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I stopped chopping. “Granddad, what’s this—”
“That paper will start printing our names soon, you’ll see.” He smacked the refrigerator. “That tournament is the best answer to all our problems.”
“Right, but did you really have to put forty percent of the farm sales on the table?” My eyes wandered to the overdue bills.
“First off, he didn’t put that on the table, we both did,” Nana said. “Secondly, if we can’t afford it, then we’ll figure it out, the same way we always do.”
“But—”
“Will Crowley putting the stadium up for grabs is a blessing,” Granddad added.
A blessing?
What about “Never trust a Crowley,” the Fulton motto that had been drilled into my brain since I was ten?
Granddad patted me on the back. “Charlie would’ve been proud of the two of us, Reed. Putting a team together like this for the Legion League. The Fulton dynasty at it once again.”
“Charlie sounded like a good guy. Wish I could’ve met him.” I began chopping some cucumber.
“My brother was a lot like you. Tall as a tree, proud, focused.” Granddad rolled up his newspaper and tossed it into the recycling. “Honestly, it was a good thing he wasn’t around to see us lose that stadium years ago after all the work we did to get it up and running.”
He marched over to the junk drawer near the fridge and took out a case of darts. Newspaper clippings with “Crowley” in their headings were tacked onto the top half of the laundry room door.
He started throwing darts.
Nana groaned. “Honestly. Must you do that every day?”
“The doctor said I need to find better ways to de-stress, Joyce. Drinking beer doesn’t count—apparently—so that leaves darts. Or would you rather I shoot my rifle off the back deck?” He tossed two more and hit the eyes of a black-and-white photograph of Will Crowley.
“Darts it is,” Nana mumbled, running a hand through her curls. “You’re bringing my wisdom tinsel out in full force. I’ll be all silver soon.”
“I’ve always said I liked your hair more silver than brown anyway.” Granddad turned to me. “Wanna have a go, Reed? It’s been a while, but you probably still got a decent throw, right?”
Uh. “Sure. Why not?”
A few minutes later, all my darts framed the outside edges of the photographs. Apparently, even though I could throw a mean fastball, I sucked at darts. As I plucked them out, I noticed a smaller headline and article underneath the latest picture of Will Crowley: “THE LYRIC’S SUMMER PRODUCTION OF ‘ROMEO & JULIET’ BEGINS ITS REHARSALS.”
Eliza.
“Let me know when you need me to set the table, okay?” I said, leaving the kitchen. “I’ll be out front.”
The old porch creaked under my weight as the South Five’s corn moved with the humid wind. Yesterday, Granddad had me feel a couple of husks to remind me of the color and texture I should hope for.
Mickey barked at the screen door. I opened it and then sat on the front steps, where he placed his head on my lap. That article said the first tech rehearsal was tomorrow, which meant Eliza would definitely be there.
I still had her mask, so that gave me two clear options.
Option one: I could burn it. Call it retribution for what she did to my Autobots.
Option two: I could take it to her and stick around just long enough to ruffle her prim Crowley feathers.
By my math, I had hundreds of days of Operation Reed Bothers Eliza to make up for.
Raking the infield could wait.
Chapter Five
Eliza
