Read Online Out of Left Field by Liza Ketchum - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Liza Ketchum
Tags: Young Adult
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lineup?”
I manage a smile. “He was psyched. Even though we were eight games out, he insisted this is our year.” We stride down the ramp side by side. “What do you think?”
“Ya gotta believe,” the guy says. “That’s our mantra. But I got a feeling…ever since Damon showed up looking like Jesus, with that beard and hair—this team feels different.”
“Yeah. That’s what Dad said: ‘We’ll reverse the curse this time.’”
We grin, like someone has let us in on a big secret. The guy opens his wallet, hands me his card. “I’m Tony. This is my direct line. Computers are down now, but give me a call tomorrow. I’ll get you two seats to the playoffs, section 93, no questions asked.”
“Seriously? Won’t we jinx them, talking about playoff seats now?”
“I’m as superstitious as they come, but trust me.” We shake hands and I tell him my name.
“Come back anytime, Brandon,” he says. “If I’m at the window, you can walk on through. He’ll find you.”
We both know who he means. “Thanks.”
I leave the park with a quick step. A fresh breeze cools my face. Like Dad always said; like this guy Tony says now: Ya gotta believe .
Phone call: Quinn on Digby Neck, to Cat in Baddeck, Nova Scotia
Hey, Cat. Got a minute?
Listen, I’m still trying to get a copy of my birth certificate. Dad claims he doesn’t know where it is, but says he’ll look. Should I believe him?
Anyway, I told him how the hospital has no record of my being born. He made some lame joke but I got angry. Then he has a coughing fit—
Yeah, totally fake. I even ask him, point blank, if I’m adopted. He gets all huffy, says of course not; people don’t keep that a secret these days.
Take it easy, Cat. I’m getting to that part. So then he asks me, like he doesn’t know: what hospital did I call? I tell him and he says: there’s your problem. You were born in Halifax, in a birthing center.
Wait: it gets worse. I called a friend, a Halifax midwife. She says the place never existed. I tried the hospital in Halifax, like she suggested, got the names of all the babies born on my birthday. Couple of boys, but no one named Quinn.
I know; sounds like they’re hiding something big time. Gives me the creeps. The hell with Puerto Rico. This is bigger than that now.
Can’t come home: the fog’s lifted. Tourists are showing up for a change. If I don’t get out on the water soon, I won’t make my rent. It’s up to you.
Of course I’m serious! The safe deposit box is our only hope—
Come on, Cat. You’re my sister. Who else can I count on?
Okay. I admit I’ve been a jerk. I thought about your offer to crew on Little Blue . It’s not a bad idea. You’d need to take the boating safety test, but you know that stuff already, eh? I could use you. Seriously. My first mate took off last week.
Deal? Okay. The key to the safe deposit box should be in the bank file. They may not let you in, given you’re a minor and all. You’ll need a letter with Dad’s signature, saying it’s okay for you to have access.
I’ll forge it for you. How do you think I skipped class at school?
Cut it out. If I’m an alien someone left on the doorstep, how come everyone says I look like Mum?
Clutch Play
I’m in the Twilight Zone now. Just when you think the weirdness is over, something else happens. I get home from a grueling practice, find the light blinking on the answering machine, push the button—
And a woman from a doctor’s office comes on, reminds me I have an appointment at Faulkner Hospital tomorrow at 4 P.M. “Please call twenty-four hours ahead if you can’t make it—otherwise you will be charged for the appointment.”
Huh? I glance at my watch: 4:35. I listen a second time, write the number down. No way I can miss our big meet tomorrow, unless I’m ready to quit the team. (Which I am, some days, but swimming numbs the pain.) I call the hospital number, punch in the extension, wait through ugly Muzak—and
I manage a smile. “He was psyched. Even though we were eight games out, he insisted this is our year.” We stride down the ramp side by side. “What do you think?”
“Ya gotta believe,” the guy says. “That’s our mantra. But I got a feeling…ever since Damon showed up looking like Jesus, with that beard and hair—this team feels different.”
“Yeah. That’s what Dad said: ‘We’ll reverse the curse this time.’”
We grin, like someone has let us in on a big secret. The guy opens his wallet, hands me his card. “I’m Tony. This is my direct line. Computers are down now, but give me a call tomorrow. I’ll get you two seats to the playoffs, section 93, no questions asked.”
“Seriously? Won’t we jinx them, talking about playoff seats now?”
“I’m as superstitious as they come, but trust me.” We shake hands and I tell him my name.
“Come back anytime, Brandon,” he says. “If I’m at the window, you can walk on through. He’ll find you.”
We both know who he means. “Thanks.”
I leave the park with a quick step. A fresh breeze cools my face. Like Dad always said; like this guy Tony says now: Ya gotta believe .
Phone call: Quinn on Digby Neck, to Cat in Baddeck, Nova Scotia
Hey, Cat. Got a minute?
Listen, I’m still trying to get a copy of my birth certificate. Dad claims he doesn’t know where it is, but says he’ll look. Should I believe him?
Anyway, I told him how the hospital has no record of my being born. He made some lame joke but I got angry. Then he has a coughing fit—
Yeah, totally fake. I even ask him, point blank, if I’m adopted. He gets all huffy, says of course not; people don’t keep that a secret these days.
Take it easy, Cat. I’m getting to that part. So then he asks me, like he doesn’t know: what hospital did I call? I tell him and he says: there’s your problem. You were born in Halifax, in a birthing center.
Wait: it gets worse. I called a friend, a Halifax midwife. She says the place never existed. I tried the hospital in Halifax, like she suggested, got the names of all the babies born on my birthday. Couple of boys, but no one named Quinn.
I know; sounds like they’re hiding something big time. Gives me the creeps. The hell with Puerto Rico. This is bigger than that now.
Can’t come home: the fog’s lifted. Tourists are showing up for a change. If I don’t get out on the water soon, I won’t make my rent. It’s up to you.
Of course I’m serious! The safe deposit box is our only hope—
Come on, Cat. You’re my sister. Who else can I count on?
Okay. I admit I’ve been a jerk. I thought about your offer to crew on Little Blue . It’s not a bad idea. You’d need to take the boating safety test, but you know that stuff already, eh? I could use you. Seriously. My first mate took off last week.
Deal? Okay. The key to the safe deposit box should be in the bank file. They may not let you in, given you’re a minor and all. You’ll need a letter with Dad’s signature, saying it’s okay for you to have access.
I’ll forge it for you. How do you think I skipped class at school?
Cut it out. If I’m an alien someone left on the doorstep, how come everyone says I look like Mum?
Clutch Play
I’m in the Twilight Zone now. Just when you think the weirdness is over, something else happens. I get home from a grueling practice, find the light blinking on the answering machine, push the button—
And a woman from a doctor’s office comes on, reminds me I have an appointment at Faulkner Hospital tomorrow at 4 P.M. “Please call twenty-four hours ahead if you can’t make it—otherwise you will be charged for the appointment.”
Huh? I glance at my watch: 4:35. I listen a second time, write the number down. No way I can miss our big meet tomorrow, unless I’m ready to quit the team. (Which I am, some days, but swimming numbs the pain.) I call the hospital number, punch in the extension, wait through ugly Muzak—and
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