Page 85

“Shocking, isn’t it?” she said to me as she placed a few bowls on my tray. “I can’t believe how well it’s going, considering the town’s two rivals are working together.”

“I know. I never would’ve predicted it.” I slid some of the bowls toward the right so she could add a couple more.

“Chad has been asking about you today.” Mom nodded toward the drink table, where he filled cups of lemonade next to his father.

“Mom, that train left the station years ago.” And derailed shortly after I found out he was dating someone from Clairview while we were together.

“He’s got a year of college under his belt though. Maybe he’s grown up—”

“Not interested.” I grabbed another couple of bowls of pasta from her table and placed them on my tray.

“You’re right, sorry,” she said. “You wouldn’t want to start a new relationship this summer anyway. What with the show and your father finding excuses to move at the end of the season.”

I fumbled the tray. “Is there any way we can convince him to stay?”

But before she could answer, Ben cried out in alarm, and the “comradery” went up in smoke.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Reed

“It is dangerous to spring to obvious conclusions about baseball or, for that matter, ballplayers. Baseball is not an obvious game.”

—Roger Kahn

I had no idea how a bowl of pasta ended up on Ben’s head.

One minute I was standing near the Browns, who talked to me about their store and about how hard it was to run a small business nowadays, and the next minute, Ben yelled out a string of cuss words.

I whirled around, and there he stood. A pile of spaghetti dripping down his head like Medusa’s snakes and sauce all over his shoulders and jersey. But not just any jersey.

His Alex Bregman jersey.

Now, I hated Bregman. Always have—especially after the shit hit the fan surrounding the Astros stealing signs in 2017. But Ben was a loyal fan, and he saved up for months to buy that jersey a year ago. Sauce dripped down his chest like he had been shot.

A couple of the Crowley guys in front of him cackled and pointed.

Dominic, Tom, and Brett weaved around the tables toward Ben, all with fists clenched at their sides except for Dominic, who clutched a basket of rolls.

The guests closest to the scene slowly slid out of their chairs and crept away, leaving behind their half-eaten bowls and salads.

Ben flicked sauce off his shoulder and then grabbed the small pile of spaghetti off his head. He rolled it in between his palms and glared at the Crowley guys, who started to back up.

“Ben,” I warned. “Don’t do it.”

But Ben didn’t hear me, or he pretended not to. The clump of spaghetti hit one of the Crowley guys right in his nose. A roll from Dominic nailed the other one right between the eyes.

Mayor Dupont stepped forward with his preppy son, Chad, at his heels. “Now, gentlemen, this is a time-honored tradition here, and I—”

A pile of pasta hit him square in the chest. The sauce splattered onto his face and some of Chad’s hair.

TJ appeared next to me and the two of us exchanged a look of “Oh shit” a second before Brett yelled, “Food fight!”

Guests screamed and tripped over their chairs to get out of the line of fire. I checked for Eliza. Her mother, thankfully, hurried her behind the street sign at Scoops. Most of my team crowded behind a table flipped on its side near Ben and threw anything they could get their hands on—rolls, pasta bowls, salad tongs, even the wrapped silverware and plastic cups. The Crowley team huddled around another turned-over table about ten yards away and did the same.

TJ and I took cover under the same table away from the war. We went back and forth yelling at our teammates to stop or to aim better.

“Get out there, Fulton!” TJ smacked my arm. “Your guy started it.”