Say It Ain't So (20 page)

“Yeah,” Other Mike said, rolling his eyes. “I think you mentioned it once or twice.”

I guess I had mentioned it about a thousand times. I never had a black eye before! I wanted sympathy. And people to think I was cool. It
was
cool. Traumatic and painful and I don't recommend it. But still.

“You're not worried?” I asked. “You'd have to climb up that billboard to see what you can find.”

“So?” he asked.

“So?” Mike yelled. “You're terrified of heights. We've been trying to get you to go off the high dive at the pool for, like, our whole lives. You can't even stand walking on the curb and it's, like, six inches high.”

“Well, I don't see any reason to tempt fate when there's a perfectly solid road right there next to the curb,” Other Mike said.

“Yeah, but you're willing to climb a billboard ladder that's, like, thirty feet high?” I asked.

“Sure.” Other Mike shrugged. “I mean, I'm not crazy about the idea. But if it needs to be done, it needs to be done. Anything for the team.”

“This is really weird,” Mike said. “You're afraid to go to the 7-Eleven down the street because you think the old guy who works there is going to beat you up.”

“Well, to be fair, that old guy is really mean. Do you see the way he looks at us?”

“Other Mike,” I said, “that guy is about nine hundred years old. I'm surprised he can see anything at all. I don't think he's trying to look angry, I just think he's trying to
look
. He squints like that
when he's reading the paper. Plus, how tough can a nine-hundred-year-old man be?”

“Um, remember last summer when you said the same thing about Blaze O'Farrell? And he turned out to be a murderer. Plus, the guy at the 7-Eleven looks pretty wiry.”

“Which brings me to my point,” I said. “You're afraid of that old guy but not the possibility of someone beating you up for sneaking around Griffith's field?”

“They're stealing our secrets,” he said. “I say we steal theirs. You know what they say—fight fire with fire.”

“Huh,” I said. “I always thought the saying was ‘Fight fire with wire.' ” What? I did. The Mikes laughed.

“ ‘Fight fire with wire'? That doesn't make any sense,” Mike said.

“Sure it does,” I explained. “You know, you build a wire fence around the fire. It's a good way to contain the fire and keep it from spreading.”

“No, that wouldn't work,” Other Mike said. “Fire would just, like, go right through a wire fence. I'm quite sure it's ‘Fight fire with fire.' ”

“That makes no sense at all. How would you fight a fire with more fire? Wouldn't that just make
the fire spread? Wouldn't it just get bigger? What are you going to do, burn a fire? Good luck with that.” I was really sure of myself.

“I think it's only an expression,” Mike said. “You know, like when it's raining cats and dogs, you don't literally see cats and dogs falling from the sky.”

“Well, it's stupid,” I said. “It should be ‘Fight fire with water.' It doesn't rhyme, but it makes a heck of a lot more sense.”

“Yeah, sounds great,” Mike said. “Put it on a T-shirt.
FIGHT FIRE WITH WATER
. Can we get back to the point? How is Other Mike not afraid to go climb that billboard for us?”

“Eh,” Other Mike said. “Their team will be at Highland for that game today, right? Come on, Lenny, let's go over there.”

“Me?” I said. “I, um, I have … homework?”

It was a terrible excuse. But fine, maybe I just didn't want to get punched in the face again. If Other Mike was suddenly feeling reckless and brave, and he wasn't going to listen to reason, that was his own problem.

“I have practice,” Mike said.

“So I'll have to do my secret undercover mission to Griffith's field alone?”

“You'd do that for us?” Mike asked.

“Undercover?” I asked. “I'm not sure there's a need for a disguise.”

Other Mike wiggled his eyebrows. “Never go disguise-free when you can wear a disguise,” he said. He was quite often trying to get us to go on spy missions. I guess our adventure last summer gave him a taste of it and he liked it. Also, for Christmas he got an amazing espionage kit. It wasn't just dumb fake mustaches and silly spy stuff; it was, like, remote-control cameras and sweet gear like that. Pretty awesome. What did I get for the holidays? Oh, right, the feeling of pure joy that comes from letting some other kid play a video game I WASN'T EVEN DONE WITH. I was impressed.

“Sure, sure,” I said. “Disguise the limit.”

It couldn't have been easy. It had to be nearly impossible. But he did it. Mike went up to Davis in the cafeteria. He swallowed his pride and put his own dreams of stardom aside. He did it because it would help the team. He did it because it was
right
. I went with him for moral support and/or to prevent Davis from punching Mike in the face if possible. I wasn't sure how I would do that. Maybe by creating a distraction or screaming for Mr. Donovan to come help. Of course, Donovan moved slower than a turtle with arthritis. Davis could have us both pummeled into a pulp before Donovan was even halfway across the cafeteria.

Mike walked up to Davis and tapped him on the shoulder. Davis was sitting at a cafeteria table, engrossed in lunch.
Engrossed
is the right word because he was pretty gross to watch eat. He turned
around and snarled, mustard stains all over his face and everything.

“What do you want? I'm buying a fleet here,” he said, or at least I thought that's what he said. It was hard to understand him because of all the food in and around his mouth.

“You get to the point, Davis,” I said. “That's what I like about you.”

Davis stopped chewing and stared.

“Well,” Mike said. “I have—well, Lenny has—well, me and Lenny have—well, we have some news.”

“Gonna get matching tattoos that say
DORK
and
BUCKET
across your foreheads? Good thinking. I can recommend a guy.”

“Ha. Well, no, actually … Why don't you tell it, Lenny?” Mike said.

“Well,” I began. “As you know, I'm a bit of a detective.”

“Sure, sure,” Davis said. “The case of the disappearing dork-buckets. I read all about it in
Dork-Bucket Weekly
.”

“Seriously, Davis,” I said. “Just zip it. We're trying to tell you something important. Something that can get you back on the team.”

Davis stopped chewing. Even more remarkably,
he stopped talking. A full five seconds passed without him saying “dork-bucket.” It was truly a modern miracle.

“Why would you want to do that?” he said to Mike. “I'd take your spot in a heartbeat. The only reason you're the starting catcher is that I got booted. You know that. You know I'm better.”

Mike took a deep breath. Then another deep breath. This was not easy for him. Why did Davis have to make it so much harder?

“Yes,” Mike said. “You are a very good catcher and you can help this team win. That's part of why I'm telling you this. Coach Zo always says that there is no
I
in
team
.”

“Yeah, but there
is
a
me
in
team
,” I said. “You know, if you pull out the
m
from the end and the
e
from the beginning and, like, rearrange them.”

They both looked at me and rolled their eyes. See? I'm bringing people together. I'm so helpful.

Mike continued. “Davis, we know you were framed in the theft of the phone. Kyle took his own dad's phone and panicked. He didn't want his dad to know, so he stashed it in your shin guard. He let you take the fall.”

“I'll kill him!” Davis said, pounding his massive fist on the table. His milk carton leapt up into the
air like the laws of gravity suddenly no longer applied.

“Well,” I said. “He didn't mean it. He wasn't trying to frame you. He was just trying to stop his parents from getting a divorce.”

“Divorce does suck,” Davis agreed. “Maybe I'll just maim him.”

“That's the spirit!” I said.

“So today after school, Davis, let's go have a little meeting with Coach Zo before practice, me and you,” Mike said. “We'll set things right.”

Just then Other Mike popped up from behind us. He started speaking in a weird high-pitched voice. Possibly a British accent. “And
I'll
go to Griffith on a spy mission!” he said. “If those dork-buckets are spying on us, you know we gots to spy on them.”

“Good thinking, Other Mike,” Davis said seriously. “Fight fire with wire.”

Mike and I smacked our foreheads and laughed.

So Mike and Davis were competing for a starting job. Other Mike was on a spy mission. I was at home, just hanging out and thinking about my next case. Flipping through
The Semilegal Guide to Cheating at Baseball
.

Then my phone buzzed. It was a text from Mike with an update on the little prepractice meeting with him, Davis, and Coach Zo.

I was flattered. Coach Zo knew a lot about baseball and the detective game. He was always reading those mystery novels.

Then the doorbell rang. It was Other Mike. “What did you find?” I said excitedly. “Any clues? Please tell me you didn't get beat up. Run into any
ninjas? You look fine, but you can never be quite sure with a ninja attack.”

He stood there quietly. “Lenny, there's, um, a, well, a weird thing I can't of want to say but—”

“The only weird thing here is you, Other Mike. ‘I can't of want to say'? That doesn't even make any sense. Just spit it out. It's not like you to be at a loss for words.”

“Yeah, but this is just, you know.” He started nudging me and winking. At least I think that's what he was doing. He was always twitching all over. Made it hard to read his body language.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“I can't believe you're keeping this up.”

“Keeping what up?”

“The act, Len. Come on. It's really quite impressive. I've never known you to be much of an actor. Remember when they gave you the part of the tree in, well, every school play ever?”

“I'm a perfectly fine actor! Trees play to my strengths. I'm a believable Spruce. Of course, I can also go Pine, if need be, and even on occasion if I feel like stretching it out, do a credible Oak.” I paused. “Why are we talking about me being an actor?” I asked. It really didn't make any sense.

“You know,” he said, elbowing me, drawing out the words.
Yoooooou knooooooow
.

“I really have no idea what you're talking about, Other Mike,” I said.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “If you're going to make me spell it out for you, I will. I'm really not comfortable with this, and I don't know why you just won't admit it, but fine. When I went to far field out there—”

“It's called center field,” I corrected. Sheesh.

“Really?” he said. “Because you know it's not in the center of the field, right? Center is more about where the brown hilly thing is.”

“ ‘The brown hilly thing'? Um, do you mean the pitcher's mound?”