sorrydontsuitme | (no subject)

(no subject)

Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out with the crowd.
Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack,
I don't care if I never get back,
Let me root, root, root for the home team,
If they don't win it's a shame.
For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,
At the old ball game.

Back when he was a little kid, he played in a peewee league. He always liked that: the uniforms, swingin' the bat, hitting the ball as far as little arms could make it go. That was fun, and he ain't no slouch when it comes to bein' in shape -- better now he ain't smoking no more -- but he's pretty damn far from a pro athlete. Don't mean he can't admire it. So when Freckles said hey, Sawyer, how about a baseball game? he didn't even have to think twice.

Home team's called the Tokyo Tarantulas, and they're playin' the Earth-based Blue Sox. Don't even matter he ain't got a team to root for. As him and Freckles -- Freckles Loress, while they're here on Mars, to match her passport -- file into the stadium, he takes a deep breath of nighttime Martian air.

There's somethin' about a ball park. It's the way it looks and the way it smells. It's the arc of the lights, the hum of the crowd. People eatin' hot dogs and drinkin' beer, and guys working their way through the stadium selling all that stuff that's awful for you but you can't do without. Freckles had a lot of luck at that casino the first night, and maybe he'll have his turn at it tomorrow night but here in Halley Stadium ("Home of the Galaxy-Famous Tarantulas"), he's just a guy taking his woman to see the major-league baseball. It's warm and bright and the company's good and the beer's cold, and he hands her one as they sit about a third of the way back on the first base line -- good seats, good view -- and as soon as that hot dog guy comes around he's buyin' two with the works. And hell, if he had one he'd have brought a mitt.

Fly balls. Got to go for 'em. Got to love those souvenirs that come with near-death experiences attached.

"You good, Freckles? Want anything?" Got to also love those open-ended questions.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

What the hell kind of man can't even buy his best girl a damn hot dog at a ball game? He waves that off. "Nah, Freckles, I got 'em. Hey, kid. Two dogs." In the age-old tradition of ball parks, he passes his money down the row -- kid looks delighted to see cash -- and the game-goers pass back the two dogs, and a handful of napkins and condiments. That's another thing ain't changed: little plastic squeeze-packets of ketchup and mustard and relish, and he sets all that stuff down on a napkin on his knee like he found buried treasure.

Ain't no telling what's actually in the hot dogs, but there ain't never been no telling what's actually in a hot dog. These taste good. They taste like home.

"Damn, Freckles. This is one of those things I didn't even know I'd been missing." A hot dog on a crappy bun with mustard and relish at the ball park. Tastes like a little slice of unexpected heaven. And in the meantime that Blue Sox pitcher -- Capobianco's his name, from what he can see on the back of the jersey -- mows down the rest of the side. 2-1 Tarantulas, and the sides switch over. Top of the fourth. Balancing his hot dog in one hand, he opens the little program and checks out the stats on the Blue Sox batter -- the first baseman -- who happens to go by the name of Shephard.

Well, well, well. Ain't that a friendly little coincidence. He almost says wonder if his first name is Doc? but he holds his tongue. Anyway, the guy has great stats. Batting .324, won four gold gloves. Ain't nothing in the profile about him bein' a spinal surgeon either.

It's a relief, even though thinkin' about Metro stuck in time back there with the Others while they're out here partyin' on Mars sticks in his craw in a bad way. But the feeling only lasts a minute, 'cause the guy gets a stand-up double.

"Looks like center field is the place to be aiming for in this ball park."

He looks genuinely excited about his honest-to-God ball park hot dog -- not to mention the condiments -- and it's unbelievably contagious.

It's contagious even when the announcer mentions Shepherd's the last name of the player next up to bat, and there is a tiny stab of guilt -- she can't help it -- but she doesn't say anything, doesn't even let the grin fade from her face.

And Sawyer? He doesn't make a single crack about it. She has to think that's completely intentional, and she's just shy of being impressed.

(She bets Jack would be pretty excited about a ball game and hot dog, too.)

"Guess you may be out of luck if you want to take a ball home." Not that his chances are all that great, anyway, but you never know. She grins at him around her hot dog. "We'll just have to get you a Blue Sox cap instead."

The almost-sympathy's real cute, and so is the way she's working on that hot dog. He can't help it: today he can't decide if they're best buddies or somethin' more, and he's sure got an itch that wants scratchin'. Sure, the Hallmark Card moment says every opportunity is a gift that ought to be cherished, but it ain't his fault she's cuter'n pie and twice as tasty. What man in his right mind wouldn't want more?

"You gonna buy me a Blue Sox cap, Freckles? That's real sweet of you." There's somethin' so damn redneck about southern men -- perverts or not -- wearing baseball caps that he ain't sure he can bring himself to do it. But if she gets him one, he will. Things ain't progressed quite far enough so he'd say he'll do anything for her (hell no) but he'd do more for Freckles than he would for almost anybody else.

Got to give a man credit for knowing what he likes.

"Next time, we can sit in the center field bleachers." It's a great place if you want a bird's-eye view of the playing field, but anyplace in the park is a good place to sit if he's got little Annie Savoy here by his side. And still, the way he stands up and cheers, beer bottle tucked under his arm, hot dog in his mouth, is almost automatic when the Blue Sox DH hits a long triple way out to left field. And that ties up the game in a little different way from how the doc and Captain Falafel tied him to a tree near the bamboo grove.

He ain't bitter. Got him what he wanted, after all, even if he knows now there's a better way.

She likes that he talks like they've got a next time to look forward to. She could stand to catch a game regularly; it'd help remind her that there are places where a bunch of people get together voluntarily -- normally -- and have a good time.

"And bring mitts? Just in case?"

Between finishing her hot dog and looking toward Sawyer, she almost misses the next play, but she has to grin again when he shoots up out of his seat and cheers like he's been a Blue Sox fan his whole life.

There's less wild cheering when they score than when the home team does, but that doesn't seem to bother him any.

Doesn't bother her any, either. She's getting what she wanted out of it: it's a good game.

Washing the last bite of hot dog down with a swallow of beer, she wipes her fingers on a napkin. Sawyer was right. She had no idea how much she missed that kind of thing until she had it.

"We ever get to Earth," she adds, leaning forward as the next Blue Sox batter steps up, "we could catch the Sox at home."

"Now there's a plan I wouldn't mind makin' in advance." He hadn't gotten quite so far as to go ahead and think about trips to other planets. Just one's enough of a stretch for his poor little good-ole-boy imagination, after all, and it's only been three days on Mars so far. They say it's smaller than Earth, and travel's an interesting proposition because of the climate control. If he lived here not only would he (like the ad used to say) be home now, but he'd be gettin' himself a personal spacecraft so he could get from place easy-like.

And then hell yes he'd go to Earth.

"Before we do it, though, I'm gonna buy you one of those special girl mitts. You know, all pink and everything. Special hearts and flowers on it."

He's not so sure they even make 'em, but Freckles is fun to tease. Really, he doubts her little rough-and-tumble tree-climbing self has ever been anything but one of the boys. It's one of the things he likes best about her. She can outclimb a damn monkey if she sets her mind to it.

Settling back in his seat (and these ain't your run-of-the-mill hard plastic affairs either), he finishes that hot dog, groaning with the visiting half of the crowd as the next two batters strike out and the one after pops out to third. It's the way it goes with baseball: it's addition and subtraction, give and take, long division for stats, perfect evidence of geometry. He ain't no math whiz, but he does know how to add up numbers so they work in his favor. Stretching, he settles with his arm behind Freckles so he can rest it on her shoulder lightly.

It's almost innocent, that move, and if he was any better it would be.

"Oh," she breathes out through a grin, her nose scrunching and her shoulders shaking with undisguised laughter. "Special hearts and flowers."

She leans sideways until her hair brushes his shoulder.

"Think I'm finally understanding what made you good with women."

One thing she's only forgotten once is that he's a con man, and when she'd really started to let her guard down around him on the island is when he used her as a pawn.

She never saw it coming.

It'd stung. Maybe the fact that they were stuck together on the island and then stuck together here made her move past it more quickly than she would've if they'd been in a normal set of circumstances back home, but she thinks -- she hopes -- that they've moved past the point that he'd willingly do something like that again.

But she can admit it: he did it well. She may have disliked it, but she was kind of impressed.

He puts that effort into getting into a woman's good graces -- he's got his charm, she can't deny it, so it wouldn't be too hard -- and even when she's not joking or being sarcastic, she understands it.

She understands it more than she's ever really been willing to let on, even now.

She's just sat up straight again, leaning against the seat back, when she realizes his arm's stretching across the back. Maybe she smiles in spite of herself as she keeps her eyes on the game, but she doesn't say a word about it.

Yeah, that's him all over. Good thing he's got a daughter instead of a son. Somewhere. Maybe she ain't even alive no more, or maybe she's a grandma. Who the hell knows, and better still, who the hell cares?

I ain't got no daughter. Only proof of her in this reality is that picture that showed up on Freckles' pillow, and he's sure glad she ain't pried about that no more than he's pried about the cassette tape. Is he still curious? Of course he is, but there's this little switch got flipped when him and Freckles got intimate. No, it ain't that he's suddenly a sucker or nothing.

He just likes her, that's all, and he knows he's hurt her more than he hasn't. Here, there's no reason to con her. Here, it's almost a damn miracle they're even talking to each other. If they hadn't crashed on that island together, she probably wouldn't ever have given a guy like him the time of day.

Not unless he was going to be useful for her. He meant it when he said they were two of a kind. Takes one to know one.

"Yeah, it's the first rule of the first chapter in the southern gentleman's book on ladies. Buy 'em a little pink baseball mitt before you take 'em to the game. Course, it goes on to say 'it don't mean they'll use it, but at least you'll have her appreciatin' your love of the game with a nice pleasant distraction.'"

Ain't no such book, but as that Capobianco pitcher has a 1-2-3 inning, it don't mean he can't make up all the books he wants. What are they gonna do, turn him in for it? Worst-case scenario is that someone overhears and writes the book ("The Wit and Wisdom of Sawyer") and makes a small fortune.

"Did you mean the southern pervert's book on ladies?" Her smile widens until it's just a big teeth-flashing grin. She'll never let him live down the time he said he was protecting her. "I'm surprised you didn't write the foreword on that one."

Looking back over his head and up a few rows, she can see a woman all decked out in blue and holding up a sign that announces WE ♥ CAPOBIANCO, and it makes her smile.

"So what's the second rule?"

Second rule's easy. "You got to kiss the southern pervert who came up with the first rule." Before she has a chance to protest, he turns her face back toward him, dips down, and steals a sweet little kiss right off those pretty lips of hers.

It's about time, too. It ain't nothin' too dramatic, too intense, and the kiss tastes like beer and hot dogs but in its own way it's just right.

Sign ought to say WE ♥ OUR FAVORITE FUGITIVE. For the longest damn time he cursed the luck that put him on Flight 815 but right now... right now he feels pretty lucky. He looks up just in time to see the Blue Sox shortstop lay down a perfect bunt along the first-base line. Beats it out and everything: everyone's safe.

"Damn, baby. Would you take a look at that."

It surprises her, but she can't help thinking she should've expected it.

Absently, she touches the tip of her tongue to her bottom lip, and then presses her lips together in a smile.

"I thought the rules were for the southern perverts and not the women going places with them."

But it's an idle complaint, almost automatic, almost a protective reflex. It's hard to dare him to think she liked it when she has a new habit of winding up in bed with him.

Her eyes do go back to the game with a vengeance, though, as the crowd around them cheers.

"What is it makes you think all southern perverts are men, Freckles?" The smile on his face ain't nothin' if it ain't smug, and he still thinks she's awful sweet. Of course, right now's when the game really picks up and gets exciting: after that perfect lay-down bunt, the next batter, guy named Roman (CF, #38), hits a hell of a home run out to right field. It looks like it's gonna go foul, but at the last minute it curves around the foul pole and even the people here supportin' the home team have to cheer for that one.

Baseball's fun. He high-fives Freckles -- it's the thing to do -- and everyone's still standin' and cheerin' as the runners trot home. Roman gives a sweeping bow when he gets there: he can tell the guy's tickled as anything.

It really is good to see the game ain't changed. They ever go back to the island, screw the golf course. Those ain't lefty clubs anyhow. He's gonna organize some damn baseball.

That is if the Others don't serve him his head on a platter first. He knew there was a reason they stayed in 2074.

While they're on their feet cheering with most of the rest of the crowd in the stadium, she whistles her admiration for the home run.

The guy even bows at home -- it's cute -- and as people start sitting back down, she watches him get welcomed back into the dugout with laughter and claps on the back from his team.

That's the kind of play she was hoping to see.

The grin on her face lingers long after she sits back down, and she opens her program so she can take a glance at Roman's stats.

"You play ball when you were growing up? Like in little league or anything?"

"Peewee softball, and then some little league, at least till my folks passed. Then it was all catch-as-catch-can when I went to stay with my grandma and granddaddy. More pickup basketball than baseball then."

Sometimes, he doesn't much care to reminisce on his childhood. Sure, he had those moments like when he was six or seven, fishing in the pond with buddies, or collecting frogs, or going to the store with his mama or helping his dad change the oil on the pickup truck. But after that, it's a blur of stuff he wasn't too happy about. Then again, show him someone who had what they call a real happy childhood and he'll show you someone full of self-delusion.

Growin' up is hard work, and he has a momentary twinge of guilt over Clementine. Then again, he didn't ask Cass to go and get pregnant, and he ain't even sure the kid's his. She's sure, but he ain't. How can he be? He never even saw her.

Goo-goo, ga-ga. "So yeah, Freckles, I did. Threw a mean fastball. Probably got up to maybe 25 miles per hour. But I was just a little runt, and that ball felt like it weighed a ton."

Not for the first time, he wonders: what did she do? Where did she really grow up? Trust always bein' a relative term, he trusts a lot of what she says. But there's always a tiny nagging doubt in his mind, and he recognizes a glib and expert liar when he sees one. He has to. It's how he makes his living.

"Is that what we needed on the island to get you to play with us? A baseball or basketball?"

She doesn't remember him ever playing golf, although she knows for a fact he showed up to watch at least one game. And bet on it, apparently.

But she liked him for it. She urged him to make an effort, and he rose -- grudgingly, maybe -- to the challenge. And here he didn't need any encouragement. She's seen him at every party -- she's sure the free food and drink must help reel him in -- and he seems to be making friends and acquaintances just fine.

As evidenced by the fact that some girl made him swimming trunks, and that's something she never would've imagined on the island.

She grins. It's true that her heart always goes out to the idea of him as a kid; she knows what happened to his parents. But all the same, she definitely has trouble imagining him as just a little runt. "Kind of hard to picture you little."

It'd almost feel trite to comment that he must've been a cute kid, but she can't help thinking he probably was. She's also sure he was smart as hell.

"I played some little league for a while, too."

She's got a decent arm, herself. Chances are he'd tell her he remembers from that time she threw that rock at him.

Lefty, Freckles, he wants to remind her. All those golf clubs are good for in his book is smashin' someone over the head, or maybe smashin' the side of a tree to try to get the fruit to fall. "We ever go back, we can bring a baseball and pretend I had it in my stash the whole time. Who's gonna know the difference?"

Only Vincent. He can't talk to tell, though. Nice thing about dogs.

"If I had a picture, I'd show you what I looked like little." No, that picture on her pillow wasn't him. "They called me Jimmy." It's a nickname he despises now, pretty much, mostly 'cause he ain't that same person no more. How could he be? No, he's Sawyer. "Little blond-haired freckle-faced thing. Skinny little no-good troublemaker." There's a hint of a smile on his face, though. He was a pretty good kid, at least till he was eight. After that, the whole game changed.

He can see her with a baseball bat, though. Hat turned sideways, tongue between her teeth, determined look on her face.

"You throw good." It's more of a compliment than it sounds but he knows what he's talkin' about, having been on the receiving end of that pitcher's arm at least once. "Make a muscle for me."

He's gonna test it. He's felt her arms before and the memory's burned into the very cells of his fingertips. Every time he traces her skin, the memory works its way deeper and deeper. Soon he won't be able to stand not doing it, and then he'll really be in trouble.

Immediately, she huffs out a surprised laugh. "You want to check out my arms?"

She's not sure why it strikes her as so funny, but she'll humor him. Shrugging one arm out of the button-down layered over her tank top, she flexes obligingly.

"You're still a troublemaker, you know. Guess some things don't change."

It's true -- no doubt about it -- but it's just good-natured teasing, and she kind of likes the picture he paints of himself as a kid. Again, she can't keep herself from grinning at him, and she nods pointedly to his own arm. "You gonna return the favor or what?"

Once a troublemaker, always a troublemaker. Ain't that the truth? His fingers run over her bicep, testing and squeezing.

"Ooh, baby." His laugh is a tease, fun and silly. But if she's gonna ask him to undress, even a little, he ain't gonna say no. Too bad they're in the middle of a ball park or he'd take off his shirt. But as it is, he just rolls back the sleeve and makes a muscle for her.

"Be honest, now. You think I could pass for in shape?" It was two months on the island of swimming and hauling stuff and climbing hills and trees and foraging and shooting US Marshals in the lung and doin' time in a polar bear cage. Stealing all the island's guns, hidin' the heroin: the usual. But they've had a hell of a lot longer here, and he sure hasn't been anywhere near as active at the hotel as he was on the island.

Don't mean he's lost it all, though. Anyhow, he just wants her touchin' him. That's all.

His hands aren't as rough as they were on the island, and his touch is warm on her skin. It's not a brazen dip into her personal space for an uninvited kiss, but there's something electric about it all the same.

He muscles up for her, though, and puts a question to her, so she lowers her own arm and curves her hand around upper arm. She tips her head to the side as though it takes it a little consideration -- as though she hasn't seen him naked -- and then she smiles. Her fingertips even slip under the rolled-up hem of his shirt sleeve, but only for a second.

"You haven't been chopping any firewood lately, but I think you could still pass."

She moves her hand as the crowd around them breaks into a sudden cheer.

She guesses that's what she gets for not keeping her eyes on the game.

He's about to tell her he ain't sure there's any actual firewood to chop on the asteroid when the crowd goes crazy and damn, they missed whatever it was. The scoreboard's good, though, and it tells 'em that the Tarantulas just scored a 2-run homer. Well, ain't that just fine and dandy.

Suddenly, he's a lot less interested in the game than he was an inning or so ago. But he's a stubborn guy as well as a complex guy, and they're at a major-league baseball game on Mars, and he doesn't know anyone besides him and Freckles who can make that claim, so he's gonna savor it as long as he can or as long as he can stand it, whichever comes first.

This whole trip's been a slow burn and baby, the fire's about to catch. It was gonna get to that point sooner or later. Separate beds or not, he ain't gonna spend the whole night thinkin' about baseball.

But what happens later if he's lucky is what happens later, and now, as he rolls his sleeve back down, he flashes a coy little grin at Sassafras. "How 'bout that, Freckles. That's what we get for comparin' muscles instead of watching the game." Without a care in the world that he ain't in Sox territory, he lets out a whoop of come on, Blue Sox, to the consternation of the Tarantula fans sitting nearby.

It's something he'll never apologize for. Man's got to root for his team, even if they've only been his team for five innings.

He's really taken to the Blue Sox, and even though she turns her attention back -- again -- to the field below, she has to laugh.

(She seriously doubts she imagined that flirty edge to the last little grin he aimed at her.)

And to her amusement, he keeps being just as verbal in his support for the Sox through the next two innings while they fight to hold on to a precarious one-point lead.

During a lull in the action, her eyes are drawn to the smiling faces of what looks like a whole family of hardcore Tarantulas fans on the jumbotron. She went to a Dolphins game once with Kevin, and she remembers the vague unshakable dread liked fog in the back of her mind at the idea of having her face displayed up there, larger than life.

Way down in Florida, the odds of someone recognizing her were very low, but low isn't the same as nonexistent. The possibility stuck with her the whole time.

Here, there's no recognition to be concerned about. Maybe that makes it easier to lose herself in the game or lose herself in her company, and maybe, by the time the seventh inning stretch rolls around, she finds herself leaning toward Sawyer as she looks toward the game.

(There's no maybe about it.)

Ain't a nicer damn way to pass the time on a warm evening than at the ball park. There's somethin' about it that just makes time fly in the laziest and best possible way. Almost like it stops and goes by so damn fast, both at the same time, if that ain't too much of an anomaly.

Seems like the home team loses a little bit of heart in the later innings, but he don't mind. Ever since the seventh Freckles has been sittin' just a little bit closer to him and he ain't sure if she's tired (he doesn't think so) or if she's bored (he doesn't think so) or if she just wants to be closer. Whatever it is, he'll take it.

It's a delicate little tango they do; it's always been that way. In the bottom of the ninth, with the Sox up by two runs, the relief pitcher who thankfully doesn't share a name with anyone on the Flight 815 manifest mows 'em down in order. It's beautiful to watch and he can't say he hasn't always appreciated a 1-2-3 inning like that.

For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,
At the old ball game.

There's still scattered applause from the crowd, but a lot of the home-team crowd left during the eighth. Maybe to beat the rush, or maybe because they lost faith. That never made a whole lot of sense to him, leavin' a ball game early, but people do it all the time.

Not him and Freckles. As far as he knows, this could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Except he likes the idea of them catchin' a game on Earth. That'd be a hell of a thing, steppin' into their planet's future. He wonders what it's like there now, after half the moon exploded.

Only way to find out how it makes him feel is to go there in person. Seems like those couple toy soldiers he have ain't enough to fund a trip like that for two, but he might be able to come up with somethin'. Just 'cause he's out of his place in time doesn't mean he's out of ideas. But there ain't no rush.

No rush at all. Standing, he stretches real big before smiling at Freckles, tugging his shirt hem back down over his waist.

"Good fun, Freckles. That was real good fun. Thanks." Thanks for going to the game with him, for going to Mars with him, for sharing a hotel with him, for seeing through his crap enough to get to be friends.

That flash of skin bared between his shirt and his jeans when he stretches kind of demands her attention, and as he thanks her, she stands so they're closer to being eye-to-eye.

How many times has he thanked her? Not many.

Grinning, she shakes her head. "Nothing to thank me for."

He may not thank her often, so it's not like she doesn't appreciate it. But this was a great game and she had a good time, and really, she'd go with him to a baseball game any time at all.

Maybe he prevents her from having a completely blank slate in 2074, but this is the closest she's ever been to it. And out here on Mars, taking their leisurely time filing out of stadium, her awareness of it seems more acute than ever.

Reaching the exit first, she catches one of the doors before it swings shut and lets herself out, holding it open behind her for him. "Guess I'll have to tell Gren his suggestions have been a hit."

"We can send him a postcard." He's joking, of course; they'll be home way before any damn postcard gets from Mars to their little asteroid. "But first things first. How about that Blue Sox cap?"

She did promise. There's all sorts of vendors, both in the park and outside the park, and he doesn't much care if any cap he gets is official or bootlegged so long as it says Blue Sox on it. There's one he saw someone wearin' at the game that read EARTH'S #1 BLUE SOX and that was kind of fun.

They could each get one. That'd be somethin'. Never be able to wear 'em back on the island unless they made up some story about how it was somethin' they found in the debris, maybe some movie prop or the like. But out here, he'll wear it. Even if it makes him look like some truck driver.

"How's about that booth over there?" He nods to a promising locale, slips his hand around her elbow and steers her real gently. If he's learned one thing about her, it's that she doesn't like to be forced into anything and he can't say as he blames her. He doesn't much care for it himself.

But he does like the contact.

"You really want one?"

She wasn't sure he was really interested, but if he is... well, they're getting him one. Going to an interplanetary league baseball game isn't something they do every day, and she thinks they absolutely should get souvenirs.

Guess he does want one. He's eyeballing a vendor already and nudging her in right direction.

The guy at the little booth is doing some business already, and she looks to Sawyer as they approach. She points out a bunch of caps with the Blue Sox logo. "That what you had in mind?"

She did imply she'd buy him one, and she doesn't mind being held to that. She could even get herself a shirt or something.

Spike is in for a big thank you when they get back.

In the end, he picks out one of the more subtle caps. No 1980s pink, no turn-of-the-century bling. Just a cadet-blue cap that says SOX on it, like they're the only team ever who had the name. In the back at the center is the tiny little Blue Sox logo: a baseball-toting bluebird wearin' a big old pair of socks.

Of course.

It's almost a little embarrassing that she gets it for him, but she's the one who won real big at the casino and while his generosity ain't always commensurate with the thickness of his wallet (or the supply on his money card), he doesn't want to go flat broke. Not out here, not so far from home. He needs to save a little for the return trip, because those seven hours are seven long and thirsty hours, and he ain't gonna let himself be no charity case.

But here and now he smiles pretty, puts the cap right on his head. "How do I look, Freckles? Overdressed?" It's all good-natured fun; he kisses her temple by way of sayin' thanks, which he ain't gonna say again just now. He keeps doing that it'll ruin what's left of his reputation.

"And how's about you? You need a souvenir too, don't you?" He can think of one, but it don't come from a ball-park vendor. Like she said, he's twelve. At least he's got the good sense to keep his idea to himself.