He spotted Ira Feldman sitting on a planter, looking at his baseball cards.
“Hi, Ira,” said Gary.
“Goon,” Ira muttered, then looked back at his baseball cards. Ira owned more than a thousand baseball cards, but for some reason had chosen to bring a certain eight of them to school.
“So’d you hear?” asked Gary. “After this year, they’re not making bats any longer.”
“What? That’s crazy. Aluminum bats are no good. Even if you’re jammed, you can still get a solid hit. That’s—”
Gary had no idea what Ira was talking about. He hadn’t said anything about aluminum or wooden bats. “They’re long enough already!”
“Huh?”
“They’re not making bats any longer. They’re long enough already.”
Ira proceeded to explain to Gary how different players liked different-sized bats. Rod Carew, for example, used a very short bat, whereas Willie Stargell used a big bat.
Gary nodded along. He didn’t know who any of these people were. “So,” he said, “do you know anything about the talent show?”
“No, not really.”
“Do you know where you’re supposed to sign up for it?”
Ira shrugged.
“It’s not too late, is it?”
Ira didn’t know that, either.
Gary wished he could talk to Angeline. She’d know about the talent show. It didn’t matter that she was a thousand miles away in another school. Somehow, she’d know.
Paul Wattenburg, Ryan Utt, and Matt Hughes were sitting on the grass.
“If April showers bring May flowers, what do May flowers bring?” asked Gary.
“Your butt,” said Ryan.
“What do you want, Goon?” asked Paul.
“Have you seen Joe Reed?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’ve seen him,” said Matt. “I saw him yesterday.”
Paul and Ryan laughed.
“So, I was wondering,” said Gary, “do you know where you’re supposed to sign up for the talent show?”
“Yeah, on your butt,” said Ryan.
(Evidently, butt was Ryan Utt’s favorite word. Probably because it rhymed with his last name.)
“What do you want, Goon?” Paul asked again.
He had just told them. He wanted to sign up for the talent show. “I want to be in the talent show.”
“You gonna dance?” asked Matt.
Matt’s friends laughed.