Read Online Screaming at the Ump by Audrey Vernick - Free Book Online

slices of bread: “Looks like roast beef today,” I said.
    â€œThen I definitely don’t have time,” Zeke said, as though that made sense. He started feeding crackers into his mouth at an alarming rate. “Ouottarink?” he asked.
    â€œWHAT?” Andrew said.
    â€œDude, don’t ask him what,” Charley said, annoyed. “He’ll talk more. Look at all that cracker spew. Just wait. Zeke. Chew. THEN talk.”
    Zeke nodded, like this was the first time such a thing had been suggested and it was a pretty good idea.
    â€œHe asked if I had a drink,” I explained. “If you get a cup, I’ll pour you some of my water. I don’t want cracker spew backwash, thank you very much.”
    Zeke nodded, like of course, he could understand why a person wouldn’t want that. For such an agreeable guy, it seemed just mean that he wouldn’t come to the meeting with me. “Anyway,” he said, “I don’t want to stay late at school. Isn’t today the day they start working on obstruction and interference? You know I love watching people run into each other.”
    â€œBut isn’t it raining?” I asked. It was hard to tell from the cafeteria, which had no windows, but it had been raining all day. That meant a whole day indoors at BTP—a big group in the lecture hall and then smaller groups in the classrooms. “They’re not going to do fieldwork in the rain.”
    Zeke shrugged. “Rain’s gotta end sometime.”
    ***
    Of course I wasn’t able to talk Charley or Andrew or anyone into coming to the meeting with me, so I went alone. The room was full and buzzing with the voices of seventh- and eighth-graders who all seemed to know each other. They were sitting on desks, laughing. I looked around for a familiar face, but there wasn’t one. Not one. It was like I’d walked into a meeting for a school newspaper in Toronto or Australia instead of Clay Coves, New Jersey.
    I pulled out my English homework and started to read a short story that was originally published in 1918. Of course, given my gene pool, I started to drift, thinking that that year was the last time the Red Sox won the World Series before winning again in 2004. But I was also wondering why Mr. Donovan couldn’t assign something slightly more current. Maybe even written in the kind of English that was the same English I knew how to speak.
    I was struggling through the second page, going back to the first to see if the author was talking about the same characters or different ones, when Mr. Donovan showed up. With Chris Sykes. The kid who hated me.
    â€œThank you for coming. It’s great to see all your faces back,” Mr. Donovan said, looking around the room. He spotted me in the back and added, “And some new ones. A new one.” Everyone turned to look at me, and I had the strange desire to dive out the window.
    I closed my book and bent to put it away.
    â€œI know you’re all anxious to get going, but for our new visitor, I’d like to explain how things work around here. Eighth-graders are pretty much in charge. I am the faculty advisor, and all articles must be approved by me. But to a great extent, this is a student-run enterprise. Eighth-grade students put in their time last year, shadowing last year’s editors during spring semester. Seventh-graders will of course play a big role, reporting and editing. We love for new students to take part too. In the spring, Casey, you and any other interested sixth-graders will get a chance to work with upperclassmen on copy editing.”
    I did not have a poker face—you could almost always tell what I was thinking just by looking at me. My hand wasn’t raised, but my confusion must have been right there in my expression.
    â€œYou have a question, Mr. Snowden?”
    â€œNo. I mean not a question, but it just sounded like—I mean, anyone who wants to write can write,