Surely Surely Marisol Rainey, page 1
Dedication
To Danny
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Nice Try, Marisol
Any Other Thursday
The Brain Train
In a Democracy
The Thing About Best Friends
Queen of Kickball
Extraordinary Something
Not Fair
Right Nows and What-Ifs
According to Felix
Dadhead
Headspace
Queens
The Ultimate Rule of Kickball
Not One Drop
The Angry Seed
Bite
Meow for Yes
Still Best Friends
Marisol Steps Up to the Plate
Good
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Nice Try, Marisol
Marisol Rainey keeps a list in her head. She calls it her List of Favorites.
Her best friend, Jada George, has a list, too. Marisol and Jada like to compare their lists because it’s interesting to see all the ways they are the same and all the ways they are different. For example: Marisol’s favorite ice cream flavor is vanilla, because vanilla goes with everything. You can use vanilla for banana splits, which is one of Marisol’s favorite foods. You can pour chocolate syrup on top of vanilla. You can mix peanuts or sprinkles with vanilla. You can put vanilla on top of apple pies, brownies, and peach cobbler. And it always tastes delicious.
Jada disagrees. She says vanilla is bo-ring. She likes mint chocolate chip, because it has tiny pieces of chocolate in it.
Marisol’s older brother, Osgood—everyone calls him “Oz”—says it’s too hard to pick favorites when there are so many things to like. But Jada and Marisol don’t think so. To them, their Lists of Favorites make perfect sense.
Marisol and Jada also have lists of their least favorites.
Lemon is Marisol’s least-favorite ice cream flavor. For Jada, it’s butter pecan.
Mustard is Marisol’s least-favorite condiment. For Jada, it’s mayonnaise.
Radishes are Marisol’s least-favorite food. For Jada, it’s grapefruit.
Marisol and Jada spend a lot of time discussing the things they like and don’t like. Jada is a philosopher, so she thinks about stuff that no one else considers, which means she likes to ask questions, such as “Would you rather . . . ?”
Would you rather eat radishes or drink mayonnaise for the rest of your life? Would you rather eat only nachos forever or never eat them again? Would you rather give up banana splits or jelly beans?
Jada also asks things like Would you rather clean Beans’s litter box every day or clean your room? Because she knows those are two of Marisol’s least-favorite things to do.
Beans is Marisol’s orange cat.
Even though Jada and Marisol don’t have identical lists, they both agree that their number-one Least-Favorite Thing to Do is:
Gym class at Getty Elementary School isn’t always terrible. Sometimes Marisol has fun, like when they play hopscotch. And she likes Coach Decker. She doesn’t like him as much as Ms. Ruby—Ms. Ruby is number one on her Favorite Teachers list—but he’s nice, even though his face shrivels like a raisin when he’s concentrating on his stopwatch, and his whistle is loud and shrill. Coach Decker shouts a lot, but not in a mean way. When Sherry Roat runs the bases, Coach Decker shouts, “Go, Sherry, go!” When Evie Smythe scores points in basketball, he shouts, “All right! Go, Evie!” And when Danny Grant wins the shuttle runs, he says, “Way to go, Danny!”
Marisol likes when Coach Decker cheers for her, even though she never runs the bases or scores points or wins races. But once—just once—she would like to hear him shout, “Way to go, Marisol!” just like he does for Sherry and Evie and Danny.
Any Other Thursday
Marisol’s Terrible Thursday starts like any other Thursday. She suffers through math. She listens during social studies. She does worksheets in science. Then it’s time for recess. At recess, she plays Food Tag, which is one of her favorite games. It’s like Freeze Tag, except you yell out the name of a food before you unfreeze someone, and it can’t be a food that’s already been said.
Marisol loves playing Food Tag because she knows a lot of foods that her classmates don’t. That’s because her mother is from the Philippines, which means Marisol eats Filipino food that no one else has ever heard of, like lumpia, pancit, and chicken adobo. She loves lumpia so much that one of her five stuffed animal cats is named Lumpia. The others are Banana Split, Pot Roast, Hi-C, and Nacho.
At first, it’s a normal Thursday. Life is good. After Marisol wins Food Tag, she and Jada walk to gym class. It’s free play day, which means they can do any activity they want. Jada and Marisol always choose hula-hooping because they like to compete with each other. Some days, Marisol hula-hoops the longest. Other days, it’s Jada. Today, Marisol wins by seven seconds. At the end of class, they are both exhausted. Hula-hooping is harder than it looks.
Then Coach Decker gathers them all together and says the worst five words Marisol has heard all day.
Surely the worst five words she’s heard all week, maybe all year, possibly her entire life.
Evie Smythe cheers. “Oh, I love kickball!” she says, adjusting her fox ears. Evie Smythe loves wearing fox ears to school. They look a lot like Marisol’s cat ears, but Evie insists they are fox ears, not cat ears. Marisol doesn’t wear her cat ears to school, but if she did, she would let everyone know that they were cat ears, not fox ears.
“Good, because we’ll spend two weeks on it,” Coach Decker says.
Marisol’s belly plummets to her sneakers. She locks eyes with Jada, whose expression looks just like hers: not-smiling and almost-frowning. Two whole weeks!
Coach Decker tells them to tidy up the gym equipment, and Evie talks about kickball the whole time.
“I can kick the ball so far!” Evie tells Danny Grant as she carries a paddleball set to its plastic bin. “Practically from one side of the field to the other.”
Marisol thinks that Evie talks to Danny because he’s the shyest kid in class, which means he barely says anything, which means Evie gets to talk as much as she wants.
“I’m the best at kickball,” Evie continues.
It isn’t very nice for Evie to be so braggy, in Marisol’s opinion. Then again, Marisol’s also a little jealous. Evie is good at all sports. It isn’t fair.
When it’s time to get in a single-file line, Marisol acts like she doesn’t have a care in the world, but her heart goes thump-thump-thump. She barely even reacts when Jada taps her shoulder.
“Felix says he can talk to animals,” Jada whispers.
Marisol doesn’t turn around. They aren’t supposed to talk in line. Besides, all she can think is KICKBALL, KICKBALL, KICKBALL, like a bright, blinking sign.
Marisol has never played kickball before, but she already knows she won’t be good at it. Sure, she can play hopscotch and tag, and she can hula-hoop for a long time. She doesn’t even mind taking part in a race sometimes at recess, especially if it’s a skipping race. But kickball is a team sport. Everyone counts on you. If you mess up, you mess everything up. The spotlight shines on you when you kick. The spotlight shines on you when you pitch. The spotlight shines on you when you catch. The spotlight shines on you when you run the bases.
Surely Marisol will burst into flames under all those spotlights.
“Earth to Marisol, Earth to Marisol,” Jada whispers behind her.
“Kickball” is all Marisol can say.
She does not say it in a joyful voice.
She does not say it in a cheerful voice.
Think of the way you’d greet your worst enemy.
That’s how she says “kickball.”
Jada understands right away.
“I know,” she whispers. “Furchtbar.”
Furchtbar is a German word. Jada and Marisol taught themselves all kinds of words in other languages so they can speak in code whenever they want.
Furchtbar means “terrible.”
The Brain Train
Marisol is still thinking about kickball on Friday night when Dadhead calls.
Dadhead is the Rainey family nickname for Marisol’s father. He works as an electrician on an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico. He takes a helicopter from Getty, Louisiana, all the way to the rig. He’s home only one week out of each month, but he calls every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday night at 7:00 p.m. When Mrs. Rainey’s laptop chimes from the dining room table, Oz cries out, “Dadhead! Dadhead!” and they all gather around to talk to him.
Only Mr. Rainey’s head and shoulders appear on the screen. He’s usually wearing his blue work coveralls. There is a sink behind him because he sets up his laptop in the rig’s mess hall, which is what they call the dining room.
“Hello, hello!” he says. “How was everyone’s day?”
Oz tells Dadhead about his soccer practice and video games, and Mrs. Rainey tells him about her day at Getty Middle School, where she’s a science teacher. Then Dadhead looks at Marisol. She’s wearing her cat ears and holding Nacho tight because it makes her feel better.
“Why’re you so quiet, Scraps?” Dadhead asks.
Marisol likes when her dad calls her “Scraps.” It’s from a Charlie Chaplin movie called A Dog’s Life. They watched it together once. Dadhead kept falling asleep, but it didn’t matter.
Marisol shrugs.
“Anything on your mind?” Dadhead asks.
Marisol’s mind is full of many things. She has one thought, then another, then another, like a long train going down the tracks. A Brain Train.
But she doesn’t want to say any of her thoughts out loud. Not right now, anyway. What if Oz makes fun of her? What if Dadhead says, “That’s nothing to worry about, Scraps”? What if Mom tells her, “Don’t worry, anak. Everything will be fine”? That’s what usually happens when Marisol shares her worries. She knows her family loves her and wants to make her feel better, but sometimes it feels like they don’t take her seriously.
So Marisol changes the subject.
“Felix Powell says he can talk to animals,” she tells her father.
Oz rolls his eyes. “That is so dumb.”
Oz is twelve. He thinks a lot of things are dumb.
“You’ve got to be kitten me,” Dadhead says.
Dadhead loves puns.
Mrs. Rainey laughs and rolls her eyes. “Can Felix tell Beans to stop tearing up my couch?” she asks.
Beans constantly scratches the sofa cushions. That’s what he’s doing now, in fact. The couch is named Betty Bigmouth, because it likes to eat things like Mrs. Rainey’s phone and all the remote controls. No one knows the couch’s name except Marisol and Jada. Marisol is the one who named her, because she believes all important things should have their own names.
Beans has a scratching post, but he prefers Betty. According to Mrs. Rainey, cats scratch things to mark objects with their scent, to sharpen their claws, or just for a good stretch. No one knows why Beans likes Betty more than the scratching post, though.
“Tell Felix to watch out for oysters,” Dadhead says. “They’re very shellfish.”
Oz and Mrs. Rainey groan, but they’re smiling.
“Good one, Will,” Mrs. Rainey says.
Marisol hugs Nacho tighter. Usually she laughs at her dad’s jokes, but she doesn’t feel like laughing right now, because the Brain Train is still chugging.
Chug, chug, chug.
In a Democracy
Marisol is excited about recess on Monday because she didn’t get to see Jada all weekend. Jada was at Mr. George’s house, which is way across town. Marisol is happy that Jada gets to spend time with her dad, but she likes it better when Jada is at her mom’s, because Ms. George lives only three blocks away from the Raineys.
“Did you have fun at your dad’s?” Marisol asks as they dart out to the playground. It’s hot, hot, hot outside, but nobody cares. Everyone is just happy to be free.
“Yeah, but I left Cornelius there,” Jada says. She frowns. “Now I have to wait two whole weeks to see him again.”
Cornelius is Jada’s favorite stuffed animal. He’s a black-and-white dog with floppy ears that Marisol once rescued from the claw machine at Dazzo’s, her favorite restaurant. Marisol rescued it on the first try, so it only took one quarter.
The dog’s full name is Cornelius Golightly. Jada named him after a civil rights activist and “public intellectual.” Marisol doesn’t know what a “public intellectual” is, but it sounds smart, so she assumes that it is.
Jada and Marisol make their way toward the Big Tree, where the kids in their grade always meet to play Food Tag or Red Light, Green Light. A bunch of kids are already there, standing in a little cluster. Evie Smythe is in the center with her arms crossed.
“It’ll be good practice,” Evie is saying. There’s a basketball at her feet.
Marisol doesn’t like the look of this. She leans closer to Jada and whispers, “What’s going on?”
Jada shrugs. Felix and Danny are there, along with Isabella Sanchez and Lucas Richardson. It’s the usual Food Tag crowd.
When Marisol and Jada walk up, Evie lifts her chin and says, “We’re going to practice kickball at recess today,” like it’s all decided.
On the playground around them, kids swing on monkey bars, sail down slides, and climb the jungle gym. But it’s quiet around the big oak tree. They’re all staring at the ball sitting in front of Evie’s bright purple sneakers.
“That’s not a kickball,” Jada finally says. “It’s a basketball.”
Evie sighs loudly. “I know, dummy. But we don’t have a kickball.”
Marisol narrows her eyes at Evie. “Jada isn’t a dummy,” she says, but she says it too quietly, because Evie doesn’t hear. Instead, Evie snatches up the basketball and holds it in front of them.
“Trust me,” Evie says. “This will be good practice. Basketballs are way heavier than kickballs. If you can kick a basketball, then just imagine how far the kickball will go! Kickballs are practically nothing.”
Practically nothing? Marisol has never actually kicked a kickball, but she doesn’t think they’re practically nothing. They may not be as heavy and tough as basketballs, but there’s plenty that could go wrong with a kickball.
“I think it’s a really bad idea to try to kick a basketball,” Felix says. “We might break our toes.”
Isabella Sanchez puts her hands on her hips. “I think Evie has a point. If we practice with this basketball, it’ll just make us better kickball players.”
“Kickballers,” Evie corrects.
Marisol notices a small squirrel sitting on the ground near Felix. Usually, squirrels scamper away when the kids gather at the Big Tree, but this one is sitting nice and still, as if it’s considering whether or not to chime in.
Felix notices Marisol looking at the squirrel and says, “Oh, this is Reginald.”
Jada raises her eyebrows. “Reginald?”
Felix shrugs. “That’s what he says.”
Evie rolls her eyes and sighs loudly again. She’s very good at sighing.
She holds the basketball like a trophy. “Are we going to play kick basketball or what?” She glances toward Marisol and adds, “Food Tag is so babyish.”
Marisol is the one who invented Food Tag, and everyone knows it. Evie Smythe is an expert at throwing invisible darts at Marisol’s feelings. The first thing Evie ever said to Marisol was “What kind of name is Marisol, anyway?” That was last year, and Evie hasn’t changed much since.
“In a democracy, people have a chance to vote,” Jada says. She takes a step forward so she’s standing right next to Evie. “That’s what they did in ancient Greece. And last time I checked, we live in a democracy.”
Marisol isn’t sure what “democracy” means exactly, and by the looks of Felix, Isabella, Danny, and Lucas, they don’t either. But if Jada says they should take a vote, they believe her.
“Would you rather play kick-basketball, which isn’t even a real thing, or would you rather play an awesome game of Food Tag?” Jada says. “Raise your right hand for kick-basketball. Raise your left hand for an awesome game of Food Tag.”
Evie tucks the basketball under her left arm and raises her right hand quicker than lightning. Isabella raises her right hand, too. But it’s not to be, because everyone else raises their left hands—especially Felix. He even waves his hand back and forth and jumps up and down to really get his point across. Felix loves Food Tag almost as much as Marisol does. All of Felix’s sudden movements startle Reginald, who scurries up the tree behind him.
“Food Tag wins!” Jada says.
Everyone cheers except Evie and Isabella. Marisol and Felix cheer the loudest.
“I’ll be It!” Felix says. He usually volunteers to be It because he’s anxious to start the game. Before they get started, though, Marisol taps his shoulder.
When Felix turns around, Marisol asks, “Why do you call the squirrel Reginald?”
Felix shrugs. “That’s his name.”
“Oh,” Marisol says.
When the game begins, Marisol takes off with the others.
The Thing About Best Friends
After school, Mrs. Rainey makes microwave popcorn for Jada and Marisol and they eat it out of an enormous bowl until their fingertips are covered with salt. (Marisol adds extra salt when Mrs. Rainey isn’t looking.) Then they drink two big glasses of cold, cold water and go into the backyard. Marisol watches Jada climb to the knobbiest branch of the magnolia tree. Jada leans against the trunk and dangles one leg down. Marisol climbs to the branch just below Jada. She dangles her leg, too.
