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Mr. Bones and I went the other.
    â€œSee you guys tomorrow,” I said.
    Slingshot waved.
    Stump did, too.
    At least I think he did. His arm definitely fluttered. But for all I knew, it might have been the yips.

CHAPTER 12
    â€œM om,” I called when Mr. Bones and I came through the door, “I’ll get my own supper.”
    Rattled as I felt, only one thing would help. Fried-baloney sandwiches. When things go bad, there’s nothing better to eat. Somehow, they make you feel better.
    Without bothering to change out of my uniform, I dropped a fat pat of butter into a frying pan. Parking himself at my feet, Mr. Bones licked his lips. He knew what was coming. That’s one thing about dogs. They’re very sensitive to people’s moods. Not to mention the smell of good stuff cooking.
    I placed four slices of Old Leadbelly Sinkerbread in the melted butter and layered baloney on top of them. The butter sizzled. The baloney curled at the edges.
    Mom came into the kitchen, took one look at the smoke, and said, “Tough game, huh? I still can’t get over that hit of Gilly’s, the way the ball turned cartwheels like that.”
    â€œIt’s more than the game,” I said. “Stump has the yips, locusts have eaten our ball field, and the Haymakers are trying to steal the All-Star Game. Plus some hoity-toity Hog City lady called Mr. Bones a rat.”
    â€œOuch,” she said. She kissed my cheek. Then she leaned down and patted Mr. Bones. “Can I help?”
    â€œSure,” I said. “You know a cure for the yips, how to make grass sprout overnight, and the secret to hitting a baseball in a gale?”
    â€œWith your meal, I mean.”
    â€œFried baloney I can handle.”
    When the sandwiches were brown on one side, I flipped them over with a spatula andtoasted the other. In no time at all, I had a nice heaping platter of them. Mr. Bones, meanwhile, had a serious case of the grumbles. His stomach bleated and burbled like a tuba packed with bubble gum.
    A real tuba would have been nice. It would have drowned out the locusts I could still hear buzzing in my head.
    I flipped off the heat and carried the sandwiches to the table. Mom poured a glass of milk and set it down at my place. Tail wagging to beat the band—and stomach grumbling just like a band—Mr. Bones camped beside my chair.
    Then we started eating. A fried baloney sandwich for me, a fried baloney sandwich for Mr. Bones.
    â€œWould you like one?” I asked Mom between bites. She didn’t look exactly hungry. Astonished was probably a better description. Or maybe grossed out. But you never knew. “Plenty to go around.”
    â€œI’ll wait for your father to get home,” shesaid. “We’ll have something later. I mean lighter. We’ll eat something lighter, later.”
    Nodding, I snarfed down another sandwich.
    As I chewed, the door burst open and a gust of wind swept into the house. Dad blew in with it. His tie, the one printed with golf balls instead of fishing lures, wrapped his neck like a scarf, and his face glowed like he’d been sandblasted.
    â€œHoly cow,” he panted, pressing his back against the door and forcing it shut. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
    â€œHe couldn’t help it!” I snapped.
    â€œWho couldn’t help what?” Dad asked.
    â€œStump,” I said. “He didn’t mean to throw away the game.”
    â€œOh, yeah, that was tough. Poor kid! But I’m talking about the weather. I went back to the office after the game. You know the Maple Street bridge?”
    I nodded.
    â€œWell, it’s the Elm Street bridge now. The wind pushed it three blocks south. Traffic is snarled for miles.”
    He plopped into a chair and noticed my stack of sandwiches, much smaller now.
    â€œThat bad?”
    â€œThe worst,” I confirmed.
    Mom quietly joined us at the table. She and Dad exchanged