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hi, Eddie!" Caroline said aloud, in her Beaver Cleaver voice, and the twins chortled.
    As she approached the ball field, she could hear shouts. Even the babies heard the noise. They turned their heads, wide-eyed, listening.
    It was hard, at first, to see the ball team itself because of the dust rising around them. Caroline could see heads wearing blue baseball caps, but below the heads was nothing but swirling, tan dust. Out of the dust cloud came the shouts.
    She didn't try to get any closer. If she walked the babies into all that dust, she'd have to give them extra baths for
sure.
    "J.P.!" she called. "It's Caroline! It's almost time to come home for lunch!"
    The tallest head emerged from the swirling dust, and attached to the head was J.P.'s lanky body in its oversized COACH shirt.
    "I said cut it out!" he yelled into the whirlwind of dust. Then he walked over to where Caroline waited with the carriage. He was filthy: sweaty, dusty, with his sneakers untied. Caroline had never seen her brother so disheveled before. In New York, J.P. always wore a tie and jacket to Computer Club.
    "What's going on?" Caroline asked, peering beyond J.P. to the mass of yelling little baseball players.
    J.P. scowled. "They're fighting," he said. "What time did practice start? Nine o'clock? They've been fighting since 9:08."
    "Why?"
    His shoulders slumped. "I don't know. I told one to practice batting, and he struck out, so he got mad at the pitcher. Another one was supposed to practice throwing, but he threw it the wrong way and hit the third baseman—or maybe I should say third baseperson, since it's a girl—so the third baseman, excuse me, I mean baseperson, punched him in the nose. Then the shortstop started to cry because he missed an infield fly, and two other kids laughed at him for crying, so they all started to fight. It's been that way all morning."
    "Well, you're supposed to keep things in order, J.P. That's what a coach is for," Caroline pointed out.
    J.P. gave her a long, disdainful look. Then he leaned over the carriage. "Hi, babies," he said and tickled Ivy under the chin. "You guys don't fight, do you?" The twins giggled and waved their arms.
    "Keep an eye on the babies for a minute, J.P.," Caroline said. She left him there with the carriage and walked over to the screaming mob of little ballplayers.
    "POOCHIE!" she yelled.
    Out of the mass emerged Poochie. His Tater Chips shirt was torn, and he was crying.
    "You're a mess, Pooch," Caroline said. "Straighten up. Dry your eyes." Poochie obeyed, wiping his eyes and his running nose on his arm.
    "Now tell me some of their names," she said.
    "Jason," Poochie sniffled.
    "JASON!" roared Caroline. "Stand over here!"
    A drippy-nosed redhead emerged from the fight and stood where she indicated.
    "Another name, Pooch."
    "Adam."
    "ADAM!" bellowed Caroline. "Front and center!"
    Another scowling Tater Chip emerged from the dusty throng.
    "Now Kristin," muttered Poochie.
    "KRISTIN!" In a very few minutes, the dust had settled, and Caroline was facing a sulking line of twelve six-year-olds. They were all sniffling. They sounded like a Dristan commercial. One little boy had a bloody nose, but it seemed to be subsiding. Two had torn their Tater Chips shirts, but not beyond repair.
    "Now," said Caroline—actually, she didn't say it; she
barked
it as if she were a drill sergeant—"what's going on here, people?"
    "Kristin hit me with a line drive I" someone called accusingly.
    "Eric cheated!" someone else yelled. "Eric is a big poophead!"
    "HOLD IT!" Caroline announced. "Shut up, everybody, and listen to me. You guys have to learn to follow orders. Do you know what ORDERS are?"
    They all stared at her sullenly. Noses dripped.
    "Orders," Caroline went on, "are rules. RULES. Got that?"
    Twelve heads nodded.
    "And rules have to be obeyed. If you want to play ball, you have to obey the rules. Do you want to have a good ball team?"
    "Yeah," someone muttered.
    "I can't hear you," Caroline