Something to Hold Read Free Page A

there, it's a sea of white faces.
    Jimmy is crouching behind home plate, taking warm-up pitches from one of the players. His ankle is bandaged, but he's putting weight on it.
    The coach, Sherf, walks up to Joe at the end of the bench. "Where's your brother? We need him on the mound."
    Joe shrugs. "At home. Grounded."
    Sherf shakes his head. No pitcher, no game. He goes over to talk to the umpire.
    A car pulls up behind home plate and stops with the bumper almost touching the backstop. The driver has his cap pulled down low. He says something over his shoulder to two kids in the back. Then Raymond slides out of the passenger side, followed by that girl, Jewel.
    Oh boy.
I wish I'd picked a spot in the middle of the fans. I slouch down, hoping they won't notice me.
    Raymond stands beside the car, checking out the field. Then his face settles into that scowl I saw out on Shitike Road, and he walks right up to Sherf. "I'm here to play," he says.
    The coach thinks about this for a moment before handing Raymond a glove. "Get in there, then."
    Everybody stands for the flag salute. Our coach holds his VFW cap across his chest and the players do the same. With the last words, "With liberty and justice for all," something makes me glance down from the bleachers. Jewel stands beside the car, staring hard at me.
    ***
    When we walk up the alley after the game, the kitchen light is on. The green government pickup is parked in the driveway. Fire boots on the back step. Dad's home.
    He is standing at the kitchen sink when we come in. "Hey, I'm sorry I missed your game," he says, lifting Joe's baseball cap off his head. He has changed out of his fire clothes, but I can still smell them. He looks tired.
    Dad scoops me into a hug. "We whipped that fire into shape in no time flat. You knew we would," he says.
    I'm happy to see him. For this moment in his warm arms, I'm not worried about making friends. But it won't last long.

Howie
    S UMMER turns the last corner and runs head-on into the long school year. Suddenly I'm sitting at the kitchen table in a new school dress, picking at pancakes.
    Joe is on his third helping. All the dirt from the last few weeks has been scrubbed off his face, and his summer crew cut has grown out a bit. He splashes half a bottle of syrup onto his plate. If Bill doesn't hurry up, there won't be anything left. Mom leans into the back hall and calls down to the basement.
    The stomping on the stairs sounds different, not like the soft thump of summer sneakers. Bill stops in the doorway to let us admire him. His new side-tie shoes are slick with polish, and white socks peek out from beneath his pegged pants. The new shirt fits him perfectly, like he's some teen idol in stupid glasses.
    "Nice threads," Dad says, reaching for bacon.
    Bill jabs a pancake off the plate before his bottom hits the chair. "Gotta get going," he says. "Jimmy's saving me a
good
seat on the bus."
    Mom hands him a glass of milk and says, "Take it easy. Don't slop breakfast all over my handiwork."
    The first-day-of-school routine is different this year because we won't all be together. Bill will abandon us for a long bus ride that climbs out of the canyon to the junior high in Madras. Joe and I will carry our new tablets a few blocks to Warm Springs Grade School. Makes me want to throw up.
    "Honey?" I realize Dad's talking to me. "You want me to walk you to school this morning?"
    Joe shakes his head before I can get my mouth open. "You don't need to come."
    Yes, you do!
I finish off my orange juice instead of saying so. Too embarrassing to have your dad take you to school in the sixth grade, no matter how much you need him.
    "OK. I've got a timber meeting in Prineville, but I'll be back before dinner. You can tell me all about it then."
    Mom checks the clock over the stove. "Bill, scoot!" She shoos him with her hands, and we all scatter in different directions.
    All the way across the campus, I think about what is ahead. When we get to the stop sign by