Ann Martin - Baby-Sitters Club 059

"Pike, this is your last serve. You better make it count." It counted, all right. For the other team. I shot the ball up in the air, and watched it bounce right back down at my feet.

"When Gallway serves, watch her," Ms. Walden advised me.

"Okay," 1 muttered as 1 rotated out of the serving position and up to the front line, making room for Helen Gallway to serve the next time my team got the ball.

"You watch her closely," Ms. Walden added as she moved on to harass someone else on another team. "Gallway has a mean serve." Well, 1 was very happy for Helen Gallway, but having a mean serve was not exactly my ambition in life. What did Ms. Walden think? That they were going to put that on my grave? Here lies Mallory Pike. She had a mean servel Not! It didn't matter to me, so I didn't see why everyone had to make such a big deal over it. I couldn't imagine some editor saying to me: "Yes, Miss Pike, we love this children's book you've written, but I'm afraid we can't publish it. You see, we've heard that you can't play vol-leyball. We don't publish non-volleyball-play-ing writers." That wasn't too likely to happen.

So, in the big picture, none of this mattered. But right now, I was trapped inside the little picture. Trapped with a maniacal gym teacher, and a bunch of half-crazed volleyball players. Most of whom were boys.

Don't get me wrong. A lot of the girls were good players, but (except for Helen Gallway) they weren't out of their minds. If the ball came to them, they hit it over the net. They didn't knock anyone out of the way to get to it. And they didn't try to maim their opponents with the ball.

It was while I was in the middle of some of these thoughts that disaster struck. Actually, it was a volleyball that struck. It struck me, right in the face.

Whap! Ow! I didn't even see it coming. I felt as if I were in one of those cartoons in which the characters see stars when they get clobbered. The ball hit me in the left eye area. My nose, my eye, my left cheek! They stung like crazy.

"Are you okay?" asked Tom Harold, who had served the ball for the other team. "I didn't mean to hit you." "No, I'm not okay!" I exploded, still holding my face. "My nose feels like it's broken!" In a second, my pal Ms. Walden was back on the scene. "Pike, calm down. What's the matter?" "That idiot smashed the ball right into my face," I shouted. I had completely lost my cool.

"Okay, there's no need to call names," Ms. Walden said to me crossly. "It was an accident. And maybe if you hadn't been daydreaming it wouldn't have happened." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. She wasn't in the least concerned that my cheek might be fractured, or my nose broken. No, she was scolding me for getting hit.

She was crazy.

They were all crazy.

"Why don't you try getting slammed in the head with a volleyball!" I shouted at her.

Ms. Walden's face turned pink, then red, then crimson. "That's enough of your mouth, Pike!" she cried. "You are benched! I want you over there on the bleachers for the rest of the game!" By now, as you might imagine, everyone - and I mean everyone - in the gym was looking at me. No one was playing volleyball. Even Mr. De Young was watching.

I tossed Ms. Walden an angry, defiant look as I walked toward the bleachers. The gym was dead quiet. I felt as if I were going to the gallows or something, the way everyone was so hushed and attentive. (At least I'd ironed my uniform for this big moment.) Then, thankfully, Mr. De Young blew his whistle and the games resumed.

I sat in the bleachers and concentrated on not crying. I wasn't sure if the pain or the public humiliation was worse. From time to time, I caught sight of Jessi looking my way sympathetically. I couldn't return her gaze, though. If I did, I'd have cried for sure. And crying would have been too awful. Things were bad enough as they were. If I cried, I would have to change schools, because I could certainly never show my face at SMS again. No, crying was definitely out.

Staring at the ceiling was a good way not to cry. I did that until, eventually, the urge to cry passed. It was replaced by a feeling of great annoyance. Who did Ms. Walden think she was, anyway? Some sort of great gym goddess? You are benched! I mean, big deal, really. It wasn't exactly the worst torture on earth.

Ironically, this was what I had wanted. Clearly, I loathed volleyball. So to punish me, Ms. Walden tells me I can't play volleyball. It didn't make a whole lot of sense.

After about a zillion years, gym ended. "I'll be looking for a better attitude next class, Pike," Ms. Walden said to me as the kids emptied into the locker rooms. "How's your face?" Like she really cared.

"Fine," I said in a voice I hope was cold. Truthfully, my cheek still stung, but I didn't feel like telling her that.

I had almost reached the locker room when Jessi caught up to me. "Are you okay?" she asked, putting her arm around my shoulder.

Biting my lip, I nodded. That awful crying feeling was coming back. I couldn't let it get the best of me.

When I got home from school that afternoon, all I wanted was to be alone. But that wasn't meant to be. No sooner had I walked through the door than my mother intercepted me. "Mal, could you hold the fort here for a little while?" she asked. This wasn't a real question. Both of us knew it. It was an order disguised as a question. My mother was pulling on her coat as she spoke. "I have to go get Margo at school." "How come?" "The nurse's office called. She threw up at about two-thirty and they didn't want to let her walk home feeling sick." "Poor Margo," I said.

"It's probably just a bug of some sort," said my mother as she hurried to the door.

The door had barely closed when I heard a banging, pounding sound. It was coming from the kitchen. With a sigh, I ran upstairs to see what was going on.

"Pass to me! Pass to me!" I heard Adam shout.

A basketball thudded off the wall in front of me. "What are you doing?" I yelled.

"What does it look like?" asked Jordan. The triplets and Nicky were breathless from playing ball.

"It looks like you're playing basketball in the house, which you're not allowed to do," I snapped.

"Bug off, Mallory!" said Jordan.

"You bug off!" I yelled back.

With the ball in my hands, I disappeared into my bedroom. Behind me I could hear the boys grumble, but I didn't care.J'd come to a decision. The only thing I disliked as much as sports was boys! Chapter 7.

I've always tried to learn from my mistakes. On Thursday, Friday, and over the weekend, I considered everything that had gone wrong in gym on Wednesday. And I came up with a realization.

If I kept getting benched, I would never have to play volleyball.

There it was. The solution to my volleyball problem. It was so simple. I should have seen it immediately.

Of course, I know why I didn't see it. I'm generally considered to be a "good" kid. Being the oldest of eight has made me cooperative to an extreme. Being disruptive and ornery isn't my nature. I'm never in trouble in school. That day in gym was the first time I'd been singled out for a punishment.

But I'd survived. And it had been a lot less awful than playing volleyball with a bunch of boys.

I was onto a good thing, and I knew it.

All it would take was nerve. Lots of nerve.

Did I have enough nerve? I wasn't sure. When Monday gym class rolled around, I still wasn't sure. I changed into my gym outfit and wandered onto the court, still debating whether I should just try to play the dumb game or if I should get myself benched.

The answer came to me in the form of Robbie Mara.

"Hey, Mallory, how's your face?" he asked as I tied on my pinny.

"It's all right." "It doesn't hurt anymore?" "No." A big, goofy grin swept across his face. "That's strange," he said. "Because your face is killing me!" Two guys nearby laughed and looked at me for my reaction. "That's very humorous, Robbie," I said dryly. "I think I first heard that joke in kindergarten." He hadn't made me mad, just kind of disgusted. He was a moron. This game was for morons. And I wasn't going to play it. I simply turned and walked toward the bleachers, untying my pinny on the way.