The Contract (4 page)

“It's the bottom of the sixth . . . last licks for the Tigers . . . and Jeter at the plate. . . . Here comes the pitch. . . . He hits it deeeeep to left! That ball is going . . . going . . . gone! That makes three homers for Jeter in this game. What a performance! We've got a future star in the making, folks!”

Derek sat in class, trying to keep his mind on the math drill they were doing. But it was almost impossible. His thoughts kept drifting back to yesterday's practice, and forward to the team's first game.

He tried to picture which kid would be playing what position—starting with himself at short, of course. Pete would be pitching . . . Isaiah catching, definitely . . . For sure Ryan would be playing first, unless he was pitching. But then, where would Pete go? . . .

“Derek? Earth to Derek . . .”

The wave of laughter from the class washed over Derek as he felt his cheeks reddening. Rats! Ms. Wagner had caught him daydreaming again.

“Sorry, Ms. Wagner. I was just . . . thinking about the assignment!”

“Oh really? That's interesting, Derek, because I was just about to give out the assignment.”

Another wave of laughter. And above it Derek could hear the whiny, singsong voice of Gary Parnell, the class brainiac: “Come in, Derek. Do you read me, Derek?”

“I meant the
other
assignment,” Derek explained. “The essay we just handed in.”

Well, it wasn't exactly a lie. He
had
been thinking about baseball, hadn't he?

“Oh. I see. Well, that's fine, but try to stay with us. We're moving on to
math
now.”

Derek generally liked Ms. Wagner. Most times, she was a good teacher. But when she got annoyed, she sometimes had a sarcastic sense of humor that could really sting if you were on the wrong end of it.

“So, as I was about to say,” she went on, “tonight's assignment is to study for our math test tomorrow.”

Whoa!

Derek had forgotten all about the test. She'd mentioned it last week, he seemed to recall, but between the essay and Sharlee's recital and Little League practice, he'd been too busy to do any studying for it!

“There's nothing on the test we haven't already gone over. It covers chapters eight to eleven of your textbook. And it's all short answers. No essays this time, ha-ha.”

Ms. Wagner smiled at her own little joke, which didn't get much laughter from the class—not like when she'd called Derek out for daydreaming,
again
.

Gary leaned over toward Derek and said under his breath, “I can't wait to ace this one.” He meant the math test. Gary got all excited about tests of any kind, mainly because he almost always got the best grade in the class. It didn't seem to matter that he rarely studied. He seemed to understand math concepts before the class even learned them.

But nothing gave him more satisfaction than beating out the kid with the second-best grade. And that, most times, was Derek—especially in math, his favorite subject. Of course, it was Gary's favorite too.

The competition went both ways. Derek had always liked competing, at anything. It didn't matter whether it was baseball, some other sport, or even a test in school. And after the way Gary had just dissed him, Derek badly wanted to beat him on this math test!

Derek had been coming closer and closer lately. On the last test he'd gotten a 95. But of course Gary had beaten him again, with his third straight 97. The way Derek had been gaining ground, though, this test could have been the one where he knocked the “king” from his throne.

But now it was probably too late for that. With just one night left to study, Derek knew he would be hard-pressed to match his own 95, let alone top Gary for the best grade in class.

Every class had someone like Gary, someone who knew all the answers, and made sure you knew he knew. One of the worst things about Gary, though, was his attitude toward sports. “A complete waste of time,” he would always say whenever Derek and his friends started talking about sports. “And in your case, Derek, a waste of a decent brain.” Derek guessed that was his way of giving him a compliment.

But Derek knew he'd never get any real respect from Gary unless and until he beat him on a big test like the one coming up. Derek was determined to study like a maniac for this one, even if it was for only one night.

• • •

As soon as school was over, Derek pulled his uniform shirt out of his book bag and over his head. He jogged over to Westwood Fields, only to find that he was the first one there. He pulled his mitt out, undid the rubber band that kept the ball in the pocket, and started throwing the ball against the backstop.

Other members of the Tigers started appearing. All of them were in uniform, and as they threw the ball around, warming up, Derek began to feel encouraged. They looked surprisingly better in uniform than they had in their street clothes—and they even seemed to
play
better than they had at the first practice.

Or maybe it was just his imagination playing tricks on him.

Coach Kozlowski showed up with Pete, each of them carrying a heavy duffel bag with bats, helmets, and catching gear. “Afternoon, gentlemen,” the coach said. “A great day for baseball.” Even though it wasn't.

Coach began by dividing the players into two groups for batting practice. Derek's group was at the plate first. Pete, as part of the group in the field, began the day at shortstop.

Derek grabbed a bat and warmed up with it while waiting his turn. He watched as Coach Kozlowski pitched to Derek's new teammates.

Half of them waved at easy pitches, or hit only dribblers and foul balls. And this was with the coach soft-tossing it, making it easy for them.

Derek tried to stay positive. After all, most of the better players were still out in the field, waiting for the two groups to switch.

Hey, wait a minute,
he suddenly thought. He noticed that he was in the group that included most of the kids who were going to play in the outfield or sit on the bench most of the time.

Did that mean the coach thought he wasn't a good player? He shook off the horrible possibility, determined to show what he could do at the plate.

When it was his turn, he set his feet in the batter's box, just like his father had taught him, tapped his bat on the plate three times, and waggled it behind his right ear, waiting.

The first pitch came floating in. Derek swung so hard, he nearly came out of his shoes—and
missed
.

Breathe,
he told himself.
Don't swing so hard. And watch the ball hit the bat!
It was almost as if he could hear his father's voice in his head, telling him to calm down, to relax, to do his best.

The next pitch came in high, and Derek reached up and tomahawked it. The ball nearly took the coach's head off as it rocketed past and then scooted between Pete and Chris, who was playing second base for the moment.

“Nice!” Coach said, pointing at Derek. “Way to go get it!”

Coach threw him another one, this time over the plate. Derek's eyes got as big as saucers, but he remembered to
keep
them open and not overswing. This time he hit a screaming line drive right at Pete, who ducked out of the way as it buzzed past his ear.

Take that!
Derek thought, smiling. He hit the next two pitches hard on the ground.

On the last swing of his turn at bat, each hitter was supposed to run it out. Derek hit a fat pitch high and deep over the center fielder's head. He wasted no time showing everyone his speed around the bases. He'd always been the fastest kid at Mount Royal, as well as on his previous Little League teams.

Now he sped around first. As he passed second, he snuck a peek and saw the center fielder tossing the ball back in. But that wasn't going to stop Derek. He blew right by third base and headed straight for home!

With Coach Kozlowski shouting encouragement, Derek crossed the plate and leapt right onto the chain-link fence to stop his momentum.

Home run!
Too bad it was only in practice. Still, the coach looked impressed. No one else in the first group of hitters had come close to belting a four-bagger.

Soon it was time for the groups to switch. “Derek,” Coach Kozlowski called to him. “Second base.”

Derek stopped in his tracks. Second base? “Um, I'm trying out for short,” he reminded the coach.

“I know, but I've already seen you at short. I want to mix it up a little. I haven't decided anything yet. Nice hitting, by the way.”

Derek felt crushed but did as he was told. He hoped Coach Kozlowski wasn't just jiving him about the shortstop position still being open. But Derek had a sinking feeling it was already a done deal and he was going to be stuck somewhere else for the whole season.

Pete took his turn at the plate. He didn't miss on a single pitch, and everything he hit was hard, in the air, and to the outfield.

Derek stood there, waiting for a chance to show off his infield skills, but Pete wasn't giving him the chance. Finally, on his last swing, Pete hit a screamer to Derek's right.

Derek reacted in a split second, launching himself into the air and grabbing the ball in the netting of his mitt. When he landed on the ground, he set himself and fired a bullet to first, which got there just before Pete's foot hit the bag.

“Whoa! What a play!” Coach Kozlowski yelled, clapping his hands. “Yeah, Darren!”

“It's Derek!” Vijay called from home plate, where he was next up to bat.

“Right, right,” Coach said. “Sorry. I'm not so great with names, but I'll get it sooner or later. Great play, though. I think we've got a ringer here, boys.”

Derek felt a wave of joy go through him, and he couldn't keep himself from smiling at the compliment.

“Okay, Pete. Why don't you get back out to short,” said the coach, once Pete had removed his batting helmet.

Derek's joy vanished in a split second. Why was Pete going back out to short instead of sitting on the bench while the rest of his group batted, like everybody else?

Pete played the rest of the practice at shortstop. He made a few errors, in addition to a couple of good plays. But every time he flubbed a grounder or threw wide of first base, his dad just said, “Okay, Petey. You'll get it next time,” or something else encouraging like that.

Meanwhile, Derek was moved from second to third, to the outfield, to first—never getting another shot at his favored position. At the end of practice he asked the coach about it.

“I still haven't made up my mind about anything,” Coach Kozlowski said. “I'll figure out the lineup at home, and you'll hear about it before the game on Wednesday, like everybody else. Meanwhile, be ready to play anywhere I put you.

“That goes for all of you kids, okay?” he added, raising his voice so they all could hear.

Derek collected his things and jogged over to his dad, who was waiting in the family car. Mrs. Jeter was in the front passenger seat, still in her business suit and her high-heeled shoes. Derek knew his dad must have just picked her up from her accounting job.

“So?” she asked Derek. “How'd it go?”

Derek sighed and shook his head. “To be honest with you, Mom, I don't have the slightest clue.”

• • •

That was the thing. He really
didn't
have a clue about where he would be playing in the opener on Wednesday.

“I don't know how he expects us to practice our positions if he doesn't tell us where we're playing till game time,” Derek complained at dinner.

“Well,” said his dad, “you've got a point, Derek. But remember, it's always up to the coach. That's his job. Let him do his job, and you just do whatever job he gives you as best you can.”

It was good advice, and Derek knew it. But it was one thing to
know
it was good advice, and another thing to
take
the advice. Besides, he didn't quite trust Coach Kozlowski. He'd seen other coaches favor their sons to the detriment of the team. He'd even seen one father yell “I got it” when he was coaching third and his son was at bat, so that the opposing third baseman would let the ball drop—which the third baseman did, much to the embarrassment of the coach's son. Some grown-ups had less sense than their kids.

All that evening, as he tried to study for his math test, Derek kept drifting back in his mind to Westwood Fields, trying to picture himself anywhere but shortstop—and failing. At one point he looked up at his alarm clock and saw that it was already nine o'clock! Bedtime, and he hadn't gotten through half the material he needed to review.

Derek closed his textbook, got washed up, and went to bed. In the Jeter house, there was no staying up after your bedtime—as referenced in the contract. If you couldn't sleep, you just lay there in the dark until you could.

It was after one in the morning when he finally shut his eyes for the night.

Derek had set his alarm for an hour early, so he could finish studying. But when it went off, he was so tired from lack of sleep that he just hit the snooze button. He wound up getting up at his regular old time, still groggy. It was too late to do any more studying. He was just going to have to get by on what he remembered from the past few weeks of class.

• • •

Ms. Wagner started the morning by handing back their class essays. Derek took his excitedly, only to find, to his dismay, that she'd given him a B-minus!

“How did you do?” Gary asked him, eyeing Derek's paper. “B-minus, huh? Wow. That stinks for you.” He held up his own essay—marked with an A-plus, naturally. Derek seethed as Gary turned away and took his seat.

Ms. Wagner said, “I just want to thank all of you—well,
most
of you—for your thoughtful responses to the essay question. I want to read out loud the list of everybody's dreams, because I think it's worth sharing.” She cleared her throat and began: