Read Online And Don't Bring Jeremy by Marilyn Levinson - Free Book Online
Authors: Marilyn Levinson
Tags: middle grade
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Eddie straight in the eye. “I’ll be busy around here and I don’t want you hanging around.”
Eddie flinched and looked away. I tried to think of something to say. Sure, Jeremy had every reason to hate Eddie for all the mean things he always said to him. Still, I felt embarrassed for Eddie. For some dumb reason I noticed how much bigger Jeremy was than Eddie. Jeremy was a good size for his age and pretty strong, even though he wasn’t athletic. But I don’t know why I was thinking like this. Jeremy almost never got into fights—unless someone pushed him too far.
I decided to make a joke out of it. “What are you doing that you need so much privacy? Making a bomb?”
“Ha ha,” Jeremy answered, not at all amused. “First, I’m going to water my plants, and then I think I’ll go bike riding.”
Now it was his turn to be embarrassed. I knew he was going over to Tommy’s house. He never actually told me and I didn’t need to ask. I could just tell, by the way he’d slink off, then come home hours later, laughing and singing his fool head off.
“Have fun,” I called out as I grabbed my mitt from the hall closet.
Eddie didn’t say anything until the door closed behind us. “Wow, does your brother have some chip on his shoulder.”
I couldn’t let that go by. “Well, maybe he’s sick and tired of people making fun of him and calling him names.”
Eddie laughed. “Yeah, well, maybe he can’t take a joke.”
I didn’t answer. As far as I could see, Eddie was wrong. But anything I’d say about it wouldn’t change his way of thinking. We were friends again now, and he helped me in ways Jeremy never could in a million years.
The school field was empty except for a group of small kids playing soccer at the far end. We started working on my knuckleball. I was having trouble gripping the ball with my knuckles. Eddie kept showing me how to do it. I wondered how he managed it so well, since his hands weren’t much bigger than mine. He could throw every pitch—sidearm, curve, change-up, knuckle. Only he couldn’t throw as many strikes as I could. I guess that was why his father had been making me starting pitcher in the last few games. That and the fact that Eddie was a terrific first baseman.
I couldn’t get the knack of holding the ball correctly, then throwing it strong. Eddie was becoming impatient. His face was turning red. Finally he told me to hold the ball by the tips of my fingers. “Try it this way,” he said, and I did.
“Not bad,” he admitted when I’d thrown a few. “Maybe your hand is too small to throw from your knuckles. Keep doing it this way for now.”
“Okay,” I agreed, surprised that it was finally working.
“Dad had me throwing like this last year,” he said. “I guess I should have started you off this way.”
I threw him a few more knuckleballs. I was just getting the hang of it when I noticed some kids walking toward us. It was Bobby Reese and Jason Marconi, two of the boys who usually played in our softball game.
Eddie must have seen them, too, because a minute later he said disgustedly, “Here they all come. Now we’ll never have a minute to ourselves.”
“Don’t you want to play today?” I asked hesitantly. Somehow, I’d just assumed we’d play in the game when all the kids arrived.
“I thought you wanted to work on your knuckleball. I thought that’s what we planned to do today.” He sounded hurt, like I was disappointing him.
“Sure I do,” I said quickly. “Let’s go. We can work on it in my backyard.”
“Great idea,” Eddie said, suddenly cheerful again. “If you’re going to be our team’s starting pitcher, you have to have every pitch down cold.”
I smiled, glad that he wasn’t jealous of me anymore on that account. Being jealous of me was just plain dumb. Eddie was a better all-around player than I was. How could he not know that?
Jeremy was wheeling his bicycle out of the garage when we got back to the house.
“The
Eddie flinched and looked away. I tried to think of something to say. Sure, Jeremy had every reason to hate Eddie for all the mean things he always said to him. Still, I felt embarrassed for Eddie. For some dumb reason I noticed how much bigger Jeremy was than Eddie. Jeremy was a good size for his age and pretty strong, even though he wasn’t athletic. But I don’t know why I was thinking like this. Jeremy almost never got into fights—unless someone pushed him too far.
I decided to make a joke out of it. “What are you doing that you need so much privacy? Making a bomb?”
“Ha ha,” Jeremy answered, not at all amused. “First, I’m going to water my plants, and then I think I’ll go bike riding.”
Now it was his turn to be embarrassed. I knew he was going over to Tommy’s house. He never actually told me and I didn’t need to ask. I could just tell, by the way he’d slink off, then come home hours later, laughing and singing his fool head off.
“Have fun,” I called out as I grabbed my mitt from the hall closet.
Eddie didn’t say anything until the door closed behind us. “Wow, does your brother have some chip on his shoulder.”
I couldn’t let that go by. “Well, maybe he’s sick and tired of people making fun of him and calling him names.”
Eddie laughed. “Yeah, well, maybe he can’t take a joke.”
I didn’t answer. As far as I could see, Eddie was wrong. But anything I’d say about it wouldn’t change his way of thinking. We were friends again now, and he helped me in ways Jeremy never could in a million years.
The school field was empty except for a group of small kids playing soccer at the far end. We started working on my knuckleball. I was having trouble gripping the ball with my knuckles. Eddie kept showing me how to do it. I wondered how he managed it so well, since his hands weren’t much bigger than mine. He could throw every pitch—sidearm, curve, change-up, knuckle. Only he couldn’t throw as many strikes as I could. I guess that was why his father had been making me starting pitcher in the last few games. That and the fact that Eddie was a terrific first baseman.
I couldn’t get the knack of holding the ball correctly, then throwing it strong. Eddie was becoming impatient. His face was turning red. Finally he told me to hold the ball by the tips of my fingers. “Try it this way,” he said, and I did.
“Not bad,” he admitted when I’d thrown a few. “Maybe your hand is too small to throw from your knuckles. Keep doing it this way for now.”
“Okay,” I agreed, surprised that it was finally working.
“Dad had me throwing like this last year,” he said. “I guess I should have started you off this way.”
I threw him a few more knuckleballs. I was just getting the hang of it when I noticed some kids walking toward us. It was Bobby Reese and Jason Marconi, two of the boys who usually played in our softball game.
Eddie must have seen them, too, because a minute later he said disgustedly, “Here they all come. Now we’ll never have a minute to ourselves.”
“Don’t you want to play today?” I asked hesitantly. Somehow, I’d just assumed we’d play in the game when all the kids arrived.
“I thought you wanted to work on your knuckleball. I thought that’s what we planned to do today.” He sounded hurt, like I was disappointing him.
“Sure I do,” I said quickly. “Let’s go. We can work on it in my backyard.”
“Great idea,” Eddie said, suddenly cheerful again. “If you’re going to be our team’s starting pitcher, you have to have every pitch down cold.”
I smiled, glad that he wasn’t jealous of me anymore on that account. Being jealous of me was just plain dumb. Eddie was a better all-around player than I was. How could he not know that?
Jeremy was wheeling his bicycle out of the garage when we got back to the house.
“The
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