. We communicate with him using sign language. Several of Vanessa's brothers and sisters (she has seven) are on the team, including her littlest sister, Claire, who's five and sometimes throws tantrums, shouting, "Nofe-air! Nofe-air! Nofe-air!" when she thinks she's been wronged.

Anyway, I waited until all of my Krushers had been picked up by moms or dads or sitters or older brothers and sisters, and were heading home joyously, amid surprised and excited cries of "We beat the Bashers! Honest." And, "We finally won a game!"

Then I looked across the schoolyard to where my big brother Charlie was waiting to drive me and my little brothers and sister home. (Charlie is seventeen, can drive, and has this awful old secondhand car. At least it runs.)

Who am I? I'm Kristy Thomas. I'm thirteen and I'm an eighth-grader at Stoneybrook Middle School (SMS). I have three brothers, a stepbrother and stepsister, and an adopted sister. David Michael, my seven-year-old brother, and Karen and Andrew, my stepsister and stepbrother, who are seven and four, are Krushers.* Charlie was going to drop Karen

and Andrew off at their mother's house and then take David Michael and me home. This was nice of him. We could have" walked, but we had an awful lot of equipment.

Charlie and I were just loading the last of it into the back of his car, when a voice said, "Can 1 walk you home?"

I whirled around. It was Bart.

My heart flip-flopped. It actually felt like it turned over inside my chest. I tried to breathe slowly.

"Charlie?" I asked. "Is that okay with you? You can leave the stuff in the car and I'll help you unload it as soon as I get home."

"No problem," replied Charlie. (He is so good-natured.)

"Okay, see you later, David Michael. Karen and Andrew, I'll see you Friday afternoon." (Karen and Andrew only live with their dad and my mom and the rest of our family every other weekend. Oh, and for two weeks during the summer. The rest of the time they live with their mother and stepfather.)

" 'Bye!" called David Michael, Karen, and Andrew, who were still practically hysterical over beating the Bashers.

Charlie drove off in his rattly car, and I looked at Bart. I wasn't sure what to say. Of course, I was ecstatic that we'd beaten his

team. On the other hand, we'd beaten his team. Bart couldn't be feeling too great.

But— "Congratulations," said Bart sincerely. "Your kids sure have guts. They played really well today."

"Thanks," I replied. I was pleased. Really I was. But all Bart and I ever talked about was softball or our teams.

We walked a little way in silence. I couldn't think of a thing to say. At last Bart said, "Guess what happened in the locker room at school today?" (Bart does not go to SMS. He goes toStoneybrookDay School , a private school.)

"What?" I asked, shuddering. Did I really want to know what went on in a boys' locker room?

"This guy," Bart began, "got a little crazy after gym class, and he was clowning around, swinging from the pipes on the ceiling. All of a sudden, this pipe breaks, he falls down onto the benches, and the sprinkler system goes off! Everybody got soaked."

I laughed. "What happened to the kid? Was he hurt?"

"Him? Hurt? Nah. His nickname is Ox. Nothing could hurt him."

"Once," I said, "we were playing field hockey and this girl who is completely un-

coordinated took a whack at the ball and it hit the teacher on the head!"

It was Bart's turn to laugh. Then he said, "Somehow I can't picture you in a field hockey kilt."

"They're not so bad," 1 replied. "The bloomers have changed. The uniforms are much more up-to-date now. ... I do wish we could just wear jeans and T-shirts, though. Practically the only time I wear a skirt is when we play field hockey."

"You should wear skirts more often," said Bart.

"How come?" I asked.

Bart shrugged. Then he blushed. "I bet you'd look pretty, that's all."

"I'm not pretty in my Krushers outfit?" I asked. I was just teasing, but Bart blushed even redder. "Come on," I said. "Don't worry about it. I'm just giving you a hard time. So how's school?"

"Fine. The same old stuff."

"Yeah. For me, too."

"How's the Baby-sitters Club?"

"Great!" (My friends and I have a club that is really a business. We baby-sit for the families in our neighborhoods. I'll tell you more about it later.)

"And how are your friends?"

"What is this? A talk show?" I said, laughing.

Bart grinned. "I don't know. I mean, no. I just want to hear about your life . . . instead of softball."