1

Something extraordinary happened to me last summer. It started when I was kicked out of my own baseball team. It was the first training session of the new season for the Blue Belles Baseball Club. The sun was blazing down onto the field and blistering hot on my neck. There were still a few weeks of summer left. I was sweating buckets. My socks and boots felt prickly and heavy.

I was trying out for the Under 18 First Class team. The coaches paced the sidelines with their clipboards, watching us, selecting their players that would go on to compete for the state game.

At tryouts, you're supposed to play your best, show off all your fancy swings and throws and speed, so you'll get picked. And that would mean you could be competing in the big games and even earn a scholarship to your desired college. Well, I didn't feel like showing off. To be honest, I didn't feel like playing baseball anymore.

I wasn't paying much attention to what was happening around me on the field. So when a voice barked at me, as hard and grating as gravel in a blender, I jumped.

"Darci! Wake up!"

My eyes widened and realized the ball was flying towards me. I hesitated and, in that nanosecond, the small white ball sailed passed me. I tried to catch it like a frog leaping after a bug but I landed empty hand to the ground. I grunted on the impact, the air knocked out of my lungs.

"You half-asleep out there, Darci? You gave that ball away!" shouted the coach.

His name was Peter Bloom. He'd been the coach of our Blue Belles Team every year since we were Under 13s.

"You forgotten how to play baseball?" he bellowed. "Go after it!"

Instead of watching the ball, I couldn't take my eyes off the coach yelling and snarling at the girls.

He barked at one player for being late. Then he spun around to yell at the another Blue Beller with the wrong uniform.

"Don't tell me you don't know what position you'll play!" he snapped at the girl. "Not after your performance last season. It was torturing for me to stand on the sideline and watch it. Unbelievable!"

The girl's face crumpled and was ready to burst into tears. I bet if he could say it, he would use the phrase 'There's no crying in baseball!' too.

I used to love baseball. Since I was five years old, I'd been watching the games with my father. But somewhere along the way, baseball stopped being fantastic anymore. Then it stopped being any fun at all.

The next time the ball came my way, I didn't go all-out to get possession. There was a sharp screech of the whistle and the coach was glaring at me.

"That's it!" he cried. "Embarrassing! What the hell's the matter with you, Darci?"

I shrugged.

"Don't you want to be considered for the state game?" he demanded.

I shrugged again and I could see that was making him seethe even more. Girls on the field started to stare. They could tell something heavy was going on.

"A shrug. That's your answer, miss?"

I held my breath. It's truly scary how quickly things can turn heavy on you. I hadn't planned on having a big showdown with the coach today, and all of a sudden, whoosh! Here I was facing a red alarm. Air-raid sirens going off in my head. The coach dropped his voice a bit (which meant he was even more livid).

"If you're not sure you want to be here, then go." He pointed off the field.

This was it. If I walked off the field now, the coach would never have me back in the team.

His pointing finger was shaking. I gulped, then turned and walked off the field. My heart was thumping so hard in my chest I thought a few ribs might break. I didn't dare turn around and look at him. I didn't need to. I could feel his stare, like a laser beam, boring into my back.

I plunked myself against the wall of the equipment shed, releasing my long chestnut hair from the ponytail. I rubbed my brows and tried not to think about what I'd just done.

"Torpedoed your chances of making the selection, eh?" a voice asked. On the ground beside me, hunched against the wall, was Olive Scott, my best friend. She was tall and lean with goofy arms and legs that looked like they didn't belong to an athlete, or at least, she hadn't learned how to use them yet.

"I know right?" I said.

"He's been a bit too harsh," she said, trying to console me. "I'd never seen your dad this mad."

I shrugged. Having Coach Peter Bloom as your father wasn't easy alright.

"Don't worry about it," I said and she nodded. There was something nice about having Olive there. I felt like at least not the whole world was against me.

Both of us heard the shouting from the far side of the ground. It was Dad and a girl named Stefanie Jenkins roaring at each other.

"Hello," whistled Olive. "Mr. Loud-Mouth-Striker is chucking a mental."

"Mr. Loud-Mouth is dead right," I mumbled.

Stefanie was the star batter in the team, with decent run scores from last season. But she thought it gave her the right to act like a total snob every minute of the day. She strutted around the field, mouthing off about how fantastic she was. She threw tantrums if any tiny things didn't go her way. I guessed she hated my guts as much as I hated hers. Now I was out of my league for good. I definitely wouldn't miss playing with Stefanie Jenkins.

Way over at the equipment shed, we couldn't catch exactly what Dad and Stefanie were saying, but you didn't have to be a genius to work out it was ugly.

"Do you think Stef's dealing with the bad mood Dad was saving me from the cut?" I asked.

"Couldn't happen to a more deserving girl," Olive said, giving me a smile. I smiled back.

Stefanie gave Dad the finger and Dad ordered her off the field. So she stormed over to the equipment shed, hissing through her teeth.

"Suit him," she growled out to anyone who might be listening. "This team will be a cactus without me."

One by one, other girls were sent over to wait by the shed. Eventually, there were nine stray players standing silently-nervous and miserable or confused. An odd collection of girls lined up the wall like a bunch of rejected mannequins in the warehouse.

At the end of the training session, Margaret bopped over a big smile. Margaret is the main organizer at our club. She is in her late forties and a truly nice person -always smiling, even when people act like jerks. I don't get it. My theory is that Margaret is, in fact, an alien life form.

Margaret counted the group of strays, checking names on her clipboard.

"Yes! We've got almost enough for another team!" she gushed.

"What!? A team?" squawked Stefanie. She ran her bright blue eyes over the dismal group of girls. "You can't expect me to be in a team with a pack of weirdos!"

Margaret winced apologetically.

"We've had a few mix-ups this year and this group of players is sort of...well- leftover."

I tilted my head sideways so I could read the block letters scrawled across the paper hanging from Margaret's hand - Under 18 Rejected Players.

Great.