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instead of baseball gloves and still crush nine teams out of ten.
    “Maybe you should just lay off a little bit,” suggested Skip. “Don’t try to catch every single ball hit to center field. If the ball is sailing toward the wall, pull up and play it on a carom.”
    Orlando turned as pale as the belly of a fish.
    “But Skip,” he gasped, horrified. “I’m a center fielder. I catch flies. It’s what I do.”
    “I like your moxie, kid,” said Skip. “It’s your health that worries me.”
    “Not to mention the health of the wall,” added Ducks with a grin.
    With that, practice broke up. Vacation ended with it. In the morning, we went back to school. To tell the truth, I wasn’t sorry about that at all. Between the weather, Gilly’s accident, and our lousy performances on the ball field—if you could call a snowy wasteland a ball field—it had been the worst spring break on record.
    Mr. Bones and I said so long to the guys and trudged home, into the teeth of a biting north wind.

CHAPTER 7
    M onday morning, Dad offered to make omelets for breakfast. I was tempted. Watching him cook was fun. It was almost as good as eating what he cooked. But I decided to have oatmeal instead. It seemed better suited to the weather. Gray and mushy.
    Just like my mood.
    Dad was disappointed. He couldn’t get creative with oatmeal. Mr. Bones was even more upset. He lived for leftovers. My dad’s omelets were so big, nobody could eat a whole one. There was always something left for Mr. Bones.
    “I’ll make it up to you, buddy,” I promised.“I’ll take you for a walk after school, and you can show off your coat all over the neighborhood.”
    He perked up.
    After breakfast I spent about an hour putting on my cold-weather gear. All the extra clothes I have to wear is one of the worst things about winter. I was sick and tired of the layers, the thick socks, the sloppy boots, the mittens that never seemed to get completely dry.
    I trudged off to the bus stop feeling more wrapped up than a mummy.
    A real mummy would have been nice. It would have meant Egypt, where I understood the weather was hot and dry.
    The bus pulled up and I climbed aboard. It was about three-quarters full. Stump and Slingshot waved to me from a seat toward the middle. I slid behind them, next to my friend and classmate Gabby Hedron.
    Gabby is a photographer and reporter. She covers school events and baseball for The Rambletown Bulletin , the local newspaper.
    “Morning, everyone,” I said as the bus rumbled off.
    “You hear about the Haymakers?” Gabby asked. “They’ve been practicing in snowshoes.”
    Gabby is the Rounders’ number one fan. On her list of favorite things, the big, mean, hairy Hog City Haymakers ranked somewhere between bad breath and poison ivy. Maybe lower.
    “I heard,” I said.
    “Why haven’t you guys tried it?”
    “Good question,” I said.
    At the next stop, Gasser hopped up the steps. Every eye was on him as he hobbled down the aisle on a pair of aluminum crutches.
    “Gasser! Gasser!” kids yelled. “Did you really pull a double-front roll Flying Walrus? On Darkness Falls!”
    “Triple.” Gasser grinned gamely as he lowered himself into the empty seat across from Stump and Slingshot.
    “Triple, my foot!” hooted Slingshot. “The only triple you scored was three scoops of fudgeripple ice cream in the hospital.”
    “Don’t talk to me about it.” Gasser groaned, suddenly looking as green as a dish of pistachio ice cream. “I don’t want to see any more ice cream as long as I live.”
    The bus lurched ahead. Soon we reached the corner of Oxford and Riverview. Orlando stood amid iceberg-sized snowdrifts on the sidewalk. He was bundled in enough arctic gear to launch an expedition to the North Pole. If not for his familiar red hat with earflaps, I probably wouldn’t have recognized him.
    The door cranked open, and our new center fielder slowly climbed aboard. With his hat pulled low, he made his way nervously